"David Gemmell - Sipstrassi Tales 04 - The Last Guardian" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

had sought for so long. But it was gone. As his horse stumbled, Shannow's right hand gripped the
saddle pommel and the wound in his side flared with fresh pain.
He turned the black stallion's head, steering the beast downhill towards the valley.
Images rushed through his mind: Karitas, Ruth, Donna; the hazardous journey across the Plague
Lands and the battles with the Hellborn, the monstrous ghost ship wrecked on a mountain. Guns
and gunfire, war and death.
The blizzard found new life and the wind whipped freezing snow into Shannow's face. He could
not see where he was heading, and his mind wandered. He knew that life was ebbing from his
body with each passing second, but he had neither the strength nor the will to fight on.
He remembered the farm and his first sight of Donna, standing in the doorway with an ancient
crossbow in her hands. She had mistaken Shannow for a brigand, and feared for her life and that
of her son, Eric. Shannow had never blamed her for that mistake. He knew what people saw
when the Jerusalem Man came riding - a tall, gaunt figure in a flat-crowned leather hat, a man
with cold, cold eyes that had seen too much of death and despair. Always it was the same. People
would stand and stare, first at his expressionless face and then their eyes would be drawn down to
his guns, the terrible weapons of the Thunder Maker.
Yet Donna Taybard had been different. She had taken Shannow to her hearth and her home and,
for the first time in two weary decades, the Jerusalem Man had known happiness.
But then had come the brigands and the war-makers and finally the Hellborn. Shannow had gone
against them all for the woman he loved, only to see her wed another.
Now he was alone again, dying on a frozen mountain in an uncharted wilderness. And, strangely,
he did not care. The wind howled about horse and man and Shannow fell forward across the
stallion's neck, lost in the siren song of the blizzard. The horse was mountain bred; he did not like
the howling wind, nor the biting snow. Now he angled his way through the trees into the lee of a
rock-face and followed a deer trail down to the mouth of a high lava tunnel that stretched through
the ancient volcanic range. It was warmer here and the stallion plodded on, aware of the dead
weight across his back. This disturbed him, for his rider was always in balance and could signal
his commands with the slightest pressure or flick of the reins.
The stallion's wide nostrils flared as the smell of smoke came to him. He halted and backed up,
his iron hooves clattering on the rocky floor. A dark shadow moved in front of him ... in panic he
reared and Shannow tumbled from the saddle. A huge taloned hand caught the reins and the smell
of lion filled the tunnel. The stallion tried to rear again, to lash out with iron-shod hooves, but he
was held tight and a soft, deep voice whispered to him, a gentle hand stroking his neck. Calmed
by the voice, he allowed himself to be led into a deep cave, where a camp-fire had been set within
a circle of round flat stones. He waited calmly as he was tethered to a jutting stone at the far wall;
then the figure was gone.
Outside the cave Shannow groaned and tried to roll to his belly, but he was stricken by pain and
deep cold. He opened his eyes to see a hideous face looming over him. Dark hair framed the head
and face and a pair of tawny eyes gazed down at him; the nose was wide and flat, the mouth a
deep slash, rimmed with sharp fangs. Shannow, unable to move, could only glare at the creature.
Taloned hands moved under his body, lifting him easily, and he was carried like a child into a
cave and laid gently by a fire. The creature fumbled at the ties on Shannow's coat, but the thick
paw-like hands could not cope with the frozen knots. Talons hissed out to sever the leather thongs
and Shannow felt his coat eased from him. Slowly, but with great care, the creature removed his
frozen clothing and covered him with a warm blanket. The Jerusalem Man faded into sleep - and
his dreams were pain-filled.
Once more he fought the Guardian Lord, Sarento, while the Titanic sailed on a ghostly sea and
the Devil Walked in Babylon. But this time Shannow could not win, and he struggled to survive
as the sea poured into the stricken ship, engulfing him. He could hear the cries of drowning men,
women and children, but he could not save them. He awoke sweating and tried to sit. Pain ripped