"Kim Hunter - [The Red Pavillions 01] - Knight's Dawn v1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kim Hunter - [The Red Pavillions 01] - Knight's Dawn)

Chapter One

СWake up, wake up, someone is near!Т
The knight wearily opened his eyelids. There was a dead snake near his foot, with a bloody cudgel next to it. A raven hopped around the snake and stick, yelling at him.
The light hurt his eyes. A pale white sun glared down on the knight from the heavens. He was on a hillside, a slope, on which there had been a great battle. All his muscles ached from the fighting. He felt utterly fatigued. It was all very hazy to him now, blurred and warped. He tried to recall what he had been doing in this battle and who the armies were.
If he allowed his mind to look back he could see the battle in full bloody murder. Around him he beheld a great heaving mess of men, armies rolling one over the other, multitudes of men tumbling like waves of water into hordes of other men. They hacked with battleaxes, thrust with swords and spears, beat each other with maces. Weapon points entered flesh through seams and chinks in armour. Arrows thudded into the chests of knights, penetrating breastplates as if they were paper. Heads and torsos were split asunder. Skulls were battered and crushed by warhammers. There was fire and blood and the bright flashes of a hundred thousand blades, lance heads, pike tips.
СThere he is! Do you see him? Down by the tree line.Т The vision of the past washed away and the knightТs eyes were clear once again. He stared at the area indicated by the raven. There was a horseman down there, wrapped from head to foot, swathed in calico dyed with indigo, only his eyes exposed. The man was a obviously a lone hunter. He rode his piebald steed with his knees only, leaving his hands free. On his left wrist was a hawk wearing trailing scarlet jesses. There were golden bells on its ankles. In the hunterТs right hand was a small black crossbow, with a bolt in the breech. СI see him,Т said the knight, not considering why he was talking to a bird. There was too much other strangeness in the air to worry about things perhaps unthreatening. СI shall keep him in view.Т
In his mindТs ear he now heard the shrieks of wounded and dying men on the hillside around him. Some cried for a physician, some for their mothers, some for their comrades. The cries were pitiful to hear. There was the yell of a decapitated head, as it continued its shout of terror even after leaving the shoulders of its owner. There was the clashing of steel on steel, thousandfold, ringing through the surrounding hills. Screams, groans, death rattles. It was a cacophony which filled the knightТs head. The bullroarers and the trumpets. The animal-skin drums and the log-drums. The whistles and blad-derpipes and ox-horns. To the ears of the animals in the woodlands and valleys, this deafening discord must have sounded like the end of the world. Especially when their own kind were being slaughtered: the noise of screaming horses as they are disembowelled by the lances of knights, or limb-lopped by foot-soldiers, is something no creature ever forgets.
СSee,Т said the raven, Сthe hunter views his quarry.Т
A purple heron flew overhead and the hunter released his hawk. The raptor shot skyward, after the heron which had now swerved in flight. There were few signs of panic in the fleeing prey. Only the leisurely flapping of the great wings and the harpoon head stretched a little further forward.
At that moment, while all eyes were on the hawk and the heron, a black boar broke cover. It rushed at the hunterТs steed from the flank. The horseТs eyes rolled and it whinnied in fright, rearing to the right. The hunter steadied his mount with his knees and took careful aim with the crossbow. There was a thwunk and the bolt struck the boar in the brain. The beastТs legs folded under it and it rolled, crashing into a thicket, dead as a rock. The hunter then looked up to see the heron plummeting from the sky, the hawk having stooped and struck.
СWe should go and speak with this man,Т said the raven.
For the first time the knight turned his attention to the talking bird.
СWho are you? What are you? Did you come to feed upon the dead?Т
СDead? What dead?Т asked the bird.
The knight looked about him quickly and then remembered. It had all taken place in his mind. Yet he knew there had been a battle. Looking down at himself he saw that he was wounded in a number of places. They were not serious cuts or abrasions, but they were fresh. His uniform was filthy and in tatters and he wore the remnants of bloodstained armour. He was caked in sweat and dust. His throat was parched: choked with the same dust that decorated his clothes. From his belt hung an empty black-and-silver scabbard, twisted and bent. Stitched on the leather of the scabbard in silver-wire thread were the words, Kutrama and Sintra. The knight was suddenly bewildered. Who was he? What was his name? Why was he lying on this hot hillside, talking to a raven who was looking at him as if he were a corpse?
СWhy do you stare at me like that?Т The bird said, СA crow can look at a king.Т
СWell, I donТt like it. If you want to end up on a gibbet, just keep on doing it.Т
СIrritable beggar, arenТt we? No need to get annoyed. I was just looking at your eyes. TheyТre blue. IТve never seen eyes that colour before. Everyone around here has brown eyes.Т
The knight, who had been unaware of the colour of his eyes, touched his eyelids.
They turned away from each other to stare at the hunter, who was now gathering up the carcass of the boar and strapping it to the rump of his mount. His hawk was enjoying the brains of the heron, where the hunter had cracked its skull with a rock. This was the raptorТs reward for a clean kill. The hunter then sat on a rock and began plucking the heron, purple feathers flying over his shoulders. As the knight descended, the raven hopping on behind, the hunter had finished cleaning and gutting the heron and was preparing a wood fire on which to roast it.
There was a beck nearby. The knight went straight to this and began scooping up the water to drink: clear water, but not sparkling. It was midday, the sun horizontally overhead, but the warmth from it was weak.
The knight was then aware that the hunter was speaking to him.
СAre you in need of assistance?Т
The hunterТs voice was confident, firm, but not very deep.
He looked and sounded like a slimly-built youth and his delicate movements offended the knightТs masculinity. Dark-brown eyes stared at him from a band of flesh beneath the swathes of blue calico. There was enquiry there, if not concern.
СWhere am I?Т asked the knight. СHas there been a battle here?Т
The hunter said, СYour eyes - theyТre blue.Т
СDoes that matter?Т
The hunter shrugged and delivered answers which were crisp and to the point. СYou are just south of the Ancient Forest, near the petrified pools of Yan. To my knowledge there has been no battle hereabouts for over a century.Т
СBut, that canТt be true. Look at me!Т He opened his arms and invited inspection. СI am wounded. My uniform is in shreds.Т
СI cannot account for your condition. There has been no battle here. What is your name? From what country Eire you? This is not a time to be wandering Guthrum alone. There are brigands and bandits abroad, and the queenТs soldiers are suspicious of lone travellers. They have licence to execute strangers found roaming the countryside. If you do not end up with a broken skull, you might be hanged from gallows such as those you see on that hill.Т
The knight looked up. In the distance, beyond the stream, was a triple-gallows, with several corpses hanging from it. As the soldier stared at this place of execution, seemingly miles from any village, town or city, he noticed that few of the hanged figures had hands on the ends of their arms.
СGuthrum,Т murmured the knight, grasping at the word and inspecting it closely. СThat name should probably mean something to me, but it doesnТt. And as for my own name, I canТt remember it. Do I even have a name? I feel I am in some kind of dream, or nightmare. I know nothing about myselfТ
СPerhaps you are mad?Т suggested the hunter, matter-of-factly.
СNo, no. I do not feel mad.Т
СMadmen never do. To whom were you speaking, as you were coming down the hill? To yourself?Т
СWhy, no,Т the knight turned and pointed to the raven, hopping on some stones in the stream. СTo that bird. It speaks as well as you or me. Raven, say something to the hunter.Т The raven simply sipped at the running water with its beak. It looked like any of the other birds in the area. There was no comprehension in its demeanour or its eyes.
The hunter nodded slowly. СI think you are mad.Т He pointed to the roasted heron carcass, part of which he had already eaten. СYou may have some of that if youТre hungry. Then I must be on my way.Т
СWait!Т said the knight, quickly. СWhere are you going?Т
СWhy, back to Zamerkand of course. I would rather return home before nightfall. If this countryside is dangerous during the day, it is ten times worse at night. There are bears and wolves to contend with, not to mentionЧТ
СTake me with you,Т pleaded the knight. СI have no weapon with which to defend myself and I donТt know the way. I can assist you if you are attacked. Forgive me, but you do not look strong enough to defend yourself against enemies on the road.Т
The eyes hardened. СDid you see me kill the boar?Т
СHunting is a different matter. It takes more than a sharp eye to kill a human. You need the strength of will.Т
СStrength of will? A moment ago it was my physique that was important Ч now itТs whether I have the stomach for killing. You really should make up your mind what it is about me that you find lacking.Т The hunter stared hard for a few moments, then nodded. СYou may follow my horse. I canТt take you up behind me because, as you see, I am carrying a wild boar.Т
The knight felt inclined to argue that his life was more precious than a boarТs carcass, but the hunter had already swung himself back into his saddle. The hawk had taken to the air again, but the hunter whirled a silver lure around his head, on a long piece of cord, and the hawk came down to his wrist. Then the hunter set off at a leisurely pace, his palfrey high-stepping through the woods, the ground being spongy with thick moss. The knight, weary though he was, trotted on behind chewing on a drumstick. At one point the raven flew down from a branch and landed on his shoulder, to whisper in his ear, СYouТre mad, you are. Fancy talking to a black bird.Т
The bird then flew away, leaving the knight bemused and angry, wondering whether indeed the raven was right.
During the journey the hunter stopped once to treat the knightТs wounds with herbs and healing plants. The cuts were fairly superficial, but there was still a danger of infection. Deep inside him was a bitterness, a hatred for something he could not explain to himself. These feelings were like dark shadows in his soul, but he did not know what was casting them.
In the forest, great spidersТ webs joined high oak branches with the ground. The soldier inadvertently ran through these, getting his face and hands gummed with the sticky threads. When they left the woods and began crossing boggy ground, there were clusters and knots of snakes in every peat hag: far too many to be natural. Every so often they came across another gallows, with hanged people dangling from the bar.