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

of Watutes, the unfortunate race of giants they had helped drive to
extinction.

Micar raised a scarred eyebrow when he saw the wolfish face of Maskim, the
cretin, slinking around behind his sons. Maskim, immediately noting the
master's displeasure, whispered a hasty appeal into the silver-sheathed ears
of his mule, begging the beast to be still and stop shaking the sleighbells
strung along the animal's shaggy flanks. Without' the wind to cover the sound,
the chiming would carry as far as the wary Teutite ears, and Micar had no
intention of forfeiting the advantage of surprise.

Maskim had also fitted his mule with leather shoes, and atop the animal's head
tottered a straw hat woven with freshly cut petunias. Maskim had covered his
oven head with a wreath of wild ivy and stuffed leaves through the coarse
weave of his jerkin to disguise himself as a brother to the tree-a tree riding
a mule sheathed in silver and strung with bells. Aluminum ear rings and a
plastic eyepatch broke through the wisps of mousy hair covering his face to
complete Maskim's battle dress. Today, the patch was over his right eye. On
the last raid it had covered his left. There was nothing wrong with either
eye, but he insisted the patch aided his concentration-just as it did for the
twins. Despite this clownish appearance, it would be a mistake to discount
this Horla. Maskim was as deadly as gangrene. He had survived many raids, and
anyone, on either side, who survived a Horla raid had to be deadly. Maskim
hadn't the brains for caution. There wasn't an ounce of sense in his entire
warped body.

Maskim's ugliness was eclipsed by a tall rider slicing the thick night air
with a scimitar at least five feet long. Micar smiled warmly at the sight of
the bearded Careem, who was the distillation of Horla spirit and
determination, for, though the warrior had but one arm, he kept his pony in
place by pulling the end of his right shoulder. The arm had been severed in
battle, while the hand still clutched a sword, by a Somelon, a member of that
vicious race of women warriors. The green-eyed Sheryl, whose private vengeance
against the Horlas knew no earthly bounds, had left him lying there with his
blood spurting life from his arteries. Sure that he was dead, she went on to
flush out and exterminate more Horlas. It was hatred for her that had kept his
heart pumping, the chance for revenge that kept him alive. Now, his life was
dedicated to meeting that gold haired Somelon again. Only her blood could stop
the painful throbbing that clogged his quivering stump.

Filling the remainder of the canyon rim like a row of wild gargoyles on the
wall of some medieval castle were the rest of Micar's savage mongrels. Each
sat on a pony, since only Micar's family was allowed by tribal law the luxury
of a horse. The ponies were quick little mounts that could outstep and
outmaneuver any horse, though of course they hadn't the horse's strength and
endurance. Standing between the bulky thighs of the Horlas, tan cowlicks
hanging to their foreheads, they looked curiously harmless and invited a hand
to reach out and brush the hair out of then eyes. Any hand that tried it came
back bloody and lighter by a finger or two.