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

weapons -- but very slow to load. The enchanted sword was an unknown quantity.
"Well, Wirikidor," Valder muttered. "What do we do now?"
The sword did nothing in reply, but it seemed somehow unsteady in his
hand, as if it were struggling within itself.
Cautiously, he peered around the tree. The northern soldier was still
flat on the ground, but now held the crossbow aimed and ready. As he saw
Valder, he pulled the trigger.
The Ethsharite ducked back, and the quarrel whirred harmlessly past,
vanishing into the woods beyond.
Seizing the opportunity provided by the northerner's nervous impatience,
Valder emerged from concealment running, charging straight through the bushes
toward his frightened foe.
The northerner was in the undignified process of discovering that it was
impossible to load a crossbow properly while lying flat on one's belly with
nothing to brace it against when he looked up and saw Valder plunging toward
him. Terrified, he flung the crossbow aside -- exactly the reaction Valder had
hoped for -- and snatched at his sword while rolling over onto his back.
The distance between them had been greater than Valder had realized; the
enemy soldier was on his feet, sword drawn, before the Ethsharite could reach
him. Valder slowed his headlong charge and came to a wary halt a few steps
away.
The two faced each other for a long moment, while Wirikidor twitched and
strained in Valder's hand.
Valder was in no hurry. He wanted to take his time, see what his opponent
was capable of, before getting down to serious combat. Youth did not always
mean inexperience, and the northerner's reflexes were surely at least as fast
as his own. Valder was bigger, with a longer reach, and was fairly sure he was
trickier and more determined, but preferred not just to hack away; he was not
a great swordsman and he knew it. The northerner might be faster or more
skillful. Or both.
 The northerner moved a step to the side. Valder turned slightly to keep
facing him, but did not follow.
The northerner crouched lower. Valder did not move.
The northerner took a swipe at him. Although Valder was not aware of
trying to respond, Wirikidor came up, meeting the enemy's blade, turning it
aside, and sliding past it, in a twisting lightning-fast stroke that thrust
the sword's point through the northerner's throat.
Valder had definitely not intended that. Both men stared in astonishment
at the gleaming steel that joined them. The northerner's mouth opened and a
sick croak emerged, followed by a gush of blood.
Valder tried to pull his blade free; he saw no need to do more to the
northerner, whose wound was probably fatal. The fellow was little more than a
boy, and, if there were any chance he might live, Valder wanted him to have
it. The man was obviously not going to fight anymore; already his sword had
lowered, and, as the blood spilled from his mouth, his fingers opened,
dropping the weapon to the petal-strewn ground.
Wirikidor's blade would not come free. Instead, the sword twisted in
Valder's hand, ripping through the northerner's neck.
Valder stared at the blade in horror. His hand had not moved. The sword
had moved, certainly, but his hand had not. Wirikidor had killed the