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

"Don't worry; I'll take good care of her." There was something odd about
the man's smile, Garth thought, but he dismissed it.
The sword and other items were still strewn across the table; though he
was eager to be on his way to straighten out the mess Kyrith and Galt seemed
to have gotten themselves into, Garth paused to gather them up. It would not
do to leave magical objects lying around where any casual tavern patron might
pick them up. He knew from personal experience that the white stone and the
sword were dangerous, and the black stone might be as well. The rest the King
had dismissed as junk, but gold was gold, and not to be thrown away, while the
whip and dagger were decent enough weapons. The pouch of dust he almost left,
but an instinct for tidyness overcame him, and he threw it into the sack with
the rest.
The sword, of course, didn't fit in the sack; he kept it clutched in his
right hand while his left hefted the bag up onto his shoulder. The gem
flickered dimly.
A final glance assured him that he had left nothing behind except Frima.
The Baron's guards could appear at any moment, he knew. He turned and strode
out the door.
Saram and Frima watched him go. When he was out of sight, the former
guardsman turned and looked his new companion over carefully, then said, "Sit
down, girl, and tell me about yourself."
Frima saw the obvious appreciation in Saram's eyes and noticed that the
man's hair and beard were as dark as any Dûsarran's, and they neatly framed a
strong, attractive face. With a shy smile she sat and said, "My name is Frima.
What would you like to know?"
Outside the King's Inn, Garth slid the Sword of Bheleu back into his
warbeast's harness, then climbed onto the creature's back. Koros stood
placidly, apparently paying no attention, until the command came to go; then,
instantly, it surged forward in its customary smooth, steady glide.
If guardsmen were coming, they had not yet arrived; there was no
opposition as overman and warbeast made their way northward through the
twisting streets. The ground had finally dried somewhat, though it was still
soft underfoot, and the warbeast's great padded paws were able to move with
catlike silence, no longer hampered by clinging mud.
As he rode, Garth found himself wondering at the Forgotten King's
behavior. What had the old man expected him to bring back? He had spoken of a
book; what book did he mean? There had been no book in the temple of Death.
The temple had been a cave in the side of the volcano that towered above the
black walls of Dûsarra, a cave that had been enlarged artificially, with
elaborately carved walls. The altar had looked as if it were carved from a
stalagmite; it was tall and narrow, he recalled, with a sloping top, rather
like a lectern or reading stand, with the eerie horned skull where a candle or
lamp would go on a reading stand. Other than the skull, it had been completely
empty. There had been no book. There had been nowhere in the cave that a book
could have been hidden where it would not have risked being consumed by the
monstrous thing that lived in the depths below and behind the temple.
The altar was, he had to agree, the right shape to hold a book. Could
the doddering old priest who tended the temple have taken the book and hidden
it somewhere outside?
Why would the caretaker do such a thing? To protect it from the thing