"David Eddings. Castle of wizardry enchanters' end game (The Belgariad, Part two)" - читать интересную книгу автора

but no sound penetrated the shimmering shield she had erected.
"How many?" Garion mouthed the words exaggeratedly.
She held up both hands with one thumb folded in.
"Nine?" he mouthed again.
She nodded and then drew her cloak in around the little boy.
"Well, Garion?" Silk asked then, his eyes penetrating, "What do we do
now?"
"Why are you asking me?"
"You heard her. Belgarath's still in a daze, and she's busy. You're in
charge now."
"Me?"
"What do we do?" Silk pressed. "You've got to learn to make decisions."
"I don't know." Garion floundered helplessly.
"Never admit that," Silk told him. "Act as if you know - even if you
don't."
"We-uh-we'll wait until it gets dark, I guess - then we'll keep going
the same way we have been."
"There." Silk grinned. "See how easy it is?"

Chapter Three
THERE WAS THE faintest sliver of a moon low over the horizon as they
started out across the black sand of the wasteland in the biting chill.
Garion felt distinctly uncomfortable in the role Silk had thrust upon him.
He knew that there had been no need for it, since they all knew where they
were going and what they had to do. If any kind of leadership had actually
been required, Silk himself was the logical one to provide it; but
instead, the little man had placed the burden squarely on Garion's
shoulders and now seemed to be watching intently to see how he would
handle it.
There was no time for leadership or even discussion when, shortly after
midnight, they ran into a party of Murgos. There were six of them, and
they came galloping over a low ridge to the south and blundered directly
into the middle of Garion's party. Barak and Mandorallen reacted with that
instant violence of trained warriors, their swords whistling out of their
sheaths to crunch with steely ringing sounds into the mail-skirted bodies
of the startled Murgos. Even as Garion struggled to draw his own sword, he
saw one of the black-robed intruders tumble limply out of his saddle,
while another, howling with pain and surprise, toppled slowly backward,
clutching at his chest. There was a confusion of shouts and shrill screams
from terrified horses as the men fought in the darkness. One frightened
Murgo wheeled his mount to flee, but Garion, without even thinking, pulled
his horse in front of him, sword raised to strike. The desperate Murgo
made a frantic swing with his own weapon, but Garion easily parried the
badly aimed swipe and flicked his blade lightly, whiplike, across the
Murgo's shoulder. There was a satisfying crunch as the sharp edge bit into
the Murgo's mail shirt. Garion deftly parried another clumsy swing and
whipped his blade again, slashing the Murgo across the face. All the
instruction he had received from his friends seemed to click together into
a single, unified style that was part Cherek, part Arendish, part Algar,
and was distinctly Garion's own. This style baked the frightened Murgo,