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

cook whatever I find; everything here is either soaked or already burned."
Valder nodded. The old man's tone was not very friendly, but at least he
was willing to talk. "I'll do my best," he answered.
"Do that," the hermit replied. "Oh, and give me your sword; I want to
look it over."
"You still intend to enchant it somehow?"
"Oh, yes; how else can I get rid of you quickly? I've found a few things
here; I'll manage. Now, give me that thing and see if you can find something
that doesn't leak."
Valder shrugged; he made his way across the blasted remains of the hut to
where the wizard prowled and handed over his sword and sheath. After all, he
told himself, he wouldn't need it while fetching water, and he would need both
hands. The northerners were gone, and he could handle most other dangers,
either by running or with his dagger.
The old man accepted the weapon and looked it over casually, noting the
ugly but serviceable workmanship -- bow grip, straight blade, without any
frills or ornamentation. He nodded. "It should do very well. Go get some
water."
Valder said nothing, but began looking for a container.
A quick circuit of the crater showed nothing suitable for the job, but a
second glance at one of the outer slopes turned up the top half of a very
large glass jar, the lid still screwed tightly in place; Valder hoped that
would serve. Careful of the jagged edge, he cradled it in one arm and headed
off in the direction the old man had indicated.
Unlike the old man, however, he had not spent years living in the marsh
and learning its every twist and turn; he found himself slogging across muddy
ditches, climbing over crumbling sandpiles, wading through branches of the
sea, and pushing through reeds and rough grasses. His unshod feet acquired a
variety of cuts, scrapes, and bites; his socks were soaked through and rapidly
falling to tatters.
 Eventually he gave up following the direct route through the marsh and
instead turned his path toward the nearest dry land. Once firmly ashore on
solid ground, under the familiar pines, he turned north and made his way along
the edge of the marsh until he came to a stream he assumed to be the one the
old man had pointed out.
The water was clear, but salty and brackish; he turned and walked
upstream, cursing the wizard.
Roughly a hundred yards from where he had first tasted the water, the
stream poured down across a rocky outcropping, spilling exuberantly from one
pool into another along a narrow stony path down the face of a rise in the
ground. The water in the upper pool was fresh, sweet, and cold; Valder lay on
his belly and drank eagerly.
When he lifted his face, he was momentarily shocked to see blood swirling
downstream; then he remembered the Deception and laughed.
He rinsed out his broken jar, then filled it, and was relieved to see
that it could still hold a decent quantity of water. He left the jar on the
bank of the stream while he looked for firewood.
Fresh pine, he knew, smoked and spat. Any wood was less than ideal when
green, but pine was especially unsatisfactory. He looked about in hopes of
finding something better.