Ed Greenwood - Swords of Dragonfire
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- Название:Swords of Dragonfire
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She’d been to Arabel twice or thrice that she could remember; the Rebel City, some courtiers called it. “Almost outside the kingdom,” as some in Suzail never missed a chance to describe it, or even “the fortress that keeps the Stonelands at bay.”
Not that she believed half the wild tales of dragons and worse that the Stonelands were supposed to be a-crawl with. Why Enough. She was getting wet through. She needed her adventure to feature a warm fireside or at least a cloak soon.
Alusair drew in a deep breath of wet Arabellan air, smiled at the uncaring night, and set one foot carefully between two spikes. She shifted her weight back to make sure she could lift that foot easily back out of its wedged position, found that she could-and stood up tall, swinging sword and dagger wide with a flourish, to step boldly forward, into a feet-first jump down into the dark alley below.
Her landing jarred, and she crushed something wet and squishy that she was glad she couldn’t see-her slippers slid in something that felt like hair or fur-underfoot. Springing away to her right, Alusair trotted down the alleyway, finding it evil-smelling and strewn with rotten fragments of wood and what looked like slimy remnants of leaves that were beyond rotten.
Her heart leaped as something moved in the gloom ahead. A man! A lurching, bleary-eyed man in worn leathers and a tunic that looked more like a rag than clothing, who peered at her and mumbled, “S’truth! The l’il lasses ’re a-waving swords and daggers, now? Are the orcs come again, then?”
He reached out for her with shaking fingers, but she swiveled her hips, quickened her pace, and was past, giving him a smile but no reply-and trailing her sword behind her to discourage him following. She looked back, a few breaths later, to see no sign of him in the night shadows.
The alley stank, of dung and rotting food and worse, everchanging smells overlaid by woodsmoke and the occasional lovely aroma of a cooked meal, but Alusair breathed it all in deeply and happily, running along in the rain with a smile on her face. She was having an adventure!
And not a war wizard in sight! Nay, she was The hand thrusting out of the darkness this time was swift and strong, taking her by the shoulder and spinning her around before she could do more than utter a startled eeep.
Adventure…
Chapter 4
Of that night, I remember mercifully little
Beyond too many friends falling dead
And striking aside swords in the rain.
Onstable Halvurr, Twenty Summers A Purple Dragon: One Soldier’s Life published in the Year of the Crown"Ho, now! Hold hard there, my lad! Where d’ye be going, so hasty-like, on a night like-”
This voice was deeper than the first drunkard’s had been, and came with a reek of stale drink that was almost stupefying. Alusair reared back, bringing her sword and dagger up between her and that half-seen face. The hand abruptly let go.
It returned, coming in a little lower, thrusting past her bared steel to press hard into her chest and send her staggering back. “ Away with that war-steel!”
Then the drunkard made a surprised sound at what his fingers had found, and growled, “A lass? A lass, out in the night like this? Running from a murder, are ye?”
“Nay,” Alusair said, trying to make her voice snap in command as she’d heard her father do many a time, “but there will be a murder in this alley if you lay hands on me again!”
“Whoa, now! Easy!” The reply seemed a step or two farther away, as if the man had retreated. “A lass, light-dressed, out in the rain and the night with no lantern, carrying war-steel unsheathed… a slip of a lass, too, with a sword too heavy for her by half… ye’re an acolyte of Tempus, ye are!”
He sounded almost proud, as if he’d won some sort of prize. “The Lord of Battles keep ye and honor ye, Swordmaiden! Fair even to ye, and pray accept the apologies of ol’ Dag Runsarr-not the least of the King’s Dragons, in my day! Saw the king himself I did, once!”
Alusair resisted the urge to tell old Dag that she’d seen the King of Cormyr a thousand thousand times, and sometimes felt she saw far too much of him, yet at the same time not enough. “Fair even, Dag Runsarr,” she said, instead. “Tempus defend thee and watch over thee.”
That grand speech was rather spoiled by a sudden loud grumble from her stomach. Old Dag chuckled and shuffled off down the alley, in the direction she’d come. Leaving the youngest princess of Cormyr suddenly aware of just how hungry she was. She’d last eaten at morningfeast, and last sipped some spiced clarry just after high-sun… and the night was well begun, now.
A tavern. A tavern would still be serving food. So would a feasting hall, but she had no idea if Arabel even had any fine feasting halls. So a tavern it would be.
Alusair hurried along the alley and came out into a narrow cobbled street lit by two lonely, distant hanging lamps. She could see nothing but houses in either direction-and the alley continuing on, across the road. She crossed, returning to the darkness almost thankfully. A distant dog barked, but she knew she had little to fear: dogs in Arabel were working beasts, and only fools let their workers stand out in rainstorms to get chilled and fall sick. It would be a rare alley that would have wild dogs waiting for her. Rats, now…
That cheerful thought carried her right into a smell that made her stomach complain again. Stew!
Just ahead, where the alley met with another street, and started to reek like men spewing up too much ale, was a small, dingy tavern, its signboard dangling from one hook and too dark to read anyway. Light was spilling out into the night all around its warped, ill-fitting door. Much chatter came from within, and pipesmoke too. Reversing sword and dagger downward, and transferring them both into one hand, Princess Alusair thrust open the door and stepped inside.
The taproom was small, low-ceilinged, thick with drifting smoke, and crowded. She paused for a moment, expecting the room to fall silent in reverence, but no one seemed to so much as notice her-one more wet, bedraggled visitor from the night outside. When she peered around, she saw a few eyebrows, here and there, lifting in surprise at the blades in her hand and then at her gender, but everyone looked away, and no one remarked. Wise Arabellans tended not to comment on such things.
Alusair found an empty table and sank thankfully down into its lone chair, setting her blades carefully on the table and running her fingers back through her sodden hair to get it out of her eyes. Two none-too-clean men facing each other over tankards at the next table leered at her and then turned back to their converse. Their noses were long and sharp, their eyes sharper. Alusair ducked her head a little so the curtain of her wet hair hid her eyes from them, and tried not to seem like she was listening.
“Darthil, see the one in green? That’s him,” one of the sharp-nosed men said.
The other turned a ring on his tankard hand a little with his thumb. The ring caught the candlelight with a flash, and Alusair saw it had been polished mirror-bright-to serve, in fact, as a mirror.
“Aha. My, he’s the prance-dandy, isn’t he? We’ll deal with him later,” the other muttered. “But Mhaulo, tell me: Who’s the old mountain of meat beside him? His bodyguard we’ll have to fight?”
“No, far from it. Another he owes coin to, more likely. Gulkar has no bodyguards, not after-” Mhaulo cast a glance across the taproom at the white-haired, heavily muscled man sitting beside Gulkar, turned back in almost the same movement, and said with a smirk, “That, Darth, is Durnhelm Draggar Lenth B. Stormgate.”
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