"Michelle West - Sacred Hunt 1 - Hunter's Oath" - читать интересную книгу автора (West Michelle)

Hunter’s Oath
By Michelle West

Chapter One

25th day of Corvil, 396 AA King's City, Breodanir
A near-skeletal boy peered out from around a shadowed corner. His face was the
color of winter; white, muddied by the dark hollows of wide eyes. Those eyes
examined the thin crowd in the lower city streets.
Only one there caught his attention—a man dressed in audacious furs and bangles,
with a thick, new purse attached to his wrist and a belt heavy with winter supplies
girding him round his midsection. His cap alone would fetch a good price and
guarantee food and shelter besides.
The boy was hungry and tired. That he was cold as well had ceased to bother him;
the winter had been harsh enough that the icy bite of nearing spring felt something
akin to warm. It had been a very bad season.
It would be worse still if he didn't go back to the den armed with some display of
money or barter goods. Marcus, self-proclaimed den leader, had already made that
perfectly clear; the bruises still showed on the boy's face. Fear set him to shivering
and the cold joined in. A ragged cough that would not be ignored scraped at his
throat. He needed a warm place to stay, and soon. Twice this winter he had seen
cold kill.
The rich man stopped every so often to tsk-tsk at the state of the buildings. His
purse bounced and jangled, even at this distance. The young boy swallowed
nervously. He would have already made his mark, but for the dogs. Not even the
most ignorant of children could claim not to know what their presence meant.
One of these dogs stayed at its master's heels, lifting its proud, wide head. Its eyes,
circled on both sides by patches of black, darted back and forth, but it didn't stray
far. The other dog, a bitch by the look of it, was a little more testy, but its fur was
clean and it was an almost even gray. Its low-throated growl could be heard when
anyone approached. These were no city dogs, rough and mangy after winter's
scavenging. They were obviously well fed—on what, the boy didn't care to
speculate. But their jaws, their teeth...
Stephen, the boy thought to himself, as his hands shook, he's a Hunter Lord. Find
someone else.
But he'd looked; Luck knew it well and had obviously seen fit to curse him. There
was no one else that was even likely, and if he waited in the shadows like a dithering
rat, he'd lose his entrance ticket and—he coughed, retching—any chance for a meal
this day.
Hunger and cold decided him. He moved forward, his worn shoes squelching in
the slush. Thin shoulders came up, as did his chin. Seen this way, he was a stick of a
lad, but not uncomely, and not particularly dangerous. Only poor—and that, in the
King's City, was danger enough.
Soredon, Lord Elseth, smiled softly at the sound of light steps. It was about time;
how long did the urchin think to keep him out in this dismal weather? Corvil was a
chill month; one to be avoided if at all possible.
Maritt growled and began to swivel her head. Her jaws were open, and her teeth,
cleaner than the snow, were also whiter.
Easy, easy, Maritt. Stay at heel. Stay calm.
She heard his Hunter's command and shifted on her hind legs. Her growl didn't