"David Gemmell - Druss 01 - Druss the Legend" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

Dedication
Druss the Legend is dedicated with great love and
affection to memory of Mick Jeffrey, a quiet Christian of infinite patience
and kindness. Those privileged to know him were blessed indeed. Goodnight and
God bless, Mick!

Acknowledgments
My thanks to my editor John Jarrold, copy editor Jean
Maund, and test readers Val Gemmell, Stella Graham, Edith Graham, Tom Taylor,
and Vikki Lee France. Thanks also to Stan Nicholls and Chris Baker for
bringing Druss to life in a new way.
BOOK ONE: Birth of a Legend

Prologue
Screened by the undergrowth he knelt by the trail, dark eyes scanning the
boulders ahead of him and the trees beyond. Dressed as he was in a shirt of
fringed buckskin, and brown leather leggings and boots, the tall man was
virtually invisible, kneeling in the shadows of the trees.
The sun was high in a cloudless summer sky, and the
spoor was more than three hours old. Insects had criss-crossed the hoof-marks,
but the edges of the prints were still firm.
Forty horsemen, laden with plunder . . .
Shadak faded back through the undergrowth to where his
horse was tethered. He stroked the beast's long neck and lifted his swordbelt
from the back of the saddle. Strapping it to his waist he drew the two short
swords; they were of the finest Vagrian steel, and double edged. He thought
for a moment, then sheathed the blades and reached for the bow and quiver
strapped to the saddle pommel. The bow was of Vagrian horn, a hunting weapon
capable of launching a two-foot-long arrow across a killing space of sixty
paces. The doeskin quiver held twenty shafts that Shadak had crafted himself:
the flights of goose feather, stained red and yellow, the heads of pointed
iron, not barbed, and easily withdrawn from the bodies of the slain. Swiftly
he strung the bow and notched an arrow to the string. Then looping the quiver
over his shoulder, he made his way carefully back to the trail.
Would they have left a rearguard? It was unlikely, for
there were no Drenai soldiers within fifty miles.
But Shadak was a cautious man. And he knew Collan.
Tension rose in him as he pictured the smiling face and the cruel, mocking
eyes. 'No anger,' he told himself. But it was hard, bitterly hard. Angry men
make mistakes, he reminded himself. The hunter must be cold as iron.
Silently he edged his way forward. A towering boulder
jutted from the earth some twenty paces ahead and to his left; to the right
was a cluster of smaller rocks, no more than four feet high. Shadak took a
deep breath and rose from his hiding-place.
From behind the large boulder a man stepped into
sight, bowstring bent. Shadak dropped to his knee, the attacker's arrow
slashing through the air above his head. The bowman tried to leap back behind
the shelter of the boulder, but even as he was dropping Shadak loosed a shaft