"Greenwood, Ed - Band of Four 4 - The Dragon's Doom e-txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cale Trilogy)

Branjack screamed again as he plunged out the smithy door. Men were trotting nearer, peering to see what was afoot, for Fallingtree was not so large a place that solid entertainment was to be had in generous plenty, and Ruld's smithy was where many of them were wont to gather in easy company, to talk in the din and glow where a man they all respected worked and held just opinions and shared them in a few short words, but suffered others to talk as long and as freely as they would.
Branjack clawed aside the first man who tried to talk to him-which kept him alive for as long as it took the blacksmith to slay that man, and the next, and another after that. Then everyone who'd approached the smithy was running away, and a sobbing, roaring Ruld was amongst them like a wolf savaging running deer. One man fell, spattering the ground with his brains, and then another, landing like a hurled grainsack with neck broken and head lolling. Swearing, a third tried to draw a belt-knife-and the smith rounded on him in a roaring fury and battered him to the ground in a rain of bone-shattering, brutal blows.
Branjack made it most of the way down the lane ere the horseshoe in the smith's hand laid open his smock across the shoulders and his skin with it, and then struck one of his elbows a numbing blow that spun him around.
Face to face with the staring-eyed smith, the farmer wasted no time in trying to turn, but ducked under Ruld's arm and sprinted back toward the smithy, seizing on some wild idea that the smith wouldn't want to break his own anvil, nor spill out the forge fire, so perhaps fleeting shelter could be found behind them . . .
That thought died on the smithy threshold with Branjack, the shoeing hammer driven so deep through his skull that it almost reached the top of his spine.
Howling, Ruld ran across the warm, familiar room, bloody hammer in one hand and gory shoe in the other-and began to madly belabor Drunter's draft horse.
It reared in the harness, belling and then screaming as loudly as any of the villagers had managed, and then some-and at its third bucking plunge worn straps parted, and it bolted, kicking out hard as it went.
The unshod hoof smashed Ruld's ribs like dry kindling, hurling him back into his tools with a crash.
The horse burst out through the half-door, still kicking hard, and the blacksmith rebounded to his feet in a dying daze, sobbing for breath, clawing weakly at the air ... and seeming to see the blood all over him and the sprawled bodies of his friends for the first time.
"No," he gasped bloodily, stumbling forward with the hammer falling from his failing hand. Everything was going dim ...
"No! Three Above, no ..."
But the Three weren't in a hearing mood, it seemed. Bucklund Ruld managed two more steps before he collapsed on his face and Died.
"The so-called Band of Four have defeated all our Brethren could hurl at them twice before, Brother Landrun-and prevailed. Don't be fooled by the buffoonery of Overduke Delnbone and the dim-as-yon-post front Overduke Anharu likes to present to the world. They're not the ineffectual fools they look to be."
"Yes, Lord-and knowing that, we shall-?"
"We shall make very sure of what the Blood Plague gives us, before anything else. You and I test, observe-and also watch over Scaled Master Arthroon and his Fangbrother, Khavan, as they conduct their own far more clumsy experimentations. You know the plague has no effect on a few, but plunges many into madness. Know this much more: it transforms others into marauding beasts."
" 'Marauding'? Mad, or hungry, or consumed by the urge to slay all they see?"
"Most of them, yes. Yet, if our most secret tomes can be believed, some may be suited to serving us in a greater way."
"And this 'greater way'-?"
"Patience, and we'll see."
"But..."
"Landrun, which of us two is a Lord of the Serpent?"
"My," Craer Delnbone commented, squirming in his saddle, "but there's one thing being a tirelessly roving overduke gives you a true appreciation of: just how blamed big the Vale is."
"I suppose," Tshamarra teased, "you'd prefer all the King's foes to obligingly show up at court and line up to receive us?"
"Well," Craer reflected brightly, "t'would save wear on my backside-and spare the horses, too. We could sword the enemies of the crown by appointment, be finished by evening, and celebrate in the wine cellar."
"Thereby considerately saving servants the trouble of fetching us bottles up and down stairs," Blackgult observed. "Your commendable consideration for others surprises me, Lord Delnbone-'tis a side of you I've not seen before."
"My good Lord Blackgult," Craer observed in shocked tones, "you amaze me. Why, you hired me yourself as a procurer in your forces, some years back. Can it be that you've forgotten the function of procurers? Poured out from the brimming flask of your memory the fact that procurers considerately relieve persons possessing too many valuables-or valuing same so carelessly that they safeguard them not-of excess items, and transfer those items to persons who think so much more highly of them that they're willing to pay to acquire same?"
"Craer," Embra observed pleasantly, "belt up. Procurer philosophy is far too arch to be entertainment even if one's tipsy-and all of us are very far from that now."
"Precisely why I evoked the image of the royal wine cellar at Flowfoam," Craer explained earnestly. "Scouring the realm for missing barons and anyone else who may have a Dwaer-Stone is thirsty work."
"I believe King Raulin used the phrase 'crucial and exacting' rather than 'thirsty,' " Blackgult told his saddlehorn calmly, "but your mention of refreshment brings up a point we may as well debate now as later. Once more we ride through the Aglirtan countryside seeking Baron Phelinndar, the Stone he presumably bears, and two other unaccounted-for Dwaerindim. Various tersepts and barons are demonstrably paying a minimum of loyalty to the River Throne-and despite our exalted tides, we are but five against all the forces they may muster. Accordingly, we should reach some decisions about where we should look next-hmm?-and how closely we should keep in touch with Raulin, to guard against courtiers either slaying or subverting him."
Craer sketched a bow. "My concerns exactly. As the overduke who's invariably in the lead when we get attacked-"
"This sounds all too much like a cue," Tshamarra murmured to Embra, peering into the trees that shaded their wandering cart track on both sides.
"-and upon whom shall fall the weight of the blame should we ride enthusiastically into a trap, it behooves me to share some of that blame by involving the rest of you in some decision as to where specifically we're headed. Now, some prudent Aglirtans-killjoys and shutter-minded sorts, to be sure, but fellow citizens of this fair realm nonetheless-cleave to the notion of deciding where they're bound even before they set forth, but-"
"Browning's too quick for him," Embra observed. "Strangulation, Hawk?"
"If you insist, Lady Love of mine," the hulking armaragor rumbled, "though I should point out that he does have his uses. Occasionally."
"-on the other hand, it has been observed by sages writing well before my time that if you expected a hireling to do nothing stupid, you'd not engage the services of a procurer in the first place, and-"
"If he keeps this up," Blackgult observed, "his horse may strangle him."
Tshamarra shook her head. "Nay, drowning, definitely. Toss the rider, pin him down with one hoof, empty bladder downwards-and 'tis done, simply over, and avoids all that chasing about looking for a handy overhanging branch ... Oh, my; such as the one approaching now!"
Craer made a rude sound and a ruder gesture in her direction. "Really, Lady Talasorn, such an old ploy is unworthy of you. Even street urchins in dusty backtrail villages like Fallingtree rise above such crude gambits. May I remind you that I'm no longer a mere vagabond and outlaw procurer, but an Overduke of Aglirta, bright-belted and apt to-"
"Be found loitering around ramshackle whorehouses by night," Embra supplied helpfully.
Craer gave her a wounded look, ignoring Tshamarra's urgent pointing gesture, and said grandly, "Lady Baron Silvertree, that remark is similarly unworthy of you. I can perhaps overlook the transgression of the Lady Talasorn, hailing as she does from an outland and some may say-though I for one do not-barbarian culture, but your lineage-"
"I withdraw my warning," Tshamarra told him with a snort, folding her arms in mock dudgeon. "Let yon branch have its way with you, sirrah!"
"-is much grander and could even be said to rise from the very roots of Aglirta, like that of my former employer Lord Blackgult here, and-"
Craer's horse trotted on, and the handy overhanging branch attacked.
Pounced, actually. The procurer let out a momentary and somewhat strangled yelp as it jabbed into his side and thrust him from his saddle, but Craer was as swift as many striking serpents, and twisted in the air enough to bat at the branch and so propel himself onto the back of Tshamarra's mount, right behind her.
His personally painful arrival upon the high rear cantle of her saddle more than startled the horse beneath the Lady Talasorn, and it reared, snorting in alarm. Embra laid a hand on her Dwaer to send a soothing spell if need be, but Tshamarra was equal to the task of wrestling her mount back to head-tossing complaint and then normalcy, despite Craer's distracting hands upon her, as he-or so he insisted-merely reached for reliable handholds.
"D'you think you could stop playing the fool, on this foray?" the Golden Griffon snapped at the irrepressible procurer.
Craer gave the glowering old noble a merry smile. "Lord Blackgult, in a word: no. If my ... foolishness won me the tide of 'Overduke,' then I shall cling to it. 'Tis not as if I could do anything else-and I refuse to become a grim, stone-nosed old noble ... ah, like some folk I could mention. If Craer of the Wagging Tongue was good enough to rescue Aglirta from itself thus far, that same Craer shall see the Realm of the Vale safely through the next few days, as well. I'll not change into some bootlicking sobersides. Demand it of me, and farewell empty overduchal tide and good greeting to the outlaw life once more!"
Surprisingly, the Golden Griffon merely nodded.
The moment the Lady Talasorn's horse quieted and Blackgult rode up close enough to get a hand on its bridle and prevent it from bolting, Hawkril spurred past and caught the reins of Craer's mount, bringing it to a gradual halt.
They gathered in a jostling huddle of snorting horses where their trail traversed a small and shady hollow. Tshamarra sighed, looked left and right with her hands on her hips as she sat in her saddle ignoring Craer's impudent gropings, and announced, "This still looks to me like a place all too suited for a brigand ambush."