"David Gemmel - Sipstrassi Tales 03 - Bloodstone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

wound on the right side of his head. The blood was congealing now, but there was a groove in the skull
where the bullet had struck, and the flesh around it was hot and swollen.
He felt consciousness slipping from him, but fought back using the power of his rage.
Tugging the reins he guided the stallion up through the Gap, then angled it to the right, down the long
wooded slope towards the road. The slope was treacherous and the stallion slipped twice, dropping to
its haunches. But the rider kept the animal's head up and it righted itself, coming at last to level ground
and the hard-packed earth of the trade road.
The Preacher halted his mount, then looped the reins around the pommel and drew his pistols. Both were
long-barrelled, the cylinders engraved with swirls of silver. He shivered and saw that his hands were
trembling. How long had it been since these weapons of death were last in use. Fifteen years? Twenty? I
swore never to use them again. Never to take another life.
And you were a fool!
Love your enemy. Do good to him that hates you.
And see your loved ones slain.
If he strikes you upon the right cheek, offer him the left.
And see your loved ones burn.
He saw again the roaring flames, heard the screams of the terrified and the dying . . . Nasha running for
the blazing door as the roof timbers cracked and fell upon her, Dova kneeling beside the body of her
husband Nolis, her fur ablaze, pulling open the burning door, only to be shot to ribbons by the jeering,
drunken men outside . . .
The riders came into sight and saw the lone figure waiting for them. It was clear that they recognised him,
but there was no fear in them. This he found strange, but then he realised they could not see the pistols,
which were hidden by the high pommel of the saddle. Nor could they know the hidden secret of the man
who faced them. The riders urged their horses forward and he waited, silently, as they approached. All
trembling was gone now, and he felt a great calm descend upon him.
'Well, well,' said one of the riders, a huge man wearing a double-shouldered canvas coat. 'The Devil
looks after his own, eh? You made a bad mistake following us, Preacher. It would have been easier for
you to die back there.' The man produced a double-edged knife. 'Now I'm going to skin you alive!'
For a moment he did not reply, then he looked the man in the eyes. 'Were they ashamed when they had
committed the abomination?' he quoted. Wo, they were not ashamed, and could not blush.' The pistol in
his right hand came up, the movement smooth, unhurried. For a fraction of a second the huge raider
froze, then he scrabbled for his own pistol. It was too late. He did not hear the thunderous roar, for the
heavy-calibre bullet smashed into his skull ahead of the sound and catapulted him from the saddle. The
explosion terrified the horses, and all was suddenly chaos. The Preacher's stallion reared but he
re-adjusted his position and fired twice, the first bullet ripping through the throat of a lean, bearded man,
the second punching into the back of a rider who had swung his horse in a vain bid to escape the sudden
battle. A fourth man took a bullet in the chest and fell screaming to the ground, where he began to crawl
towards the low undergrowth at the side of the road. The last raider, managing to control his panicked
mount, drew a long pistol and fired; the bullet came close, tugging at the collar of the Preacher's coat.
Twisting in the saddle, he fired his left-hand pistol twice, and his assailant's face disappeared as the
bullets hammered into his head. Riderless horses galloped away into the night and he surveyed the
bodies. Four men were dead; the fifth, wounded in the chest, was still trying to crawl away, and leaving a
trail of blood behind him. Nudging the stallion forward, the rider came alongside the crawling man.
тАШI will surely consume them, saith the Lord.' The crawling man rolled over.
'Jesus Christ, don't kill me! I didn't want to do it. I didn't kill any of them, I swear it!'
'By their works shall ye judge them,' said the rider.
The pistol levelled. The man on the ground threw up his hands, crossing them over his face. The bullet
tore through his fingers and into his brain.
'It is over,' said the Preacher. Dropping the pistols into the scabbards at his hip, he turned the stallion and
headed for home. Weariness and pain overtook him then, and he slumped forward over the horse's neck.