"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Dus 3 - Sword Of Bheleu" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

The Sword of Bheleu
Book Three of the Lords of Dûs
Copyright 1982 by Lawrence Watt-Evans


CHAPTER ONE

Galt, the overman trader, shifted uncomfortably, sending a rivulet of cold
rain down the back of his neck and under his mail; it soaked into his quilted
gambeson and trickled slowly down his furry back, chilly and damp and
thoroughly unpleasant. He suppressed a growl. The itching of the armor was
quite bad enough without this added discomfort. He wondered how warriors could
stand to wear the stuff day after day. Despite the padded undergarment, he was
quite sure that he had acquired several scrapes and scratches from the metal
links, and nothing he had tried had alleviated the itching. He suspected that
he was allergic to the quilting.
Wearing the mail was bad enough; the added annoyance of drenching rain
during his watch had him ready to give up the whole venture. And what was he,
the co-commander, doing standing watch in the first place?
Packing up and going home would undoubtedly be the sensible thing to do,
he told himself; Kyrith, however, didn't see it that way. She had insisted on
this ridiculous siege, and that meant he was stuck here. The City Council
would never forgive him if he left her here unsupervised, in sole command.
In truth, though, he knew he didn't provide much supervision; there was
no doubt that, whatever their nominal status, Kyrith was in charge and he was
not. She was all fire and drive and fury, despite her handicap, while he had
been restrained and reasonable. It was no wonder at all that anyone fool
enough to have volunteered for this all-volunteer force would prefer to follow
an aggressive idiot, a warrior and the wife of a warrior prince, rather than a
quiet, calm trader.
He blinked rainwater out of his great golden eyes and pulled his cloak
more closely about him; with his free hand he removed his broad-brimmed hat,
shook off what he could of the accumulated rain, then jammed it back on his
head. He glanced behind him at the dark shapes of the camp tents, black humps
against the gray-black sky. The rain had put out the last trace of the
campfires, and the last lantern had been extinguished hours ago. The old
Wasteland Road was invisible in the darkness and the northern hills too
distant to see through the falling rain. A gust of wind swept water into his
face, and he snorted, blowing the moisture out of his slit nostrils. Those
ugly noses the humans had apparently had some use after all; they kept out the
rain. There were plenty of advantages to being an overman, though, and on
balance he felt his species came out ahead. The very word for his kind implied
as much, of course. He looked about, peering through the rain and the
darkness.
Immediately to his right waited the warbeast he had been assigned, its
flank less than a yard away; its eyes were closed, either in sleep or to keep
out the rain, he was unsure which. Its glossy black fur blended with the night
sky and the darkened plain, so that it seemed almost a phantom, its edges
indistinct, as if it were only a vague outline of an animal. Its triangular
ears were laid back against its skull, smoothing its already sleek shape still