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

jungles along the Zarkheba River held the bones of her crew, Conan's erstwhile

comrades; and the Cimmerians mind heldтАж what?

Memories of sharing more than he had ever dreamed he could share with a woman,

far more than a shared bedтАФalthough those memories alone would have given many

men wakeful nights. Memories that made herтАж call her a cherished comrade and one

would not be far off the mark.

Nor, the Cimmerian thought, would Belit's spirit disdain the name. Anymore than

her body had disdained his embraces, or her warriors Conan's leadershipтАж

It had been a good time, and now it was past. No son of Cimmeria spent much time

mourning what was gone foreverтАФthe harsh northern land allowed few luxuries, and

that one least of all. Moreover, Conan had sent Belit home to the ocean aboard
the ship in which she took such pride, and of which she had made so fearful a

name along the Stygian shores.

The slate was clean. But he had known when he put the torch to Tigress that it

would be a good long while before he set foot aboard ship again. With his

memories and weapons, his knowledge of the Black Coast gained from his comrades

aboard Tigress, and a sailors kitbag slung over one shoulder, he had plunged

inland.

A footfall that none but a hunter, human or animal, could have heard ended

Conan's brief reverie. He moved only his head, having contrived his position so

that he need move nothing else to study the whole clearing.

The footfalls continued, light, sure, and drawing closer. The Cimmerian raised a

finger to test the scant breeze. The finger said again what his ears had already

told him, that the visitors were coming down the path.

Now he could count their number by ear. More than one, all but certainly. Not