"01 - Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moonshae)

BLOODLETTING

THE BOAR'S STOCKY head bent forward so that the deadly tusks arrowed straight at Robyn as she knelt by the fungus. With impossible speed, the beast's stubby legs pounded the ground in a blur of acceleration.
Tristan, his stomach churning in fear, spurred his horse into a swift turn toward the boar. Pawldo, Arlen, and Daryth all whirled toward the attack, but they were farther away than the prince.
The hounds, too, were distant. Canthus had led the pack around the shore of the lake, and though the dogs had turned at the sound of the boar's charge, they were still far away.
Except Angus.
The old hound, ambling as always at Tristan's side, sprang toward the boar with fangs bared. Deep snarls rolled from his chest as he leaped between Robyn and the charging beast. The hound's teeth turned and sank into the boar's ear. At the same time, those merciless tusks tore through the dog's flank and deep into its body.
Red blood spurted from the grievous wounds, and the old dog grunted with a hollow, wet sound. His lungs pierced by the tusks, Angus spent his dying strength tearing the ear from the boar's head.
Robyn sprang to her feet as Angus leaped, desperately seeking escape. A bough from a large pine hung several feet overhead. She jumped, barely grasping the limb, and swung her legs upward. At the same time, the boar tossed Angus's body aside and lunged at his original victim. A gore-streaked tusk grazed Robyn's calf, drawing a cry of pain.
His lance sat, useless, back at camp, so Tristan was forced to attack the boar with his sword. Slashing downward, his blade sank deep into the animal's shoulder, but the wound seemed only to inflame the boar's raging bloodlust.
Tristan's horse, whinnying with fear, danced away from the lunging boar. As he broke away from the beast, the prince turned and saw two arrows thunk solidly into the shaggy flank. Arlen and Pawdo were already nocking their second arrows.
The boar turned from its additional wounds, and ducked its head as if to gore an imaginary foe, Confused, it swung its bloodshot gaze from Tristan to the archers, and back again. Lowering its head, it lunged toward the prince. Blood ran luridly across one flank from the gash inflicted by Tristan's sword. On the opposite side, the two arrows were buried deep in the boar's flank. The animal grunted sharply, but showed no signs of weakening.
Suddenly a brown form streaked across the ground and hurtled itself into the combat. Canthus, far outdistancing the other hounds to reach the fight, struck the boar's flank. The force of the great hound's charge sent the creature tumbling across the ground.
The arrows snapped off as the boar's weight crashed over them, and the bloody sword wound became matted with dirt and pine needles as the boar staggered to its feet, grunting angrily and ferociously stabbing its tusks into Canthus.
The boar's powerful back legs tensed, and its stocky neck twisted to bring its tusks against Canthus's long flank, but the hound was too shrewd. Turning with his adversary, the dog clamped his powerful jaws onto the boar's snout, above the tusks. The beast bucked and squealed frantically but could not dislodge its attacker's grim hold.
Daryth, his mount galloping across the rocky lakeshore, reached the fight, and reined in with a grim smile of pleasure.
"Kill him, great one," he said quietly, watching the crushing effect of Canthus's bite.
In moments the rest of the hounds had joined Canthus. The killing of the boar was not pretty. Canthus retained his grip on the beast's snout while the other dogs tore at its flanks, throat, and belly. For a full minute the creature stood, invisible under the savage pack, but finally loss of blood set it squatting, and then lying, to the ground.
Tristan sprang from his horse and raced to the limp body of Angus. The old hound looked at him once, and flopped his tail weakly in recognition. Then the brown eyes, already grown dull, closed forever.
For a moment, the prince remembered a hundred carefree outings, Angus bounding eagerly at his side, his own childhood enthusiasm bubbling. Then he ran to grasp Robyn as she swung by her hands. But she let go of the branch before he reached her, and cried out as her gored leg collapsed. Tristan caught her as she tumbled to the ground, and helped her sit on the soft cushion of pine needles.
"I'm fine," she said, pulling her shoulders away from his arm. The prince felt her body shaking, and heard a quaver in her voice, but he stood up and let her go. She looked up at him, gratitude in her eyes, and then sorrow as she looked at Angus.
Arlen stepped toward them, roughly clearing his throat. "Do not grieve for him - he has died a warrior's death. He would have had it no other way."
They erected a small cairn near the shore of the lake, and Robyn muttered a low prayer for the dog's spirit.
"Let's tend to the game," grunted Arlen.
"Sure," agreed the prince. He turned, with relief, from the cairn and looked at Daryth. "How are the other dogs?"
"Corwyss has a nasty gash on the side, but she'll be all right. The rest are fine."
The prince bent over the ravaged corpse of the boar, drawing his keen hunting blade and sliding the steel edge through the torn remnants of the boar's neck. As he cut down, across the scrawny belly, Arlen began to scoop a pit in the earth for the entrails.
The little group moved from the burial scene back toward their camp. Canthus and the rest of the pack raced around the far shore of the lake as the riders picked their way along the smoother near shore. The dogs had almost rejoined them on the other side when Canthus stopped with a howl. Barking furiously, he refused to come any further. Instead, his attention was directed toward something on the ground, near the shore of the lake.
"I'll have a look," volunteered Daryth, leading his horse among the large rocks of the shore toward the eagerly waiting pack of hounds. He reached Canthus and looked down.
"I think you'd better come over here," he called. "I've never seen anything like this before!"
The others found Daryth standing upon a low, flat rock. Around him spread the shallow waters of the lake in all directions, except at the base of the rock. There, the water was low enough to reveal a small expanse of mud, in the middle of which was a footprint.
The foot that had made the print was wearing a heavy boot, judging by the depth of the mark, with a smooth leather sole. Cleats protruded from the sole at irregular intervals, and the whole boot showed signs of long wear. None of this made the track exceptional, however, for the boot could have belonged to any common woodsman or shepherd - if these were its only features.
But the print was fully two feet long.

* * * * *

Erian awakened in terrible pain. His shoulders and head pounded with agony, and his body was numb from the waist down. He slowly realized that he was naked and lying outdoors.
Lifting his throbbing head, he looked around himself in confusion. He lay upon the muddy bank of a shallow stream. In fact, his lower half was immersed in the chill waters, and this cold had benumbed him.
Slowly, with tremendous effort, the big man pulled himself from the water and lay, shivering, in the mud of the bank. A cluster of tree roots and enclosing bushes gave him shelter. He struggled to remember how he had come here, but his mind furnished him no explanation.
He saw that it was after dawn, yet the whole night had vanished from his memory, leaving a gaping, dark hole. What had happened to him?
Grunting heavily, Erian twisted himself into a sitting position and looked around. The stream flowed from his right to his left, he observed. He heard the caw of a gull, and smelled the salt air of the sea, so he knew that he lay close to the coast. The stream was bordered by a thicket of bushes and small trees, but the land beyond seemed open and rolling.
Looking down, Erian noticed without surprise that he was covered with blood. The mud and the water streaked the crimson fluid into a garish pattern across his body. He did not seem to be wounded, so obviously the blood had come from something, or someone else.
Lurching to his feet, Erian caught sight of Caer Corwell, and knew now that this was Corlyth Creek, which entered the sea just north of the town. Slowly, keeping to the concealment of the undergrowth around the stream, he started staggering toward Corwell.
His mind flashed through bits and pieces of the previous night: the full moon illuminating his cottage, and summoning him, with its cold and unblinking glare. He could remember nothing after that.
The sun had just cleared the peaks of the Highlands, and its harsh light cast long, clear shadows in the crystal morning air. Few villagers were about yet, so Erian was able to slip through the back streets of the town to his own cottage. The door to his home stood open, smashed outward with enough force to break the latch.
Confused, and very frightened, Erian slipped inside and closed the door.

* * * * *

"What could have made such a footprint?" demanded Daryth, staring at the massive track.