"Reichert, Mickey - Renshai 1 - Last Of The Renshai" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichert Mickey Zucker)

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.

18 Mickey Zucker Reichert

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.

The woods seemed to close in on Rache, blotting the meager light of the moon. He sprinted over the paths from memory, racing toward home and the sounds of battle growing louder.

"Modi!" The cry came from ahead, in the voice of Rache's sister. His heart leapt, despite the anguish in the shout. I'm getting closer. They weren't caught asleep. Without enough breath for a battle cry, Rache burst from the woods. Moonlight dazzled him, intensified by a myriad reflections off swords and shields. Some of the enemy wore chain shirts that hung to their knees, but the Ren-shai disdained armor, shields, and bows as cowards' toys. Swords dulled red with blood capered like living things, a fierce chaos of slash and counter. Even the youngest Renshai outmaneuvered the enemy, Northmen each one, but Rache counted four invaders for every friend.

A blade sliced for Rache's chest. He blocked, catching a stroke so powerful, his hands stung with the impact. Ignoring the pain, he bore in. He slammed his foot onto the enemy's, crashed his knee into the groin. The Northman off-balanced. Pressing his advantage, Rache cut for the neck. Before the blow could fall, a hand clapped to Rache's forehead, and strong arms ripped him backward. Rache toppled, scarcely managing to keep hold of his sword. A blade in his new opponent's hand whisked for his face. Rache parried, rolling to his feet. A back-step realigned him, an enemy to either side.

Both sprang at him. Rache lunged, in a feint, for the man who had felled him. The other made a wild attack for Rache's unshielded back. At the last instant, Rache spun and slashed at the one behind. The sword whisked beneath the shield, opening the man's gut. He crumpled as Rache whirled back to his other opponent with a frantic sweep meant only to force the enemy back.

They squared off. Smoke burned Rache's eyes, and he gasped for each hot, dry breath. His chest felt on fire; his lungs rattled as if filled with blood. Beyond his op-

The Last of the Renshai

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ponent, there was no sign of his sister. He could see his mother engaged with three Northmen. His father, Kall-mir, wove an agile web of steel between himself and his single opponent, driving his Northman to the edge of the woods.

Rache lunged.

Suddenly, Kallmir spun and caught Rache's enemy by the hair. With a single stroke, he decapitated the Northman before placidly returning to his own battle.

Rache pulled his own thwarted thrust, for the moment without an adversary. He turned, scanning the masses for an enemy, when a hand closed over his own. He whirled, sword poised, recognized his mother and held the blow. "Mama?"

Sweat plastered yellow ringlets to her forehead. Her raised brows and the crinkles in her young face revealed an internal struggle. Her eyes looked as glazed as a becalmed sea, and her taut expression frightened him. "Rache, come with me." She dragged at his wrist, drawing him away from the battle.

Rache tripped hesitantly after her. "Mama?" Her behavior made no sense to him. To run from combat was cowardice. Already, a new wave of Northmen had joined the fray, and a chorus of "Modi's" rose like echoes in a dozen different voices, each spurring Rache back to the fight. "Mama!"

Rache's mother shifted her grip from his flesh to the material at the back of his tunic. She yanked, breaking into a trot, hauling an unwilling Rache behind her. "Rache, come with me. Just come with me."

Rache staggered.

A moment later, Kallmir drew up, panting, beside them. "What are you doing?"

No answer. His mother broke into a ragged run, Rache bouncing along with her.

"What the hell are you doing?" Kallmir was shouting now. "You're setting a bad example. There's a war!"

"I have my reasons," she snapped back. Her pace quickened.

Rache howled, struggling now. My mother's gone insane.