Prison of Souls

Начало книги

"Let's begin," Naitachal said, casting his black cloak to one side and raising his practice sword in salute. "And see if you can get through this drill without tripping over yourself." He smiled, softening the sarcasm just a little. Few ever saw a Dark Elf smile and survived to tell about it; but Naitachal's smile meant only what any human's would, and it warmed his cold blue eyes in a way that no other Dark Elf could match.

His apprentice Alaire returned the salute with his practice sword, and stifled a sardonic reply.

This time, Master Naitachal, you'd better watch Alaire thought as he checked his footing on the coarse gravel. I've been practicing while you were away!

They faced each other on the small practice field of the Dark Elf's modest estate. Alaire was a head taller than his mentor, but Naitachal had decades of experi- ence. Both were slender, rather than heavily muscled.

At high noon the sun shone directly from above, a dis- advantage to neither swordsmen.

Читать дальше →