"Doranna Durgin - Wolverine's Daughter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Durgin Doranna)

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And then Kelyn realized that the hoofbeats were too far away to be the man before her, and that they
came inconsistently against the gusting wind. Rolling to her feet, she discovered a new player galloping in,
coming from the direction opposite the looters, resolving into two figures clinging tightly to a sturdy,
short-legged plow pony. Another blink of time and she thrust her staff defiantly into the air, renewing her
hunt cry in a greeting to Iden and the still stocky, ever stronger form of Frykla behind him. They matched
her cry with their own, and Frykla brandished a short sword as the pony swerved around the pyre and
headed straight for the remaining horseman, making the odds a sudden three against one.

He was no fool. He turned the horse on its haunches and spanked it with the flat of his sword, pushing
the astonished animal into a run for his life. The horse barely made it up to speed before the running
animals merged into one awkward shape. When they separated, Frykla was on the ground with the
looter jerking out the last of his life beneath her.

That was it, then. Kelyn closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Her knees were wobbly, her hands
trembled, and her stomach roiled at the thought of these first human lives on her hands. But with another
deep breath, she decided that perhaps she trembled because of the cold bite of the wind against her
battle-sweaty skin, and that her knees were simply tired. She turned to find her cloakтАФand tangled her
feet together, landing on the ground with a tired grunt.

She didn't bother to curse. From here she could see the cloak and she merely crawled to it, fastening it
securely before climbing to her feet and trying to tug her tunic into some semblance of its former shape.
Wiping blood and sweat off her face, she strode to the looter who was twitching next to Lytha, jerked
the knife out of his lower back, and matter-of-factly drew it across his throat. She cleaned the blade on
his clothes and sheathed it before dragging the body away from Lytha, dumping it well behind the house.

Of the other two, one man was already dead, and the other, his nose smashed beyond recognition along
with one of his eyes, was just groping his way to his hands and knees. Kelyn kicked him down again and
ran her hands over his body, wondering how anyone who wore such greasy leathers and who smelled so
bad could think to callher barbarian. She relieved him of his knife and several flat weapons with a
number of oddly shaped blades. She was turning one over in her hand when Iden and Frykla trotted
back up, dropping off the pony to survey the ruins of her house with uniformly grim expressions.

"He lives?" Frykla asked, eyeing the man with distaste.

"For now," Kelyn told her, experimentally tossing one of the strange blades. "I'm of a mind to tie him to
one of those horses and whip them on their way to the border." Let others of his ilk see what happened
when they crossed the border with mayhem in mind.
 Iden nodded once, satisfied with the idea. The looters' horses stood around in uncertain poses, not quite
willing to leave each other or Iden's pony. Even the one who had been chased off with the last bandit was
slowly meandering back toward the house. "I don't understand," Iden said, gradually taking in the sight of
her mother's prepared body. "We all knew Lytha was ill, but not . . . we would not have left you alone in
your time of mourning. That these men knew you were in a vulnerable timeтАФ"

"Maybe this has something to do with it," Frykla said, lifting her hand. A sharp, black-dyed bone needle,
far too thick for sewing, dangled from a long thong, glittering impossibly.

"Sorcery." Iden made a face.