"John Marco - Tyrants and Kings 1 - The Jackal of Nar" - читать интересную книгу автора (Marco John)

Okyle was dead now, and Richius had taken over. He was determined to do
everything he could to spare his new men the horrors that would be upon
them too soon anyway.
Keep them in the back and they'll be safe, he told himself as he signaled to
Ennadon. Let Ennadon teach them what they need to know first. Time
enough for fighting.
Still...
If Voris came at them fully it would do the new men no good to be in the
back trenches. There would be no haven in the Dring Valley for any of them.
He supposed that he had three hundred men left, yet he had no idea how many
Voris still had. A thousand? More? Even Lucyler couldn't guess at the
numbers of their enemy. They knew only one thing for sure: the master of the
valley had enough warriors to destroy them.
Only the cannons can save us now, thought Richius fretfully. If the fuel
lasts...
At both ends of the trench, where men gathered in little bunches to talk and
worry, the flame cannons were heated and poised. Wisps of smoke rose from
their tapered noses, their igniters glowing red against the coming dawn. The
sight of their two-man teams forced an uneasy smile from Richius. These
machines had been their salvation. Though a dearth of fuel had forced him to
ration their use, he was grateful to have even a few of the weapons. The
scientists who tinkered in the war labs of Nar had outdone themselves when
they created them.
To the men in the trenches the cannons were worthy of worship. Like the
soldiers of Aramoor, the Triin of the valley had arrows and spears and their
own odd-looking swords, but they had nothing so powerful as the cannons.
Even their magicтАФthe dread of which had long deterred invaders from their
landтАФhad yet to prove a threat. Though many said otherwise, swore in fact
that the Drol leader Tharn was a sorcerer, none of the men had seen Triin
magic, and Lucyler had been vocal in his skepticism. The belief in the touch
of heaven was the one great division that separated the Drol from the rest of
the Triin. It was part of what made the Drol fanatics.
"Richius?" asked Lucyler. "Should I have Dinadin take a cannon?"
"Kally and Crodin can handle them."
"Dinadin's the best cannoneer left. What if..."
"Lord, Lucyler," interrupted Richius. "Look at him." He pointed down the
trench to where Dinadin sat, cradling the limp body of Jimsin. "You want to
tell him?"
Lucyler said nothing. Of the three close friends that remained, Lucyler was
the hardest of the trio. Perhaps it was his Triin blood that made him so
callous, or perhaps it was because he had seen more of the war than any of
them. Whatever its origin, Lucyler's severity was always evident. It was only at
times like these, however, when he had a mind to question decisions, that
Lucyler's hard-heartedness irritated Richius.
 And Dinadin had changed. He still followed orders, but there was a
reluctance in his eyes, a kind of sad maturity that had never been there before.
Richius had promised Dinadin's father he would look out for the man, that he
would bring him home alive from this hellish place, and that one day they
would sit again around the hearth in the House of Lotts and laugh about better
days.