"Mickey Zucker Reichert - Renshai 01 - The Last Of The Renshai" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichert Mickey Zucker)

"Fire!" The cry cut over the torke's tirade.



Rache sifted the speaker from among his classmates. The child stood with a finger jabbed toward the
south, and every student turned in the indicated direction. Rache could see a small but angry collage of
red, black, and orange flaring from a few thatched rooftops. Wisps of smoke swirled in the spring
breeze, lost in the darkness but coloring the moon a sickly gray. The noises Rache had attributed to his
heart resolved into the bell of sword-play.



The torke stiffened. A strange, unreadable expression crossed her features. "We're under attack," she
said with unusual calm. "Go. Go! Warn your families. No one should be caught unaware." A light blazed
in her eyes, a pure, cruel joy of battle. She whisked her blade free.



As if it were a signal, seven strangers with swords and shields burst from the southern and eastern
woods, their blades dripping scarlet rivulets.



The torke sprinted past the crowd of youngsters. She sprang for the warriors unhesitatingly, and the
nearest students joined her.



Rache paused. It was not fear that held him; he would not admit such an emotion even to himself.
Renshai trained all their lives for death in battle. But the torke had told him to warn his family, and his
cottage lay to the west. Mama and Papa. My little sister. Rache whirled and pounded into the evergreen
forest.
 The hollow crash of swords chased him between the pines, echoing from the trunks. Someone screamed
in pain, "Modi!" It was the name of a god, the son of the Renshai's patron, and it literally meant "wrath."
Rache felt blood madness burn through him. It rose like instinct, though it came of intensive training. He
had learned not to fight through injury, but because of it. A wounded Renshai became a crazed blur of
battle, and his pain-cries spurred his fellows.



Rache's legs ached. The air tasted caustic, and his lungs felt raw and parched. A figure materialized
before him. He paused to identify it as a stranger, and the hesitation nearly cost his life. A heavy sword
slashed for his head. Rache ducked, drew, and raised his blade to parry. Steel scratched steel.
Momentum staggered Rache forward, and his follow-through drew the enemy sword harmlessly over his
back. A carefully-timed backswing gashed the enemy's thigh. The man's leg buckled, and he collapsed.
Rache continued running without looking back.