"David Gemmell - Rigante 2 - Midnight Falcon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

character, and once Parax understood his prey's character he would find him, no matter how cleverly he hid his
trail.
By the time he was thirty-five Parax's fame had spread to the lands of the Perdii, whose king, Alea, recruited
him to the royal household. Even then he did not allow undue pride to colour his personality. At fifty, in the
service of Connavar the King, he allowed himself what he considered to be a quiet satisfaction in his
achievements. Though his eyes were marginally less keen, his reading of trails still seemed almost magical to
those who watched him. Even at sixty he could still follow a trail as well as any man, for by then he had a
lifetime of acquired skills to give him an edge over younger men. Or so he believed, and in that belief vanity like
a hidden weed grew unnoticed in his heart. Now past seventy, he had known for some years he was no longer
pre-eminent. No longer even competent. The knowledge hurt the old man. But not as badly as the conceit which
made him deny its truth to the man he loved most - the king.
Parax had served Connavar for almost twenty years - from the day the young warrior had rescued him from
the slave lines of Stone, and brought him back to the towering mountains of Druagh. He had ridden beside him
when the youngster became Laird, and then War Chief, and finally the first High King in hundreds of years. He
had been beside him on that bloody day at Cogden Field, when the invincible army of Stone had been crushed by
the might of Connavar's Iron Wolves. He shivered again. Connavar the King had trusted Parax - and now age
and increasing infirmity had made the old man betray that trust.
'Find the boy Bane,' the king had said, 'before the hunters kill him - or he kills them.'
Parax had looked into the king's odd-coloured eyes, one green, one tawny gold, and he had longed to admit
the truth, to say simply, 'My skills are gone, my friend. I cannot help you.'
But he could not. The words clung within his throat, on talons of false pride. He was one of the king's trusted
advisers. He was Parax - the greatest hunter in the known world, a living legend. The moment he voiced the truth
he would become merely a useless old man, to be discarded and forgotten. Instead he had bowed awkwardly and
ridden from Old Oaks, his mind in torment, panic lying heavily upon him. His fading eyes could no longer read
the trails and he had been forced to follow the hunting pack for days, hoping they would lead him to the young
outlaw.
Then had come the final ignominy. He had lost the hunting pack. Twenty riders!
Parax had wept then, tears of bitterness. Once he could have tracked a sparrow in flight, now he could not
find the spoor of twenty horses. He had been following about a mile behind them, but had dozed in the saddle.
His paint pony, tired and thirsty, had scented water and pulled away from the trail, wandering to the east. Parax
had awoken with a start as the pony climbed a steep, wooded hillside. The old man had almost fallen from the
saddle. Heavy clouds obscured the sun, and Parax had no idea where he was. The pony led him to a bubbling
stream, where Parax dismounted. His back ached and his mouth was dry. Kneeling, he cupped water into his
hands and drank.
'Outlived my usefulness,' he said aloud. The pony whinnied and stamped its foot. 'You know how old I am?'
he asked his mount. 'Seventy-two. I once trailed a robber for three weeks. Caught him on the high slopes, up in
the rocks. The king paid me twenty silver coins and named me the Prince of Trackers.' Removing his old
woollen cap he splashed water to his face and beard. He was hungry. There were muslin-wrapped slices of
smoked bacon in his pack, along with black bread and a small round of cheese. He wanted to unpack them and
prepare a fire, but then the late-afternoon sun broke through the clouds, and he dozed, his head resting on a round
rock.
He dreamt of better days before his eyes failed, days of laughter and joy after the young king had driven the
Stone soldiers from the northland. Laughter and joy - save for the king himself. The Demon King, they called
him, because of his ferocity, and because men recalled the terrible revenge he took for his wife's murder.
Connavar, then a mere Rigante Laird, had single-handedly wiped out the murderer's village, burning it to the
ground and killing men, women and children. From that day on Parax had never heard him laugh, had never seen
joy in his eyes.
In his dream Parax saw the king, standing in the moonlight on the battlements of Old Oaks. Only now there
were ghosts floating around them both, a young woman with long dark hair and a pale face, and a giant of a man
with a braided yellow beard. They were reaching out to the king. His scarred features paled as he saw them.