Swordmage

Начало книги

It was late autumn in Myth Drannor, a bright cold morning with the first snows of the year dusting the open spaces between the trees. The fall colors were fading fast, but the forest of Cormanthor still mantled the city in a glorious cape of red, gold, and orange. The sun was brilliant on the golden treetops overhead, and the sky was perfect and clear. In the shadows beneath the trees, Geran Hulmaster fought with all his strength and lore against the elf mage Rhovann Disarnnyl, dueling with blade and spell against spell and wand. Steel glittered and rang in the morning air as Geran parried bolts of crackling white force or deflected shining veils of madness in which Rhovann tried to ensnare him.

Geran wore the dove-gray coat and silver embroidery of the Coronal’s Guard, but he was a human, tall and lean, with long black hair bound by a silver circlet. He wielded a fine backsword of elven steel, a graceful and strong weapon with a slight curve toward the point. It was longer and heavier than most such weapons, but in his hands the blade leaped and danced like a rapier. He kept his left hand free for spellcasting, fighting as elf swordmages did in the ancient bladesong tradition. Rhovann, on the other hand, was no swordsman; he had only his mahogany wand, and that was weapon enough for the elf mage.

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