"Raymond Kaminski - The Amazons of Somelon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kaminski Raymond)

piercing through every crevice of leather and wool, till it found the most
vulnerable recesses of human flesh and stung them there, mercilessly. The
Teutite drivers squirmed, slapped, cursed, and whipped the oxen in
frustration, knowing no one could outrun the wind. Then, suddenly, the gale
broke off. The caravan was shuttered in a heavy silence.

Above their heads, the wind flew straight up the sides of the canyon, gaining
height for the final plunge that would send the wagons reeling. Racing faster,
it skimmed along the boulders, uprooting bushes and tearing out small trees as
it climbed higher, ever higher, till it reached the crest and crashed into the
great scarred face of Micar, master of the Horlas.

Dazed, the wind tumbled around without direction. It swept up and down the
ranks of mutated Horlas that lined the canyon rim, sniffed at their ponies,
and twirled around their long, crooked lances. Then, as if it had decided to
be mad at being surprised, the wind tore through the horde of warriors.

The wind threw sand in Micar's face, and though his black mare staggered,
Micar never blinked. The coarse grains dug deep into the soft, white flesh of
his eyes that were already tangled with red roots. But Micar never blinked. He
was not afraid of sand. He was not afraid of wind.

Roaring through the Horlas, the wind grabbed at their shields. Rattling their
curved swords, it pulled at their tar-coated pigtails. The Horlas took no
notice. All eyes were focused on the wagons, all ears tuned to the creak of
wooden axles. To them, the cold gust was just a pestering child tugging at
their legs. So the wind, deflated by this sudden defeat, dispersed into the
night.

Micar watched the caravan in the same way that a mongoose watches the cobra,
letting it crawl between the mountains where it cannot coil. There were jugs
of anal-root wine sloshing inside those wagons. There were bolts of dyed silk,
crates of fragrant incense, tasty spices. And there was diamond-studded gold,
rubies with fire frozen inside them. There were women. There were also swords
and battle-axes pressed into the leathery hands of the Teutites. But Micar was
not afraid of dying. No Horla was.

When a star shot across the black sky to embrace the moon, Luna veiled her
blush with a cloud, and the caravan was hidden in the shadows. Micar turned to
his left.

There he found Allukah, his fourth wife, astride the Arabian charger he had
given her on their wedding day, when she was still young and beautiful and
slim. Now, foam had started to leak through the gaps in her brown teeth as her
huge arms wrestled with the reins, fighting to keep the charger at the head of
the line so she could be first to draw blood. Allukah had filled out into a
fierce warrior, swinging a mace so large it took two normal men to lift it,
and she struck with accurate blows that could shatter a steel helmet, let
alone a fragile skull. She was as strong and terrible as Micar himself, the
most terrible of the Horlas. Still, she lacked his self control, his subtle