"Ed Greenwood - Band of Four 04 - The Dragon's Doom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenwood Ed)

voice. "Wise words! We'd all do well toтАФ"
The blacksmith straightened, shuddered all overтАФand then whirled around with
frightening speed and laid open Branjack's startled face with one strike of
the horseshoe.
With a bubbling scream, the farmer stumbled hastily backтАФand fell hard on
his backside. He landed whimpering in fear and scrabbling to get up and out of
the way, but the wild-eyed, sweating blacksmith bounded past him, hammer in
hand, and smashed Drunter to the ground with a single blow.
Dunhuld landed hard, his skull crushed like an eggshell. Jaw dangling and
eyes gushing blood and brains, he for onceтАФand forever afterтАФhad nothing to
say.
Branjack screamed again as he plunged out the smithy door. Men were trotting
nearer, peering to see what was afoot, for Fallingtree was not so large a
place that solid entertainment was to be had in generous plenty, and Ruld's
smithy was where many of them were wont to gather in easy company, to talk in
the din and glow where a man they all respected worked and held just opinions
and shared them in a few short words, but suffered others to talk as long and
as freely as they would.
Branjack clawed aside the first man who tried to talk to himтАФwhich kept him
alive for as long as it took the blacksmith to slay that man, and the next,
and another after that. Then everyone who'd approached the smithy was running
away, and a sobbing, roaring Ruld was amongst them like a wolf savaging
running deer. One man fell, spattering the ground with his brains, and then
another, landing like a hurled grainsack with neck broken and head lolling.
Swearing, a third tried to draw a belt-knifeтАФand the smith rounded on him in a
roaring fury and battered him to the ground in a rain of bone-shattering,
brutal blows.
Branjack made it most of the way down the lane ere the horseshoe in the
smith's hand laid open his smock across the shoulders and his skin with it,
and then struck one of his elbows a numbing blow that spun him around.
Face to face with the staring-eyed smith, the farmer wasted no time in
trying to turn, but ducked under Ruld's arm and sprinted back toward the
smithy, seizing on some wild idea that the smith wouldn't want to break his
own anvil, nor spill out the forge fire, so perhaps fleeting shelter could be
found behind them . . .
That thought died on the smithy threshold with Branjack, the shoeing hammer
driven so deep through his skull that it almost reached the top of his spine.
Howling, Ruld ran across the warm, familiar room, bloody hammer in one hand
and gory shoe in the otherтАФand began to madly belabor Drunter's draft horse.
It reared in the harness, belling and then screaming as loudly as any of the
villagers had managed, and then someтАФand at its third bucking plunge worn
straps parted, and it bolted, kicking out hard as it went.
The unshod hoof smashed Ruld's ribs like dry kindling, hurling him back into
his tools with a crash.
The horse burst out through the half-door, still kicking hard, and the
blacksmith rebounded to his feet in a dying daze, sobbing for breath, clawing
weakly at the air ... and seeming to see the blood all over him and the
sprawled bodies of his friends for the first time.
"No," he gasped bloodily, stumbling forward with the hammer falling from his
failing hand. Everything was going dim ...