"Paul B.Thompson, Tonya R.Carter. Darkness and Light ("DragonLance Preludes I" #1) (angl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

Kitiara cut tiny circles in the air with her' sword tip. Once,
twice, three times - Sturm watched the deadly motion. Caramon
watched, too, open-mouthed. At eighteen, he was the size of a
full-grown man, but he was still a boy inside. The wild and worldly
Kitiara was his idol. She had more drive and dash than any ten men.

From his place, Caramon could see every nick in the edge of
Kitiara's blade, mementoes of hard-fought battle. The flat of the
blade was shiny from frequent and expert polishing. By contrast,
Sturm's sword was so new that the hilt still showed the blue tinge
from the smith's annealing fire.

"Watch your right," said Caramon. Sturm closed his free hand
over the long pommel and awaited Kitiara's attack square on, as a
Solamnic Knight would.

"Hai!" Kitiara whirled on one leg, cleaving the air with an
upward sweep of her sword. Caramon's breath caught as she carried her
swing forward. Sturm did not move. Her sword would complete its arc at
his neck. Caramon shut his eyes - and heard a solid ring of steel.
Feeling foolish, he opened them again.

Sturm had parried straight across, hilt to hilt, with no finesse
at all. He and Kitiara stayed locked together with their sword points
high. Kitiara's wrists shook. She stepped in and braced her sword arm
with her empty hand. Sturm forced her guard down. Her face paled, then
flushed red. Caramon knew that look. This friendly bout was not going
to her liking, and Kitiara was getting angry.

Vexed, she shifted her stance and strained against Sturm's
greater size and strength. Still her hilt fell. The knobbed quillon of
Sturm's new sword brushed her chin.

With an explosive gasp, Kitiara ceased the struggle. Both sword
points stabbed into the green sod.

"Enough," she said. "I'll buy the ale. I should've known better
than to let you bind up my guard like that! Come on, Sturm. Let's have
a tankard of Otik's best."

"Sounds good to me," he replied. He freed his blade and .
stepped back, breathing heavily. As he moved, Kitiara thrust the flat
of her weapon between his ankles. Sturm's feet tangled, and he
sprawled backward on the grass. His sword flew away, and in the next
instant Kitiara stood over him holding thirty-two inches of steel
poised at his throat.

"Combat is not always a sport," she said. "Keep your eyes open
and your sword firmly in hand, my friend, and you'll live longer."