"Mary Ann Steele - Warrior Woman - The Forge of a Legend" - читать интересную книгу автора (Steele Mary Ann)

others: mortal foes intertwined in a final, grim embrace. Black-clad, still
forms littered the deck in far greater plenitude than did those shrouded in
dull slate blue. Pools of crimson glistened wetly. Smears of the same gaudy
hue accented the uniform drabness of the walls. A brooding silence hung in
sweat-tainted air lately vibrating with shouts, shrieks, sharp cracks of
electronic weaponry, the dull thudding of boots on metal plates, the ringing
chime of sword on red-streaked sword.

Feet planted wide apart, lithe body quivering with passion, blue eyes blazing,
sword-arm and bright blade splashed with life-blood not her own, Signe glared
in regal wrath at the pressure-proof door of the now-airless lock, well aware
that the Commander of the Third Columbian Military Corps at this very moment
ascended unscathed into the black void of interworld space. Sharply
conflicting emotions warred in the Gaean leader's mind. Norman still lives !
she raged inwardly. The instigator of this costly war escaped unhurt--damn his
slime-rotted black soul! But he's in transit back to Columbia--soundly
defeated!

We've achieved our foremost goal--driven the invaders off our world, over the
broken bodies of these poor bastards Norman abandoned. Knowing that their
leader just callously sacrificed their lives, these Columbian spacer-fighters
absolutely refused to surrender--died to give the brute the precious time he
needed to battle his way to this lock, board his ship and escape. Well, our
ten-Earthyear-long struggle on the surface just ended, but a new challenge
lies ahead. Norman started this war, but I'll fight it to a finish he and his
imperialistic countrymen can't conceive possible!

Two tall figures strode up to stand on either side of the Commander. As the
elder man laid an arm in a purely comradely gesture across Signe's shoulders,
bleached blue eyes deeply set in a seamed visage disfigured by an old,
slanting, sword-cut scar mirrored the emotions racking the victorious world
leader. As if some momentary flash of mental telepathy united the minds of the
two veteran fighters, Signe sensed that Conor's train of thought paralleled
her own. When she turned to meet his glance, he drawled softly, "Too high a
price, these gallant fools paid. Norman should be lying dead on this deck."

"I agree," Signe rasped.

"He would be, had these men surrendered," Morgan acknowledged, won to grudging
admiration of intransigent foes bent on extracting a final measure of revenge
even as they drew their last rattling breaths. His fluidly expressive face
swiftly changed as he surveyed the carnage. Contempt flashed across an open,
comely countenance spattered with caked gore slowly dissolving in sweat.
Having sheathed a long, rapier-like blade, the younger man ran a hand through
a thatch of thick auburn hair in an habitual, unconscious gesture. "Norman
didn't step out of character when he made his exit, that's for damned sure,"
he observed acidly.

Circumventing the huddled corpse of a fallen foe, Eric silently studied
Signe's expression. Sensing her acute frustration, sharing it, the Senior