"David Gemmell - Winter Warriors" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

David Gemmell
Winter Warriors

Chapter One

The night sky over the mountains was clear and bright, the stars like diamonds on sable. It was a
late winter night of cold and terrible beauty, the snow hanging heavy on the branches of pine and
cedar. There was no colour here, no sense of life. The land lay silent, save for the occasional
crack of an overladen branch, or the soft, whispering sound of fallen snow being drifted by the
harsh north wind.

A hooded rider on a dark horse emerged from the tree line, his mount plodding slowly through the
thick snow. Bent low over the saddle he rode on, his head bowed against the wind, his gloved hands
holding his snow-crowned grey cloak tightly at the neck. As he came into the open he seemed to
become a focus for the angry wind, which howled around him. Undaunted he urged the horse on. A
white owl launched itself from a high treetop and glided down past the horse and rider. A thin rat
scurried across the moonlit snow, swerving as the owl's talons touched its back. The swerve almost
carried it clear.

Almost.

In this frozen place almost was a death sentence. Everything here was black and white, sharp and
clearly defined, with no delicate shades of grey. Stark contrasts. Success or failure, life or
death. No second chances, no excuses.

As the owl flew away with its prey the rider glanced up. In a world without colour his bright blue
eyes shone silver-grey in a face dark as ebony. The black man touched heels to his tired mount,
steering the animal towards the woods. 'We are both tired,' whispered the rider, patting the
gelding's long neck. 'But we'll stop soon.'

Nogusta looked at the sky. It was still clear. No fresh snow tonight, he thought, which meant that
the tracks they were following would still be visible come dawn. Moonlight filtered through the
tall trees and Nogusta began to seek a resting place. Despite the heavy, hooded grey cloak and the
black woollen shirt and leggings he was cold all the way to the bone. But it was his ears that
were suffering the most. Under normal circumstances he would have wrapped his scarf around his
face. Not a wise move, however, when tracking three desperate men. He needed to be alert for every
sound and movement. These men had already killed, and would not hesitate to do so again.

Looping the reins over his pommel he lifted his hands to his ears, rubbing at the skin. The pain
was intense. Do not fear the cold, he warned himself. The cold is life. Fear should come only when
his body stopped fighting the cold. When it began to feel warm and drowsy. For death's icy dagger
lay waiting within that illusory warmth. The horse plodded on, following the tracks like a hound.
Nogusta hauled him to a stop. Somewhere up ahead the killers would be camped for the night. He
sniffed the air, but could not pick up the scent of woodsmoke. They would have to light a fire.
Otherwise they would be dead.

Nogusta was in no condition to tackle them now. Swinging away from the trail he rode deeper into
the

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