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

His eyes were keener than mine, and his ears had heard no such orders, but I

thanked him with a nod for saving my authority over my surviving men. I put

myself with the rearguard while Sarabos and his burden led, and we tramped up

the slope.

It was my plan, formed in my mind as we moved, to climb to the crest of the

rocks and light our smoke torches. That would tell the camp where we were, and

they would be up with us long before the surviving Picts could muster numbers or

courage to come at us on the high ground.

Conan the Great had a favorite saying: "A man can think out a battle beforehand

as much as he pleases, but Fate will still spit in the beer." (Although he did

not say "spit.") He never called it his own invention, and I much doubt that it
was. Kull of Atlantis could have coined it in his wars against the Snakemen of

Valusia.

What spat in our particular tankard that day was the thunderstorm. The clouds

swept over the rocks before we could reach the heights. As Sarabos laid the dead

Gunderman down, the first drops of rain fell.

Thunder crashed overhead. I looked up to see a thunderbolt sear the ridge. I

spat from an all-but-dry mouth. If we climbed to that crest in our armor and the

lightning went on playing, more than torches might be set alight.

I looked downslope to judge the closeness of our pursuers. To my surprise, I saw

them running off as if we had turned into a band of demons and were on their

heels. They were even leaving the weapons of the dead, and it takes great fear

to make a Pict do that.

It struck me that whatever so daunted Picts might also be something Aquilonians

could justly fear. I saw the same thought on faces around me, butтАФand all honor