"Raymond E. Feist - Riftwar Legends - Honoured Enemy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Feist Raymond E)

another link to the past lost within the last day, he thought.
The stockade was one of a dozen such along the Yabon frontier, garrisoned out of Tyr-Sog. Unlike
the mountains to the east, which were dominated by major passes guarded by the border barons -
Ironpass, Northwarden, and High Castle - the western mountains were shot through with trails and
little passes. Smuggling in the west was common, but none of the passes was sufficient for any
large-scale invasion southward. So the stockades had been constructed over the years.
Each was owned by a trader or innkeeper, who kept it repaired out of profits, while the Baron of
Tyr-Sog and the Earl of LaMut paid for the garrison ensconced within; they were much-utilized
stops for traders and caravans heading down into the heart of the Kingdom and as such very
profitable before the war.
Brendan's had been one of the more successful stops on the trade routes; from here one could turn
south to the Kingdom proper, west toward Ylith or LaMut, or north for a shortcut route that would
eventually lead to Yabon. Now Brendan and his family were certain to lie dead within.
Dennis kept his eyes busy as he circled, but he felt regret. Brendan had been a good sort, open-
handed to those he liked, always ready to offer a pint and a joint of meat to someone down on
their luck. As a boy Dennis had stopped there often enough with his father and Jurgen when they
went hunting together. Brendan was that type that never seemed to age, perpetually frozen at a
stocky middle-age, gravel-voiced, with an expansive girth that cascaded over a thick leather belt,
a first-class brawler; and a damned good friend to all who lived a precarious existence along the
frontier.
He was, as well, a notorious cheat when it came to gambling, a fact Dennis had witnessed when
Jurgen had caught him at it. The fight that resulted had become something of a legend, with
Jurgen's nose permanent mashed over to one side and Brendan missing part of an ear.
The two had been good friends after that, both appreciating the mettle of the other, but never
again did they venture into a game of dice or the new craze of cards with numbers and pictures
painted on them. During the night march Dennis had thought about Brendan, and had pondered how he
would react to the news that Jurgen was dead. No need to worry about that now and he wondered
which had greeted the other at the entrance of Lims-Kragma's Hall. Perhaps now they could gamble
together again, if such games were allowed over there, while they waited to be judged by the
Goddess of the Dead.
After covering two hundred yards the rise of ground dropped down towards a narrow forest stream,
partly frozen over. The trail to Mad Wayne's Fort, a position now in Tsurani hands, followed the
stream and he paused, looking down on it from above.
There were tracks ... and lying by the stream on the far side of the trail was a body, a Tsurani,
his throat cut, the ground around him an icy pink.
The three waited for several minutes, carefully scanning the trail, stream, and surrounding woods.
Dennis finally looked at Tinuva, who nodded. The elf pulled a bow out from under his cloak, nocked
an arrow, and drew it half back.
Dennis took a deep breath and slipped down the trail, pouncing catlike, wincing slightly at the
sound of the icy slush crunching beneath his feet. He looked first to the north-west in the
direction of Mad Wayne's and away from the smoking ruins of Brendan's Stockade. The trail
disappeared into the early morning mist.
Nothing.
Gregory landed beside him, swung out his bow and drew it, pointing it up the trail, tensed and
ready.
Still nothing.
Dennis looked down at the ground and his heart stopped. It was churned into a muddy slop which was
quickly icing over. He moved slowly, scanning for details. A large number had passed down the
trail, heading towards the stockade; he could see frozen imprints that must have been made during
the night.