"David Freer - The Forlorn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Freer Dave)

knees up under her chin. She wished she'd worn something less flimsy and revealing that morning. It was
only as she drifted off into an exhausted sleep that the thought slipped into her tired mind: who or what
had killed thatanimalBlis? She vaguely tried to focus on this thought spark, but her brain was too soggy
to fire up a logical train of thought. Sleep came mercifully.

She awoke cold. Teeth-chatteringly cold. She'd never been this cold in her life. She woulddie for
something warm. She was about to call out to her maids when awareness of where she was came
flooding back. If she called out now she might really die. Hugging herself and rubbing her bare arms she
looked out over the dark city. There were no more burning buildings. There were no sounds of drunken
revelry. She could see squads with torches patrolling the streets below in a systematic fashion. These
were the zombielike warriors of the Morkth hives. Human bodies without human passions. Soulless, near
mindless, killing machines. She watched the regular pattern weaving through the streets, like a formal
dance outlined by their torches. Eventually the cold forced her to turn her attention away from the
hypnotic ebb and flow of lights. She must get off this roof, out of this cold wind. Could she face going
over the edge with that drop reaching for her?

The height had been hard enough to face in the heat of the moment, but now in the dark, and in cold
blood, the very idea filled her with terror. But if she stayed . . . she might die of cold. Her stomach
growled at her. It reminded her that it had been a good many hours since she had emptied it onto the
marble floor of her room. There must be some other way off the roof. She decided to stand up, and
explore the icy refuge in which she'd interned herself. Standing next to the gargoyle, with it as a support,
was not too bad. She took the step beyond it on the steeply sloping slate roof . . . no! The Princess
settled for crawling, with a hand on the gutter. At least that was flat. Even that small comfort was denied
her when it creaked, and dropped several inches. She pulled away in fear, the seven stories of darkness
dragging at her. Holding her quivering lip between her perfect white teeth, she moved on, only on the
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slippery slates now, edging her way round. A slate beneath her knee cracked, a sudden, sharp sound in
the silence. She stayed as still as fear would let her, tasting the warm saltiness in her mouth.

When no reaction came after a few cold minutes, she began to move again, but in reality it was a
pointless exercise. She was no longer looking for a way out, just moving. Soon even that stopped.

It came on silent wings, with a terrible screeching cry. Her own scream was a feeble, ratlike squeak in
comparison. The feathery soft touch just brushed her shoulder. She scrambled, almost fell over the edge,
her sweaty hands slipping as her toes felt frantically for some purchase.

And found it. She was no longer above the drop, but rather just off the edge of the ridge line of the roof
of the south wing of the palace. With immense relief she dropped and scrambled along the ledge. She
covered several hundred yards before she dared to stop and look behind her. She could find no sign of
pursuit. Shael would never acknowledge that it could just have been a hunting owl.

Below her was the great balcony, from which it had been the tradition of the Grand Dukes of Shapstone
to address their subjects on feast days. It was here that the assassins dispatched by her father had
relieved the last of that line of his life, by means of four well-directed crossbow bolts. As the Tyrant had
dryly commented afterwards, "height alone is no defense." Right now it was her only defense. But she
knew she couldn't stay there forever. At least the balcony would provide a safe place to get off the roof,