"Brooks,.Terry.-.Word03.-.Angel.Fire.East" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brooks Terry)

supported this church lies, screams rise up against the
unmistakable sounds of butchery.

John Ross stands motionless for the longest time, pondering the
implications of the horrific scene before him. There is nothing he
can do for the man on the cross. He is not a doctor; he does not
possess medical skills. His magic can heal and sustain only
himself and no other. He is a Knight of the Word, but he is a failure,
too. He lives out his days alone in a f uture he could not prevent.
What he looks upon is not unusual in the postapocalyptic horror of
civilization's demise, but is sadly familiar and disturbingly mundane.

He can take the man down, he decides finally, even if he cannot
save him. By his presence, Ross can give the man a small
measure of peace and comfort.

Beneath a wintry sky that belies the summer season, he strides up
the rise to the man on the cross. The man does not lift his head or
stir in any way that would indicate he knows Ross is present.
Beneath a sheen of sweat and blood, his lean, muscular body is
marked with old wounds and scars. He has endured hardships and
abuse somewhere in his past, and it seems unfair that he should
end his days in still more pain and desolation.

Ross slows as he nears, his eyes drifting across the blackened
facade of the church and the trees surrounding it. Eyes glimmer in
the shadows, revealing the presence of feeders. They hover at the
fringes of his vision and in the concealment of sunless corners,
waiting to assuage their hunger. They do not wait for Ross. They
wait for the man on the cross. They wait for him to die, so they can
taste his passing from life into deat hЧt he most exquisite,
fulfilling, and rare of the human emotions they crave.

Ross stares at them until the light dims in their lantern eyes and
they slip back into darkness to bide their time.

A shattered length of wood catches the Knight's attention, and his
eyes shift to the foot of the cross. The remains of a polished black
staff lie before hi m Чa staff like the one he carries in his hands. A
shock goes through him. He stares closely, unable to believe what
he has discovered. There must be a mistake, he thinks. There
must be another explanation.

But there is neither. Like himself, the man on the cross is a Knight
of the Word.

He moves quickly now, striding forward to help, to lower the cross,
to remove the spikes, to free the man who hangs helplessly before
him.