"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Ethshar 1 - The Misenchanted Sword" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

sudden glare, Valder grabbed one of the old man's bony arms and dragged him
unceremoniously across the dirt floor, keeping his head low and dodging scraps
of flaming debris that spattered down on all sides.
The wizard flung the powder across both of them, gestured with his free
hand, and said something incomprehensible. Something flashed pale blue where
the powder fell, cool against the orange blaze of burning thatch; the old man
grabbed at the knife on his belt and yelled, "The door is the other way!"
"I know," Valder shouted back over the roar of the flames. "That's why
we're going this way! They're probably waiting out front!" With his left hand
still locked around the old man's wrist, Valder drew his sword with his right
and jabbed at the back wall above the wizard's bedding.
As he had thought, the smooth coating was a thin layer of baked mud, and
the wall itself just bundled reeds; the mud broke away easily, allowing him to
hack an opening through the dried reeds with his blade. A moment later the two
men were outside, tumbling down into the brackish water of the marsh; the
wizard spluttered angrily while Valder scanned the surrounding area for the
enemy.
Someone was visible off to the left; Valder whispered in the old man's
ear, "Lie still."
The hermit started to protest; Valder jabbed him with the hilt of his
sword.
"No, listen," the wizard insisted, "I have a spell that can help here."
Valder glanced at the shadowy figure of the enemy soldier, standing well
back and apparently unaware of their presence, and then at the blazing fury of
the thatch roof. "Go ahead," he said. "But hurry, and keep it quiet."
The wizard nodded, splashing, then drew his dagger and stabbed the back
of Valder's hand.
"What the hell..." The soldier snatched his hand away; the wound was only
a scratch, but it hurt.
"I need a little of your blood," the wizard explained.
 He smeared a streak of blood along Valder's forearm, dabbed a few drops
on the soldier's face and neck, then pricked his own arm and distributed a
little of his own blood similarly on himself.
Behind them, the fire was eating its way down the walls of the wizard's
hut, lighting the surrounding circle of marsh a vivid orange, its reflections
in the murky water a labyrinth of flame. Valder knew that somewhere in the
blackness beyond the illuminated area the northerners were watching; he could
not see them anymore, as the fire's glow kept his eyes from adapting
sufficiently to the dark, and nothing at all remained of his night-sight
spell. He wished that he had one of the sorcerers' masks that the enemy used
for night vision; they were awkward to wear and carry, but they seemed never
to wear out the way wizard-sight did.
The old man was muttering an incantation, working his wizardry, whatever
it was. Valder wondered, as he had before, why Ethshar used wizardry so much
more than the Empire did and sorcery so much less. This difference in magical
preferences was hardly a new question; he and his comrades had mulled it over
dozens of times back in camp. Everybody knew that the Empire used demonology
and Ethshar used theurgy, but that just made sense, since the gods were on
Ethshar's side, and the demons on the Empire's. Wizardry and sorcery seemed to
have no such inherent bias, yet a northern wizard was rare indeed, and