The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold: Stories from The Demon Cycle series. Peter V. Brett

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СКАЧАТЬ reach. Arlen put down his own weapons and took Sandar’s spear. He braced it against the ground and snapped it with a sharp kick of his steel-shod heel. He laid the two halves on the ground by Sandar and knelt to examine the leg. As he did, Sandar threw a fistful of loose dirt right in his eyes.

      Arlen gave a yell and stumbled back, but Sandar was on him in an instant, knocking him to the ground. Flat on his back in heavy steel armor with another man atop him, Arlen had no way to rise.

      ‘Ripping kill you!’ he screamed, hammering Arlen about the head with heavy gauntleted fists. Rather than crippling him, the pain in his leg seemed to give him a mad strength like a cornered nightwolf.

      Arlen’s head felt like the clapper from a bell, and it was impossible to think clearly. Half-blind from the grit, he felt more than saw the long knife that suddenly appeared in one of Sandar’s fists. The first thrust skittered across his breastplate, and the next bit into the interlocking rings at his shoulder joint.

      Arlen threw his head back and howled. The armor turned the edge, but the pain was incredible, and he knew his shoulder would ache for days.

      That was, assuming he lived through the next few minutes.

      Sandar gave up trying to pierce the armor and stabbed the knife at Arlen’s throat. Arlen caught his wrist, and they struggled silently for the next few moments. Arlen strained every muscle he had, but Sandar had weight and leverage in addition to his mad strength. The blade drew ever closer to the thin but vulnerable seam between Arlen’s neckplate and helmet.

      ‘Almost there,’ Sandar whispered.

      ‘Not quite,’ Arlen grunted, punching a mailed fist into Sandar’s broken knee. The Messenger screamed and recoiled in agony, and Arlen punched him full in the jaw, rolling as the man fell and reversing the pin. He pinned the knife arm with his knee, and landed several more heavy blows before the weapon fell from Sandar’s limp hand.

      Well after dark, Arlen sat by the edge of the wardnet, watching One Arm and holding the thunderstick thoughtfully. In his other hand, he held the white-tipped match. His fingers itched to light it, and his other arm tensed, ready to throw. He pictured One Arm catching the stick in its jaws, and the explosion blowing the demon’s head apart. Pictured its headless body lying on the ground, oozing ichor.

      But he kept hearing Curk’s voice in his head. Them sticks ent ours, boy. Curk might have been a coward in the end, but he was right about that. Arlen was no thief. He glanced at Sandar, surprised to find the man awake and staring at him.

      ‘Know what you’re thinking,’ Sandar said, ‘but there’s a lot of loose rock up mountain. Thunderstick’s more likely to cause a landslide than kill that demon.’

      ‘You don’t know what I’m thinking,’ Arlen said.

      Sandar grunted. ‘Honest word,’ he agreed. ‘Been trying to figure out why you splinted my leg and put a cold cloth on my head when I’d’ve killed you dead and tossed you off a cliff.’

      ‘Don’t want you dead,’ Arlen said. ‘You can still sit a horse with that splint. You go back peaceful, and I’ll tell Malcum just enough so your license is all you lose.’

      Sandar barked a laugh. ‘Ent Malcum I’m worried about, it’s Count Brayan. He gets wind I tried to rob him, and my head’ll be on a pike before the sun sets.’

      ‘If the shipment gets through, I’ll see to it you keep your head,’ Arlen said.

      ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t trust that,’ Sandar said.

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