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

There was still no sign of enemy pursuit, but he would almost have
preferred that to what he saw instead. Looking up at him from the base of the
tree was a small dragon He stared down at it in dismay.
It was a glossy metallic green in color, and he estimated its length at
fifteen feet, counting the tail. It probably could not talk yet; a small
dragon was a young dragon, and young dragons were notoriously stupid. It had
its wings folded down against its back, so that he couldn't judge its
wingspan, but he guessed that the mere fact that it was down on the ground
while he was up in the tree meant it could not fly. Many, perhaps most,
dragons couldn't.
It glared up at him hungrily and hissed, a sound like the dousing of a
bonfire; that left little doubt of its intentions.
Valder wondered whether it was a wild dragon from birth, or whether it
had been bred by the northerners and had escaped or been freed. If it had been
raised as a military dragon, he might be able to control it.
"Ho, dragon!" he barked. "Rest!"
The dragon just stared up at him and hissed again. If it had been raised
in captivity, its training hadn't taken -- or perhaps it could tell
Ethsharitic from the northern tongue. Valder had no idea what commands a
northern dragon might obey; he had hoped tone alone would serve.
A fifteen-footer would be certain death for an unarmed man and more than
a match for most fully equipped soldiers. Valder, however, reminded himself
that he had a magic sword. He drew Wirikidor.
The sword looked and felt exactly as it always had. He hooked it on a
tree branch near his side and tried to take his hand from the hilt.
The hilt adhered to his palm and would not come free. That meant that the
sword did still have magic in it; this was more evidence for his
one-foe-per-drawing theory.
Well, he told himself, a dragon is just one foe.
As he gripped the sword in his right hand, he suddenly realized that,
surprised and still sleepy as he had been, he had done something very stupid.
He should have used the crossbow first; a few well-placed quarrels might have
sent the dragon in search of easier prey. He doubted that he would be able,
while crouched in a treetop holding a sword, to cock, load, aim, and fire the
crossbow.
He could, he thought, put the sword on his forehead or someplace while he
loaded the bow -- but even then, cocking it while wedged in a tree would not
be easy, and he did have the sword ready here in his hand. A crossbow might
seem more trustworthy than the mysterious enchantment on his blade, but he
felt his nerve going as it was; better to attack while his courage held, with
the weapon at hand. With that thought and no warning, he dove for the dragon's
throat, plummeting from his perch.
The dragon saw him coming and reared back, startled. Valder's dive missed
it entirely, and he landed on the forest floor. He managed to catch himself,
turning his fall into a roll, so that he was not injured and was able to
scramble up before the dragon could react.
The fall had knocked some of the wind out of him, however, and he was
less than ideally steady on his feet. He could not organize his limbs and body
sufficiently to attack, but instead held Wirikidor out before him, as if it
were a magic talisman that would ward off the monster.