"Cook, Glen - Dread Empire 04 - Octobers Baby" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cook Glen)

"Crushed to death. Ignominious end for great mind. Am fool. Friend should have pointed out same, dragged fat idiot to camp kicking and screaming if needful."

"Is the light getting weaker?"

"Verity. Magicks devolving. Portal to Shinsan weakening also."

Indeed it was, getting fluttery around the edges and occasionally showing a swift-running shot of color.

"Maybe we can get out. If the place don't fall down first."

"Maybe so."

The curtain winked out of existence. They found themselves staring into the startled faces of several mercenaries. "Ghosts!" one cried.

"Boo!" said Mocker, then cackled madly. "Out of way. Everybody's out of way before very important head, head of self, gets mashed by falling castle."

Fifteen minutes later they were astride their mounts, atop a hill, watching the castle collapse. Fogs of darkness engulfed its base, darkness untouched by the morning sun. A plume of that blackness, like smoke, rose against the dawn and bent its head eastward. The destruction proceeded in unnatural silence.

"Going home," said Mocker.

"We'll hear from them again," Ragnarson replied.

Tarlson and Blackfang, who had been working round the rim of the valley, arrived. "You're lucky I mentioned the castle to the guide," said Eanred. "He said there wasn't any such place, so I scared up a rescue party."

"I'm grateful," said Ragnarson.

They talked at some length. When Ragnarson mentioned the winged man, Tarlson grew silent and withdrawn.

ii) Passage to Ravelin

The march to the Altean ferry was disconcerting. A regiment of Anstokin infantry paced them along the Ruderin border, making no overt moves but slowing their progress by forcing them to remain battle-ready. Crossing the River Scarlotti while Anstokin's force maneuvered nearby was a laborious business that took two days.

Tarlson grew jumpy as a cat. Still there were no messages from Kavelin, just rumors relayed by Altean officers. Those were not good. Skirmishing had broken out all over the kingdom. The Queen still held Vorgreberg, but the populace were being whipped up by a dozen propagandists.' Lord Breitbarth, a cousin of the dead King and the strongest pretender, was assembling a major force at Damhorst, near the Kavelin-Altean border, where Ragnarson was expected to cross. Damhorst lay on the great eastern trade route, which linked Vorgreberg with the Altean capital and the coastal city-kingdoms.

Ragnarson, too, grew concerned at the paucity of news. He had expected to hear from Haroun by now. All he knew was what he had coaxed from the Alteans. One went so far as to loan him a map of the border country, a violation of his orders. Though Kendel, Ruderin, and Altea covertly supported bin Yousif's scheme, openly none could do more than grant passage to mercenaries. There was a point, Ragnarson saw while studying the map, where the borders of Anstokin, Volstokin, Kavelin and Altea all came together. It was hilly country, almost without roads.

"What I'm thinking about," said Ragnarson, meeting with Blackfang, Kildragon, and Tarlson, "is following the highway to this town, Staake, so it looks like I'm committed to it. Then I'll abandon the wagons, make a night march north, and enter Kavelin through the hills above this Lake Berberich. I'll swing around and take Breitbarth in the flank. Assuming he's surprised. Mocker'11 let us know."

Mocker had vanished at the ferry.

Tarlson paced, mumbled, shook his head. "Your men are green. They won't stand up to it."

"Maybe not. Now's a good time to find out. I've never had much use for positional warfare."

"Bin Yousif's influence."

Bragi studied Tarlson thoughtfully. How much did he know? Or suspect? '"Possibly. I've followed his career."

"As you said when we met, it's your command. I'll help any way I can."