"David Gemmell - Dark Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

Dace in his mind. 'Creeping up on us. Ready to cut our throats.'
'You'd like that, Dace. More men to kill.'
'Each to his own,' said Dace amiably. Tarantio was too tired to argue further, but Dace's intrusion made him
sombre. Seven years ago war had descended upon the Duchies like a sentient hurricane, sucking men into
his angry heart. And in the whirling maelstrom of his fury he fed them hatred and filled them with a love of
destruction. The War Demon had many faces, none of them kind. Eyes of death, cloak of plague, mouth of
famine and hands of dark despair.
War and Dace were made for each other. Within the beast's hungry heart Dace was in ecstasy. Men
admired him for his lethal skills, for his deadly talents. They sought him out as if he were a talisman.
Dace was a killer of men. There was a time when Tarantio had known how many had died under his blades.
Before that, there was a time when he had remembered every face. Now only two remained firmly in his
mind: the first, his eyes bulging, his jaw hanging slack, blood seeping over the satin sheets. And the second,
a slim bearded thief and killer whose swords Tarantio now wore.
Tarantio added two logs to the fire, watching the flame shadows dancing on the walls of the cave. His two
companions were stretched out on the floor, one sleeping, the other dying. 'Why do you still think of the
slaughter on the beach?' asked Dace. Tarantio shivered as the memories flared again.
Seven years ago the old ship had been beached against a storm, the mast dismantled, the sail wrapped and
laid against the cliff wall. The crew were sitting around fires talking and laughing, playing dice. Against all
odds they had survived the storm. They were alive, and their relieved
laughter echoed around the cliffs, the sound drifting into the shadow-haunted woods beyond.
The killers had attacked silently from those woods -appearing like demons, the firelight gleaming from
raised swords and axes. The unarmed sailors had no chance and were hacked down without mercy,
their blood staining the sand.
Tarantio, as always, had been sitting away from the others, lying on his back in the rocks, staring up at
the distant stars. At the first screams he had rolled to his knees, and watched the slaughter in the
moonlight. Unarmed and unskilled, the young sailor had been powerless to help his comrades.
Crouching down he hid, trembling, on the cold stones, the incoming tide lapping at his legs. He could
hear the thieves plundering the ship, tearing open the hatches and unloading the booty. Spices and
liquor from the islands, silks from the southern continent, and a shipment of silver ingots bound for the
mint at Loretheli.
Towards dawn one of the attackers had walked into the rocks to relieve himself. Terror filled Tarantio
with panic and Dace rose within him, flaring like a light within the skull. Dace reared up before the
astonished reaver, crashing a fist-sized rock against the man's head. The thief pitched forward without
a sound. Dragging him out of sight of his comrades, Dace drew a knife from the man's belt and
stabbed him to death.
The dead man wore two short swords, their black hilts tightly bound with leather. Dace had unbuckled
the sword-belt and swung it around his own waist. Relieving the man of his bulging purse, Dace had
stolen away through the rocks, leaving the scene of the massacre far behind.
Once clear, the panic gone, Tarantio dragged Dace back and resumed control. Dace had not objected;
without
the prospect of violence, and the need to kill, he was easily bored.
Alone and friendless, Tarantio had walked the thirty miles west to the Corsair city of Loretheli,
looking for a berth on a new ship. Instead he had met Sigellus the Swordsman. Tarantio thought of
him often, and of the perils they had faced together. But the thoughts were always tinged with sadness
and the velvet claw of regret at his death. Sigellus had understood about Dace. During one of their
training sessions Dace had broken loose, and had tried to kill Sigellus. The Swordsman had been too
skilled for him then, but Dace managed to cut him before Sigellus blocked a thrust and hammered his
iron fist into Dace's chin, spinning him from his feet.
'What the Hell is wrong with you, boy?' he had asked, when Tarantio regained consciousness. For the
second time in his young life, he talked about Dace. Sigellus had listened, his grey eyes