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

talons rammed into the back of the seated man. He reared up and screamed once, then slumped
forward.

As Ulmenetha watched the demon began to shimmer, his body became black smoke, which swirled into
the bloody wound in the dead man's back. Then the demon was gone, and the body of the man rose.
Ulmenetha could not see his face, for he was hooded. He turned towards the lake and raised his
arms. Through the surface of the ice a thousand taloned hands rose up to salute him.

Once more the vision faded and she saw an altar. Upon it, held with chains of iron, was a naked
man with a golden beard. It was Axiana's father, the murdered emperor. A voice spoke, a soft
voice, which she felt she should recognize, but it was blurred somehow, as if she were listening
to a distant echo. 'Now,' said the voice, 'the day of Resurrection is at hand. You are the first
of the Three.' The chained emperor was about to speak when a curved dagger sliced into his chest.
His body arched.

Ulmenetha cried out - and the vision disappeared. She found her gaze focused now only on the bare,
moonlit wall of the royal bedchamber.

The visions made no sense. The emperor was not sacrificed. Having lost the last battle he had fled
with his aides. He had been slain, so it was said, by officers of his own guard, men disgusted by
his cowardice. Why then should she see him sacrificed in this way? Was the vision symbolic?

The incident at the lake of ice was equally nonsensical. Demons did not live below ice.

And the queen would never be in a wood with a mere


four warriors. Where was the king and his army? Where were the royal guards?

'Dismiss the visions from your mind,' she told herself. 'They are flawed in some way. Perhaps your
preparation was at fault.'

Axiana moaned in her sleep and the priestess rose and moved to the bedside. 'Be still, my pet,'
she whispered, soothingly. 'All is well.'

But all was not well, Ulmenetha knew. Her lorassium visions were certainly mysterious, and might
indeed be symbolic. They were, however, never false.

And who were the four men? She summoned their faces to her mind. One was a black man, with bright
blue eyes, the second a huge bald man, with a white, drooping moustache. The third was young and
handsome. The fourth held a bow. She remembered the white crow and a shudder went through her.
This was one sign she could read without interpretation.

The white crow was Death.

Kebra the Bowman dropped a small golden coin into the palm of the outraged innkeeper. The fat
man's anger faded instantly. There was no feeling in the world quite so warming as that of gold
against the skin. The seething anger at the thought of broken furniture and lost business receded
into minor irritation. The innkeeper glanced up at the bowman, who was now surveying the wreckage.
Ilbren had long been a student of human nature, able to read a man swiftly and accurately. Yet the