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

He had, in fact, hoped that the sword was exactly that, that it would
defend him against the dragon of its own volition. His hopes were dashed. The
dragon did not retreat, and Wirikidor did nothing in his defense. It wobbled
in his unsteady hand as any other sword might, with no sign of the
supernatural independence of movement it had displayed against two human foes.
Upon regaining its composure, the dragon stared at him for a moment, its
long, arched neck bringing its golden eyes and needle-sharp fangs mere inches
beyond Wirikidor's blade. Valder stared back, the realization sinking in that
Wirikidor was not going to save him by itself. He slashed at the dragon,
trying desperately to put some strength behind the blow.
Moving with incredible speed, the monster pulled its head back out of the
blow's path, then struck at the blade with the full might of one of its huge
foreclaws, obviously expecting to knock the sword out of Valder's hand.
Ordinarily, the dragon's blow would have done exactly that. This sword,
however, was no ordinary one. This was Wirikidor. It was attached quite
irremovably to Valder's hand by its magic. That meant that when struck by the
dragon's irresistible blow it went flying off to one side, just as the dragon
had intended -- but that Valder's hand went with it, dragging the rest of him
along. That was not at all what the dragon had had in mind; it had knocked its
dinner well out of its own reach.
Valder realized what had happened in time to turn his unexpected sideways
lunge into a roll that carried him still further away. When he was in control
of his actions again, he scrambled to his feet and wasted no time in dashing
away from the dragon, aiming for the thickest woods, where, with any luck, the
beast would not fit between the trees. He did not have much of a lead, but the
monster had expected him to stand and fight, not to flee, so that it did not
immediately pursue him.
Valder did not worry about details, but simply ran, hoping that the
dragon would not follow, or would tire of the chase. He was prepared to turn
at bay if necessary; since dragons were never noted for their stealth, he was
sure he would be able to tell from the sound of the beast's approach when the
time had come to do so.
As it happened, it was several seconds, almost a full minute, before he
heard the dragon crashing through the trees behind him. That gave him a
significant head start. Furthermore, the underbrush slowed the monster far
more than it slowed the man. Valder was able to maintain a diminishing lead
for quite some distance, though he knew that the dragon's speed was much
greater than his own. As he ran, he prayed that the dragon would lose
interest, that a hiding place would present itself, or that some other miracle
would save him, since his damnable magic sword would not.
Wirikidor flapped about in his hand. He did not need to worry about
dropping it, but only about keeping it from becoming entangled in something
and slowing or stopping his headlong flight.
The ground was uneven, and Valder found himself running up a sun-dappled
hillside. The upgrade slowed him somewhat; he imagined he could feel the
dragon drawing nearer, though he told himself that the sounds of its advance
were not growing louder. Yet.
Then he reached the hilltop and abruptly ran out of forest. He was
charging down into a virtually treeless river valley, and directly ahead of
him was a camp. He knew that it had to be a northern outpost of some sort, but