"Gwyneth Jones - Red Sonja and Lessingham in Dreamland" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jones Gwyneth)

those lines?" He pointed to a lump of shapeless stone, one of several that lay about. It bore traces of
carving, almost effaced by time. "There was a city here once, with marketplaces, fine buildings, throngs of
proud people. Now they are dust, and only the caravanserai remains."
He stood before her, one tanned and sinewy hand resting lightly on the hilt of a dagger in his belt.
Like Sonja, he carried his broadsword on his back. Sonja was tall. He topped her by a head: yet there
was nothing brutish in his size. His brow was wide and serene, his eyes were vivid blue: his lips full and
imperious; yet delicately modeled, in the rich nest of hair. Somewhere between eyes and lips there lurked
a spirit of mockery, as if he found some secret amusement in the perfection of his own beauty and
strength.
The man and the woman measured each other. "You are a scholar," she said.
"Of some sort. And a traveler from an antique landтАФwhere the cities are still standing. It seems we
are the only strangers here," he added, with a slight nod toward the convivial company. "We might be
well advised to become friends for the night."
Sonja never wasted words. She considered his offer and nodded.
They made a fire in the booth Sonja had chosen. Lemiak and the scholar's terror-bird, left loose
together in the back of the shelter, did not seem averse to each other's company. The woman and the
man ate spiced sausage, skewered and broiled over the red embers, with bread and dried fruit. They
drank water, each keeping to their own waterskin. They spoke little, after that first exchangeтАФexcept to
discuss briefly the tactics of their defense, should defense be necessary.
The attack came around midnight. At the first stir of covert movement, Sonja leapt up sword in
hand. She grasped a brand from the dying fire. The man who had been crawling on his hands and knees
toward her, bent on sly murder of a sleeping victim, scrabbled to his feet. "Defend yourself," yelled
Sonja, who despised to strike an unarmed foe. Instantly he was rushing at her with a heavy sword. A
great two-handed stroke would have cleft her to the waist. She parried the blow and caught him between
neck and shoulder, almost severing the head from his body. The beasts plunged and screamed at the rush
of blood scent. The scholar was grappling with another attacker, choking out the man's life with his bare
hands . . . and the booth was full of bodies: their enemies rushing in on every side.
Sonja felt no fear. Stroke followed stroke, in a luxury of blood and effort and fire-shot darkness . . .
until the attack was over, as suddenly as it had begun.
The brigands had vanished.
"We killed five," breathed the scholar, "by my count. Three to you, two to me."
She kicked together the remains of their fire and crouched to blow the embers to a blaze. By that
light they found five corpses, dragged them and flung them into the open square. The scholar had a cut on
his upper arm, which was -bleeding freely. Sonja was bruised and battered, but otherwise unhurt. The
worst loss was their woodstack, which had been trampled and blood-fouled. They would not be able to
keep a watchfire burning.
"Perhaps they won't try again," said the warrior woman. "What can we have that's worth more than
five lives?"
He laughed shortly. "I hope you're right."
"We'll take turns to watch."
Standing breathless, every sense alert, they smiled at each other in new-forged comradeship. There
was no second attack. At dawn Sonja, rousing from a light doze, sat up and pushed back the heavy
masses of her red hair.
"You are very beautiful," said the man, gazing at her.
"So are you," she answered.
The caravanserai was deserted, except for the dead. The brigands' riding animals were gone. The
innkeeper and his family had vanished into some bolt-hole in the ruins.
"I am heading for the mountains," he said, as they packed up their gear. "For the pass into
Zimiamvia."
"I too."