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

never to face more than one or perhaps two opponents at a time. One the sword
would handle, and a second he would at least face on even terms, but beyond
that he would be no better off than any ordinary fighter.
He wondered if the hermit had known how his spell would work -- and if
so, had he realized how limited its usefulness was?
This, he told himself, was all just guesswork. His one-foe-per-drawing
theory did fit the observed facts, but so would any number of other
explanations -- a small magical charge that had been exhausted after two
killings, for example. He could test that possibility by simply drawing the
sword again and seeing whether it would allow itself to be sheathed, but he
hesitated. Walking around with the sword drawn was an unbearable nuisance, one
he did not care to burden himself with again. He left the sword in its
scabbard and considered other aspects of his situation.
He was still lost behind enemy lines, but now the enemy knew he was here,
thanks to the escape of the third northerner in the patrol he had just fought.
Furthermore, in his hurry, he had left a discernible trail from the site of
the battle. It was, he told himself, time to disappear.
He did not want to double back to the north. That would take him further
from his goal, and eventually he would have to make up any lost ground. To the
south, presumably, lay the enemy lines. To the west lay the ocean; he
considered the possibility of returning to the coast and building or stealing
a boat, but quickly abandoned it. He was no sailor. He had planned on boating
before only because he had been unable to think of an alternative -- but he
always had alternatives, if he took the time to find them.
That left east -- and that was almost certainly the direction the enemy
would expect him to take, since they could eliminate the other three by the
same means he had.
He reached a decision, not so much by conscious logic as because it felt
right. He would head southeast. Pursuers would not expect him to head toward
the enemy lines; and by angling over to the east he would, he hoped, be able
to slip through at some point where he wasn't expected.
He would need to do his best to leave no tracks. That could be very
tricky if the enemy sent sorcerers or shatra trackers after him. One of his
problems might become an advantage, as problems sometimes did -- bare feet
left less of a trail than boots.
He rose, checked to be sure that the scabbard was secure on his belt and
Wirikidor secure in the scabbard, and then slipped off into the forest, moving
as lightly and silently as he could.
That night he made no camp, lighted no fire; instead he climbed a tree
and wedged himself into a fairly secure perch. He had seen no sign of pursuit,
but, after fleeing for so long from the patrol that had chased him into the
hermit's marsh, he was taking no unnecessary chances.


CHAPTER 7

Valder awoke at dawn, feeling very cramped and stiff. He untangled his
hands and feet, but, before lifting himself up out of the tree crotch where he
had slept, he glanced down at the ground below.
He froze.