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

pressure on parts of his feet that were not accustomed to it.
He was not sure what sort of a substitute he could improvise; he had
never before lost a pair of boots while out in the country. It was not a
subject that he remembered hearing discussed, either in his training or in
barracks chatter; when a pair of boots gave out, they were replaced with
another pair of boots. That was one item that had never been subject to
shortage, so far as he knew.
His socks, which he had left on for lack of replacements, had worn down
to absolute uselessness, their soles consisting of a few stray threads; he
peeled them off and hurled them away.
As if aching feet were not sufficient annoyance, he was ravenously
hungry. Enough streams had crossed his path to make thirst no problem, but he
could not eat pine cones, and the only wildlife he had seen had been a
chipmunk he had not thought to pursue.
He stared around at the empty forest, the sun dappling the thick bed of
pine needles that covered the ground. He had no food -- he had been out on a
two-day reconnaissance, and with the sustenance spell, at that -- who would
have thought he might need food? He had survived for two months without any,
thanks to the bloodstone's magic, but that enchantment was broken and gone
now.
He did not have any ready means of acquiring food, either. He had his
belt, his sling, his knife, and his magicked sword, but that was almost the
full extent of his supplies. He had a silver bit tucked away, not so much as a
lucky piece as because one never knew what might happen, and even a single
coin might bribe a peasant -- not that any peasants lived in the northern
forests. He had managed to hang onto his flint and steel and he still wore
kilt, tunic, and breastplate, though his helmet was long gone. The bloodstone
was still safe in its pouch, but useless until he found another wizard to
renew the spell.
He wondered if the hermit might be able to cast a Spell of Sustenance and
upbraided himself for not asking when he had the chance. If he went back, he
would probably be unable to find the old man.
Of course, it was unlikely that he would have been able to help in any
case. Valder knew that casting the spell required a mysterious powder or two,
and the little hermit's supply of whatever it was had probably burned and
would not be readily replaced.
He ran through a quick mental inventory of what he had and decided that
the sling was his best bet for obtaining food. He would need to find some
pebbles, or at least wood chips, for ammunition, and he would need to find
some sort of game to use it on.
A sword was too big to be of much use against a chipmunk, but he looked
down thoughtfully at the hilt on his belt. Something larger than a chipmunk
might happen along eventually, after all.
The hilt looked just as it always had -- simple, functional, and rather
ugly, gray metal bare of any ornamentation or finesse, the sweat-softened
leather of the grip bound in place with dulled brass wires. There was no
gleam, no glamor about it, and he suddenly wondered whether the wizard had
actually done anything to it. Spells existed, he knew, that did nothing at all
save to look impressively magical, and the old man had had no supplies to
speak of. Perhaps, in his fully understandable annoyance at the loss of his