"Roland Green - Conan at the Demon's Gate" - читать интересную книгу автора (Green Roland)

today. The ferns would hold traces of his presence far too long.

Left or right? Left, he decided. That would take him away from the trail that

entered the clearing on the far side. Never had he seen more than a handful of

the nativesтАФnor any animal he could not face barehandedтАФcome down that trail.

Never, likewise, did the jungle cease to hold deadly surprises for the unwary.

Now he moved even more silently than before, and more cautiously. His steps took

him from a root that would bear little trace of his passing to dry ground that

could be brushed clean of footprints, and from there on to a swinging vine that

kept him entirely clear of the ground for six good paces. The vine sagged under

his massive weight, but neither broke nor left other traces of his passing.

At last the man reached his goal. The blue eyes narrowed as he studied the
clearing, finding no changes and no movement. He settled into the roots of

another giant tree, so completely still that his massive limbs might have been

part of the roots themselves.

The eyes would have revealed life to anyone drawing close enough. That

revelation would have come too late for any foe, however. A broadsword lay

across the calloused knees, a stout dagger hung from the thong of a rawhide

breechclout, and two handmade spears leaned against one of the roots. Any or all

of these weapons would have drunk a foe's lifeblood before the man recognized

danger.

In this also, the man was like a lion. Indeed, his name in these lands was

"Amra"тАФthe lion. Fairly earned in battle, too, although he did not care to let

his thoughts dwell long on those battles.

His birth-name, though, matched those eyes of northern ice. He was called Conan,

and his native land was bleak Cimmeria.