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

away from his countrymen and comrades; he knew that and told himself that he
probably should try to cause trouble, but he was still not eager to kill
anyone. Better by far, in his opinion, to avoid trouble.
The sentry's relief might be along any minute, he thought -- or perhaps
not for days, but he saw no reason to take unnecessary chances. He turned and
walked back into the forest, away from the sea.


CHAPTER 6

Two days later Valder was beginning to wish an enemy would find him, just
so that he could sheathe his sword after killing someone. He had been carrying
the weapon bare in his hand for thirteen days, against his will, and was
sincerely tired of it. He had tried putting it under his belt, or along one
shin, but these had proved much too uncomfortable to use for any length of
time.
He was well away from the shoreline now and had no intention of veering
back in hopes of picking off another coast-watcher, but the thought of coming
across a lone northern scout had a certain appeal. The sweaty palms and tired
wrists were overcoming his distaste for bloodshed.
With that in mind, he was taking pains to move quietly, lest thoughts of
an enemy might tempt the gods to bring him one; he did not want to be caught
off-guard. The forest had thickened, and a profusion of rhododendrons limited
the easily available paths, so that he found himself picking his way
carefully, watching his feet, his head bent low to avoid overhanging branches.
That let his hair, woefully unkempt after two and a half months without a
mirror, hang down across his eyes, and, with his hands as tired as they were,
he did not bother to brush it aside very often. It was sheer luck that he saw
the northern patrol before they saw him; he happened to glance up at exactly
the right moment. None of the three enemy soldiers was as fortunate.
Valder froze for a moment and watched them. All three moved with the
normal clumsiness of ordinary men; none had the smooth, gliding grace that
marked shatra. That was a relief.
Valder wondered what they were doing out here; what made a patrol behind
the lines necessary? Were there Ethsharitic scouts -- other than himself --
operating in the area? Even as he wondered, he reached up slowly for the
captured crossbow slung on back.
The sword in his hand made him awkward; the blade struck an overhanging
branch as he struggled to bring the bow around where he could use it. The
sound was not loud, but one of the northerners, sixty yards away, apparently
heard it. He paused in his stride, turned, and saw the Ethsharite.
He shouted something in the northern tongue, then began running toward
Valder, his hand reaching for the sword on his belt. Valder guessed that he
did not care to use a bow; not all soldiers, on either side, were marksmen.
The other two northerners followed. The first, Valder saw, was grinning
with excitement. Like the sentry on the shore, these three were young, very
young -- and, Valder thought, not likely to grow old if they were always so
careless. They obviously hoped to capture him alive, forcing a surrender by
virtue of their superior numbers, but were completely oblivious to the
possibility of an ambush or magical defense. They saw a man in the gray