"Rawn, Melanie - Dragon Star 2 - Dragon Token" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

He hurried forward, stopping only to aim and shoot again and again until there were no more arrows and the dragon had plummeted to the sand, unable to fly. Casting aside the bow and shrugging out of the encumbering quivers, he drew his sword and advanced on her, taking his time. She was down and would not rise again; all must see him, all must watch as he killed her.

Nine of his arrows had found her; he counted them as he neared, pleased by the potency of the number. Two in her shoulder, three in her belly, one in her left thighЧ a lucky shot, that, guided by the Wind Father's breathЧ and the remaining three straight through her wings. She would bleed and she would limp and she would not fly. But she was still very much alive, armed with jaws that could snap him in half, two good forelegs that could tear his head from his neck, and a spiked tail that could spit him like a lamb for roasting.

His men had added their cries to hers. He approached the dragon head on, scorning to sneak around her back like a coward. She balanced on her good leg and her tail, snarling, but did not lash out at him. He nodded; she was cunning enough not to waste her strength when he was out of reach. Her wings were awkwardly folded as close to her body as the arrows would allow. She snapped at him and worried at one of the shafts with her teeth, finally broke it off and flung it away. But her talons could not dislodge the two arrows embedded in her shoulderЧ and the three planted in her belly oozed thick blood.

He had hunted many creatures in his life for food and for sport. This was for pride and power. And he had no idea how to bring her down.

Suddenly one of the wings unfurled and swept toward him. He flattened himself in the sand, rolling to his back. Thrusting upward with his sword, he let her catch her wing on the blade. There was a ripping noise like a wind split sail. The dragon howled and stumbled back. Over-

balancing, she pitched forward nearly on top of him, smothering him in her wing.

Panic clawed his vitals as he struggled against the weight of her wing. But through the huge rent he found escape, ears ringing with the thud of her body and the sound of her shrieks. Slick with her blood, he jumped onto the main wingbone. It cracked beneath his weight, a broken piece of it jutting up through the blue-gray hide.

The fall had driven the arrows deeper into her chest and belly. She would not rise. Could not. He clambered atop her heaving back, years of sailing rough seas serving him well until she convulsed from head to tail. He lost his footing then, landing hard with the base of her neck between his legs. His groan matched hers in painЧbut he was the one with the sword. He made himself raise it, lean far to the side, and hack off her head.

They were bellowing their triumph and devotion. They were coming closer. They must not see him stunned and still in agony. He slid from the dragon's neck onto his knees in the gore-wet sand. The great head lay near him, teeth shining in gaping jaws. He pushed himself to his feet and closed his fist around the handful of spines above one eye, hoisting the heavy weight aloft. It nearly overbalanced him, but he planted both feet in the sand and stayed upright.

"Here!" he shouted with all the breath in his lungs. "Here is the Dragon, dead by my sword!"

His warriors went mad with joy.

"See the Monster, the Hellspawn! Dead! Dead! Dead!"

They chanted, and he laughed. Obedient to his commands? Now they would cut off their own balls at his whim.

"Hear them, new young Azhrei?" he whispered to the starlight. "Thus I will hold your head. I, High Warlord of all Vellant'im, swear it."



PART Two



CHAPTER SIX



There had been much debate at Goddess Keep over a signal. Jolan had wanted a great sonorous bell, but the extra iron was not to be had and the work of casting took a long time. (And how disturbing it was that neither materials nor time were available; it was a first in Andry's life.) Torien suggested drums, but the sound would not reach to the far pastures. It had been Nialdan who pointed out the solution.

It hung over the entrance to the main hall. Everyone saw it every day, which meant that no one ever really looked at it. But Nialdan remembered wanting to take it down and polish it long ago, and being forbidden by Lady Andrade herself. "It hasn't been touched for fifty years that I know of, and not since Lady Merisel's day for all anyone else knows. There she put it, and there it stays."

But as Nialdan reverently detached it from its mountings and climbed down the ladder, he said, "It's been silent long enough."

Cleaned of several hundred years of spider- weavings, dust, and grime, the horn shone like dawn. It was as long as a horse and Nialdan was probably the only one among them who could lift it. Half its length was made of bone sections riveted with silver; the rest, solid gold. The massive bell was incised with fifty distinct markings, each stained black, each presented within an open palm, none of them bearing any resemblance to the written form of either language Andry knew.

"Clan identification?" Jolan guessed, running a finger over the carvings.

"Whatever," Nialdan replied with a shrug. He braced the horn in Deniker's cradling arm and glanced around the ramparts. "If this does what I think it will, hold your ears."