"David Gemmell - Rigante 4 - Stormrider" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

blessed Source - and then I shall send you to Him.'
'I will go gladly, Winter Kay. Which is more than can be said for you, when the one with the
golden eye comes for you.'
Winter Kay's sword swept up, then down in a murderous arc. Having been blunted by a day of murder
the blade did not completely decapitate the old man. Blood sprayed across the room. Several drops
splashed to the table, spattering the skull. Light blazed from the bone. As Winter Kay gazed upon
it an ethereal face seemed to form for a brief moment. Then it faded.
Wrapping the skull in its hood of black velvet Winter Kay returned it to its box and carried it
from the burning ruins of Shelsans.


CHAPTER ONE
THE WINTER IN THE NORTHERN MOUNTAINS WAS THE MOST VICIOUS IN more than thirty years. Rivers and
lakes lay under a foot of ice, and fierce blizzards raged across the land for days on end. Sheep
trapped in snowdrifts died in their scores, and only the hardiest of the cattle would live to see
the spring. Many roads were impassable and the townspeople struggled to survive. Highlanders of
the Black Rigante came out of the mountains, bringing food and supplies, aiding farmers, seeking
out those citizens trapped within lonely homes high in the hills. Even so, many died, frozen in
their beds.
Few ventured out into the wilderness between Black Mountain and the craggy western peaks of the
Rigante homeland.
Kaelin Ring was wishing he was not one of them as he struggled through the bitter cold towards the
high cabin of Finbarr Ustal. Labouring under a heavy pack, to which was strapped a new long-
barrelled musket, Kaelin pushed up the last steep hill. Ice shone brightly in his dark beard, and
the long, white scar on his right cheek felt as if it was burning. His legs ached from the
unaccustomed stride pattern necessitated by the wide snowshoes he wore. Kaelin climbed on, growing
ever more weary. At twenty-three he was a powerful young man. In summer he would run, sometimes
for ten miles over the hills, revelling in the strength and stamina of his youth, but at this
moment he felt like an old man, his muscles exhausted, his body crying out for rest. Anger flared.


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'Rest here and you'll die,' he told himself.
His dark eyes scanned the hill ahead. The slope was steep and stretched on and up for another half-
mile. He paused and clumsily readjusted the straps of his pack. Kaelin was wearing two pairs of
gloves, one pair of lamb's wool, the second of rabbit fur, but his fingers still felt numb. A
fierce wind blew down over the hills, lifting snow in flurries, stinging his face and eyes. The
wind billowed his sheepskin hood, flicking it away from his face. With a curse Kaelin grabbed at
it, hauling it back into place. The sky above was grey and heavy with snow clouds. Kaelin stared
balefully at the slope ahead. He was coming to the end of his strength. To die here would be
laughable, he told himself. Never to see Chara again, or his little son Jaim. 'It will not
happen,' he said aloud. тАШIтАЩll not be beaten by a touch of snow.'
The wind picked up, roaring into his chest and almost throwing him from his feet. 'Is that the
best you can do?' shouted Kaelin. Strengthened by his anger he ducked his head into the wind and
began to climb again. The pain in his legs was growing now, his calves tight and cramping. As he
struggled on he focused on Finbarr, and the welcome he would receive as he entered the warmth and
security of the high cabin.
Finbarr had worked at Ironlatch Farm for several years, but last year had come to live in the