"Nancy Holder - Highlander - Measure of a Man" - читать интересную книгу автора (Holder Nancy)

the late watch and, as usual for him on a seagoing vessel, very sick.

Nevertheless, decades of training leaped to the forefront of his
consciousness, and he was instantly, fully alert. Wearing nothing

but his loincloth, he grabbed his scimitar and leaped up the
companionway, taking the steps two, three, four at a time.

There were shouts and the clash of steel, but MacLeod saw nothing in the
blackness. Then a man cried in Italian, "Halt, Turk!"

and made for him. MacLeod thrust forward, upward, sideways. Since his
unseen foe assumed he was an Ottoman, he employed the classic French
fencing style to throw the Italian off-balance. He spun around and
lunged left, right, using his curved scimitar like a saber.

A sharp cry told him he had hit his target. There was the thump of a
body on the deck.

. "To arms! To anus!" an Englishman shouted. MacLeod thought it might
be Burlingame, but he couldn't be sure.

Chaos stormed around him. Steel clanged loudly in his left ear; his
cheek was sliced open and blood gushed freely as he threw his weight to
the left and rammed his attacker. The other man snarled at him like a
dog and punched his stomach. MacLeod took a single step backward and
heard the loose-sack sound of contact with the deck.

Then lanterns blazed and areed like fireworks as Venetian seamen
catapulted themselves onto the deck of the Protector. The English
officers ordered the mixed crew forward. General Mustapha Ah's towering
Ottoman bodyguards needed no prompting. The Turks ululated and leaped
at the boarders, slashing and hacking with the abandon of holy martyrs.
The complement of ship's officers was fenced in from the fray as the
English crew joined the Turks, knives between their lips, cutlasses
flashing.

A lantern hit the deck, and there was a shout as a Venetian's leather
boot caught fire; the flame rushed up his leg as if it were made of
gunpowder. He jumped over the side, arms and legs flailing.

A dozen battles raged. The growing flames climbed the rigging and
danced like St. Elmo's fire along the yards. By the red, flickering
light, MacLeod disarmed a man and ran him through. Whipping around, he
held his sword over his head in fifth position, then sliced at an angle
across another man's throat. The man's sword clattered to the deck; he
clutched the gaping wound and fell to his knees. Gurgling in his own
blood, he crumpled in death.

"General Ali! Ati, where are you?" MacLeod bellowed.