"Michael Moorcock - Elric 2 - Sailor on the Sea of Fate" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

shall have the pleasure of thwarting those who follow us.'

He made a half-hearted movement towards the sea, but
to his fatigued brain it seemed that the sword murmured,
stirred against his hip, pulled back. The albino chuckled.
'You exist to live and to take lives. Do I exist, then, to die
and bring both those I love and hate the mercy of death?
Sometimes I think so. A sad pattern, if that should be the
pattern. Yet there must be more to all this...'

He turned his back upon the sea, peering upwards at
the clouds forming and reforming above his head, letting
the rain fall upon his face, listening to the complex,
melancholy music which the sea made as it washed over
rocks and shingle and was carried this way and that by
conflicting currents. The rain did little to refresh him. He
had not slept at all for two nights and had slept hardly at
all for several more. He must have ridden for almost a
week before his horse collapsed.

At the base of a damp granite crag which rose nearly thirty
feet above his head, he found a depression in the ground in
which he could squat and be protected from the worst of
the wind and the rain. Wrapping his heavy cloak tightly

about him, he eased himself into the hole and was
immediately asleep. Let them find him while he slept. He
wanted no warning of his death.

Harsh, grey light struck his eyes as he stirred. He raised his
neck, holding back a groan at the stiffness of his muscles,
and he opened his eyes. He blinked. It was morning
- perhaps even later, for the sun was invisible - and a cold
mist covered the beach. Through the mist the darker clouds
could still be seen above, increasing the effect of his being
inside a huge cavern. Muffled a little, the sea continued to
splash and hiss, though it seemed calmer than it had done
on the previous night, and there were now no sounds of a
storm. The air was very cold.

Elric began to stand up, leaning on his sword for support,
listening carefully, but there was no sign that his enemies
were close by. Doubtless they had given up the chase,
perhaps after finding his dead horse.

He reached into his belt pouch and took from it a sliver
of smoked bacon and a vial of yellowish liquid. He sipped
from the vial, replaced the stopper and returned the vial to