"Martin, George R.R. - Song Of Ice and Fire 03 - A Storm Of Swords" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

УSomeplace warm,Ф said Chett.
Of the dozen odd brothers who sat by the fire, four were his. He gave each one a hard squinty look as he ate, to see if any showed signs of breaking. Dirk seemed calm enough, sitting silent and sharpening his blade, the way he did every night. And Sweet Donnel Hill was all easy japes. He had white teeth and fat red lips and yellow locks that he wore in an artful tumble about his shoulders, and he claimed to be the bastard of some Lannister. Maybe he was at that. Chett had no use for pretty boys, nor for bastards neither, but Sweet Donnel seemed like to hold his own.
He was less certain about the forester the brothers called Sawwood, more for his snoring than for anything to do with trees. just now he looked so restless he might never snore again. And Maslyn was worse. Chett could see sweat trickling down his face, despite the frigid wind. The beads of moisture sparkled in the firelight, like so many little wet jewels. Maslyn wasnТt eating neither, only staring at his soup as if the smell of it was about to make him sick. IТll need to watch that one, Chett thought.
УAssemble!Ф The shout came suddenly, from a dozen throats, and quickly spread to every part of the hilltop camp. УMen of the NightТs Watch! Assemble at the central fire!Ф
Frowning, Chett finished his soup and followed the rest.
The Old Bear stood before the fire with Smallwood, Locke, Wythers, and Blane ranged behind him in a row. Mormont wore a cloak of thick black fur, and his raven perched upon his shoulder, preening its black feathers. This canТt be good. Chett squeezed between Brown Bemarr and some Shadow Tower men. When everyone was gathered, save for the watchers in the woods and the guards on the ringwall, Mormont cleared his throat and spat. The spittle was frozen before it hit the ground. УBrothers,Ф he said, Уmen of the NightТs Watch.Ф
УMen!Ф his raven screamed. УMen! Men!Ф
УThe wildlings are on the march, following the course of the Milkwater down out of the mountains. Thoren believes their van will be upon us ten days hence. Their most seasoned raiders will be with Harma Dogshead in that van. The rest will likely form a rearguard, or ride in close company with Mance Rayder himself. Elsewhere their fighters will be spread thin along the line of march. They have oxen, mules, horses . . . but few enough. Most will be afoot, and ill-armed and untrained. Such weapons as they carry are more like to be stone and bone than steel. They are burdened with women, children, herds of sheep and goats, and all their worldly goods besides. In short, though they are numerous, they are vulnerable . . . and they do not know that we are here. Or so we must pray.Ф
They know, thought Chett. You bloody old pus bag, they know, certain as sunrise. Qhorin Halfhand hasnТt come back, has he? Nor Jarman Buckwell. lf any of them got caught, you know damned well the wildlings will have wrung a song or two out of them by now Smallwood stepped forward. УMance Rayder means to break the Wall and bring red war to the Seven Kingdoms. Well, thatТs a game two can play. On the morrow weТll bring the war to him.Ф
УWe ride at dawn with all our strength,Ф the Old Bear said as a murmur went through the assembly. УWe will ride north, and loop around to the west. HarmaТs van will be well past the Fist by the time we turn. The foothills of the Frostfangs are full of narrow winding valleys made for ambush. Their line of march will stretch for many miles. We shall fall on them in several places at once, and make them swear we were three thousand, not three hundred.Ф
УWeТll hit hard and be away before their horsemen can form up to face us,Ф Thoren Smallwood said. УIf they pursue, weТll lead them a merry chase, then wheel and hit again farther down the column. WeТll burn their wagons, scatter their herds, and slay as many as we can. Mance Rayder himself, if we find him. If they break and return to their hovels, weТve won. If not, weТll harry them all the way to the Wall, and see to it that they leave a trail of corpses to mark their progress.Ф
УThere are thousands,Ф someone called from behind Chett.
УWeТll die.Ф That was MaslynТs voice, green with fear.
УDie,Ф screamed MormontТs raven, flapping its black wings. УDie, die, die.Ф
УMany of us,Ф the Old Bear said. УMayhaps even all of us. But as another Lord Commander said a thousand years ago, that is why they dress us in black. Remember your words, brothers. For we are the swords in the darkness, the watchers on the walls . . .Ф
УThe fire that burns against the cold.Ф Ser Mallador Locke drew his longsword.
УThe light that brings the dawn,Ф others answered, and more swords were pulled from scabbards.
Then all of them were drawing, and it was near three hundred upraised swords and as many voices crying, УThe horn that wakes the sleepers! The shield that guards the realms of men!Ф Chett had no choice but to join his voice to the others. The air was misty with their breath, and firelight glinted off the steel. He was pleased to see Lark and Softfoot and Sweet Donnel Hill joining in, as if they were as big fools as the rest. That was good. No sense to draw attention, when their hour was so close.
When the shouting died away, once more he heard the sound of the wind picking at the ringwall. The flames swirled and shivered, as if they too were cold, and in the sudden quiet the Old BearТs raven cawed loudly and once again said, УDie.Ф
Clever bird, thought Chett as the officers dismissed them, warning everyone to get a good meal and a long rest tonight. Chett crawled under his furs near the dogs, his head full of things that could go wrong. What if that bloody oath gave one of his a change of heart? Or Small Paul forgot and tried to kill Mormont during the second watch in place of the third? Or Maslyn lost his courage, or someone turned informer, or . . .
He found himself listening to the night. The wind did sound like a wailing child, and from time to time he could hear menТs voices, a horseТs whinny, a log spitting in the fire. But nothing else. So quiet.
He could see BessaТs face floating before him. It wasnТt the knife I wanted to put in you, he wanted to tell her. I picked you flowers, wild roses and tansy and goldencups, it took me all morning. His heart was thumping like a drum, so loud he feared it might wake the camp. Ice caked his beard all around his mouth. Where did that come from, with Bessa? Whenever heТd thought of her before, it had only been to remember the way sheТd looked, dying. What was wrong with him? He could hardly breathe. Had he gone to sleep? He got to his knees, and something wet and cold touched his nose. Chett looked up.
Snow was falling.
He could feel tears freezing to his cheeks. It isnТt fair, he wanted to scream. Snow would ruin everything heТd worked for, all his careful plans. It was a heavy fall, thick white flakes coming down all about him. How would they find their food caches in the snow, or the game trail they meant to follow east? They wonТt need Dywen nor Bannen to hunt us down neither, not if weТre tracking through fresh snow And snow hid the shape of the ground, especially by night. A horse could stumble over a root, break a leg on a stone. WeТre done, he realized. Done before we began. WeТre lost. ThereТd be no lordТs life for the leechmanТs son, no keep to call his own, no wives nor crowns. Only a wildlingТs sword in his belly, and then an unmarked grave. The snowТs taken it all from me . . . the bloody snow . . .
Snow had ruined him once before. Snow and his pet pig.
Chett got to his feet. His legs were stiff, and the falling snowflakes turned the distant torches to vague orange glows. He felt as though he were being attacked by a cloud of pale cold bugs. They settled on his shoulders, on his head, they flew at his nose and his eyes. Cursing, he brushed them off. Samwell Tarly, he remembered. I can still deal with Ser Piggy. He wrapped his scarf around his face, pulled up his hood, and went striding through the camp to where the coward slept.
The snow was falling so heavily that he got lost among the tents, but finally he spotted the snug little windbreak the fat boy had made for himself between a rock and the raven cages. Tarly was buried beneath a mound of black wool blankets and shaggy furs. The snow was drifting in to cover him. He looked like some kind of soft round mountain. Steel whispered on leather faint as hope as Chett eased his dagger from its sheath. One of the ravens quorked. УSnow,Ф another muttered, peering through the bars with black eyes. The first added a УSnowФ of its own. He edged past them, placing each foot carefully. He would clap his left hand down over the fat boyТs mouth to muffle his cries, and then . . .
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
He stopped midstep, swallowing his curse as the sound of the horn shuddered through the camp, faint and far, yet unmistakable. Not now Gods be damned, not NOW! The Old Bear had hidden far-eyes in a ring of trees around the Fist, to give warning of any approach. Jarman BuckwellТs back from the GiantТs Stair, Chett figured, or Qhorin Halfhand from the Skirling Pass. A single blast of the horn meant brothers returning. If it was the Halfhand, Jon Snow might be with him, alive.
Sam Tarly sat up puffy-eyed and stared at the snow in confusion. The ravens were cawing noisily, and Chett could hear his dogs baying. Half the bloody campТs awake. His gloved fingers clenched around the daggerТs hilt as he waited for the sound to die away. But no sooner had it gone than it came again, louder and longer.
Uuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooo.
УGods,Ф he heard Sam Tarly whimper. The fat boy lurched to his knees, his feet tangled in his cloak and blankets. He kicked them away and reached for a chain-mail hauberk heТd hung on the rock nearby. As he slipped the huge tent of a garment down over his head and wriggled into it, he spied Chett standing there. УWas it two?Ф he asked. УI dreamed I heard two blasts . . .Ф
УNo dream,Ф said Chett. УTwo blasts to call the Watch to arms. Two blasts for foes approaching. ThereТs an axe out there with Piggy writ on it, fat boy. Two blasts means wildlings. УThe fear on that big moon face made him want to laugh. УBugger them all to seven hells. Bloody Harma. Bloody Mance Rayder. Bloody Smallwood, he said they wouldnТt be on us for anotherЧФ
Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
The sound went on and on and on, until it seemed it would never die. The ravens were flapping and screaming, flying about their cages and banging off the bars, and all about the camp the brothers of the NightТs Watch were rising, donning their armor, buckling on swordbelts, reaching for battleaxes and bows. Samwell Tarly stood shaking, his face the same color as the snow that swirled down all around them. УThree,Ф he squeaked to Chett, Уthat was three, I heard three. They never blow three. Not for hundreds and thousands of years. Three meansЧФ
УЧOthers.Ф Chett made a sound that was half a laugh and half a sob, and suddenly his smallclothes were wet, and he could feel the piss running down his leg, see steam rising off the front of his breeches.

CHAPTER 1
JAIME

An east wind blew through his tangled hair, as soft and fragrant as CerseiТs fingers. He could hear birds singing, and feel the river moving beneath the boat as the sweep of the oars sent them toward the pale pink dawn. After so long in darkness, the world was so sweet that Jaime Lannister felt dizzy. I am alive, and drunk on sunlight. A laugh burst from his lips, sudden as a quail flushed from cover.
УQuiet,Ф the wench grumbled, scowling. Scowls suited her broad homely face better than a smile. Not that Jaime had ever seen her smiling. He amused himself by picturing her in one of CerseiТs silken gowns in place of her studded leather jerkin. As well dress a cow in silk as this one.
But the cow could row. Beneath her roughspun brown breeches were calves like cords of wood, and the long muscles of her arms stretched and tightened with each stroke of the oars. Even after rowing half the night, she showed no signs of tiring, which was more than could be said for his cousin Ser Cleos, laboring on the other oar. A big strong peasant wench to look at her, yet she speaks like one highborn and wears longsword and dagger. Ah, but can she use them? Jaime meant to find out, as soon as he rid himself of these fetters.
He wore iron manacles on his wrists and a matching pair about his ankles, joined by a length of heavy chain no more than a foot long. УYouТd think my word as a Lannister was not good enough,Ф heТd japed as they bound him. HeТd been very drunk by then, thanks to Catelyn Stark. Of their escape from Riverrun, he recalled only bits and pieces. There had been some trouble with the gaoler, but the big wench had overcome him.
After that they had climbed an endless stair, around and around. His legs were weak as grass, and heТd stumbled twice or thrice, until the wench lent him an arm to lean on. At some point he was bundled into a travelerТs cloak and shoved into the bottom of a skiff. He remembered listening to Lady Catelyn command someone to raise the portcullis on the Water Gate. She was sending Ser Cleos Frey back to KingТs Landing with new terms for the queen, sheТd declared in a tone that brooked no argument.
He must have drifted off then. The wine had made him sleepy, and it felt good to stretch, a luxury his chains had not permitted him in the cell. Jaime had long ago learned to snatch sleep in the saddle during a march. This was no harder. Tyrion is going to laugh himself sick when he hears how I slept through my own escape. He was awake now, though, and the fetters were irksome. УMy lady,Ф he called out, Уif youТll strike off these chains, IТll spell you at those oars.Ф
She scowled again, her face all horse teeth and glowering suspicion. УYouТll wear your chains, Kingslayer.Ф
УYou figure to row all the way to KingТs Landing, wench?Ф
УYou will call me Brienne. Not wench.Ф
УMy name is Ser Jaime. Not Kingslayer.Ф