"David Gemmell - Stones Of Power 5 - Shannow 3 - Bloodstone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

 CHAPTER ONE
The pain was too great to ignore, and nausea threatened to swamp him as he rode. But the
Preacher clung to the saddle and steered the stallion up towards the Gap. The full moon
was high in the clear sky, the distant mountain peaks sharp and glistening white against
the skyline. The sleeve of the rider's black coat was still smouldering, and a gust of wind
brought a tongue of flame. Fresh pain seared through him and he beat at the cloth with a
smoke-blackened hand.
Where were they now, he thought, pale eyes scanning the moonlit mountains and the
lower passes? His mouth was dry and he reined in the stallion. A canteen hung from the
pommel and the Preacher hefted it, unscrewing the brass cap. Lifting it to his lips, he
found it was filled not with water but with a fiery spirit. He spat it out and hurled the
canteen away.
Cowards! They needed the dark inspiration of alcohol to aid them on their road to
murder. His anger flared, momentarily masking the pain. Far down the mountain,
emerging from the timber line he saw a group of riders. His eyes narrowed. Five' men. In
the clear air of the mountains he heard the distant sound of laughter.
The rider groaned and swayed in the saddle, the pounding in his temple increasing. He
touched the wound on the right side of his head. The blood was congealing now, but there
was a groove in the skull where the bullet had struck, and the flesh around it was hot and
swollen.
He felt consciousness slipping from him, but fought back using the power of his rage.
Tugging the reins he guided the stallion up through the Gap, then angled it to the right,
down the long wooded slope towards the road. The slope was treacherous and the stallion
slipped twice, dropping to its haunches. But the rider kept the animal's head up and it
righted itself, coming at last to level ground and the hard-packed earth of the trade road.
The Preacher halted his mount, then looped the reins around the pommel and drew his
pistols. Both were long-barrelled, the cylinders engraved with swirls of silver. He
shivered and saw that his hands were trembling. How long had it been since these
weapons of death were last in use. Fifteen years? Twenty? I swore never to use them
again. Never to take another life.
And you were a fool!
Love your enemy. Do good to him that hates you.
And see your loved ones slain.
If he strikes you upon the right cheek, offer him the left.
And see your loved ones burn.
He saw again the roaring flames, heard the screams of the terrified and the dying . . .
Nasha running for the blazing door as the roof timbers cracked and fell upon her, Dova
kneeling beside the body of her husband Nolis, her fur ablaze, pulling open the burning
door, only to be shot to ribbons by the jeering, drunken men outside . . .
The riders came into sight and saw the lone figure waiting for them. It was clear that they
recognised him, but there was no fear in them. This he found strange, but then he realised
they could not see the pistols, which were hidden by the high pommel of the saddle. Nor
could they know the hidden secret of the man who faced them. The riders urged their
horses forward and he waited, silently, as they approached. All trembling was gone now,
and he felt a great calm descend upon him.
'Well, well,' said one of the riders, a huge man wearing a double-shouldered canvas coat.
'The Devil looks after his own, eh? You made a bad mistake following us, Preacher. It
would have been easier for you to die back there.' The man produced a double-edged
knife. 'Now I'm going to skin you alive!'
For a moment he did not reply, then he looked the man in the eyes. 'Were they ashamed