"SM Stirling - Change 02 - Scourge of God" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stirling S. M)

Rudi looked over at the younger man. Edain went on:
УI can see why this Prophetscabhtщara made war on Boise and Deseret. I can see why he conspired with Martin Thurston. What I canТt see is why heТs so very sodding eager to catchus ФЧby which they both knew he meant RudiЧУthat heТs willing to endanger all his plots and plans hereabouts to do it.Ф
УHe knows,Ф Rudi said.
As he spoke he lifted the scabbard of his sword out of the sling at his belt and ran it through a set of loops on the quiver at his back, so that the long hilt ran up behind his right ear. That made drawing it just a hair more awkward, but it cut down on the chance of a betraying rattle; their planalso depended on going undetected as long as possible.
УHe knows what?Ф Edain said, puzzlement plain on his square young face even in the dimness.
HeТs a smart one,Rudi thought.
They put on their helmets; before Rudi did he pulled on his coif, a tight hood and collar of mail on padded leather. Most Mackenzies didnТt bother with one, thinking their brigandines of little steel plates riveted together between layers of leather or canvas were enough. But while Rudi was an excellent archer, the sword was his favored weapon, and that meant coming within hand-stroke distance.
But heТs very . . . practical. Gets it from his father.
УKnows what Ingolf found on Nantucket,Ф Rudi said when theyТd settled their gear, glancing eastward towards the Prophet and his armies. УAnd he knows what I am, and why IТm traveling there; knows it better than I do. And heТll do anything to stop me.Ф
УHow does he know all that?Ф one of the twins said.
УBecause something . . . Someone . . . walks with him,Ф Rudi said softly, as he picked up his strung bow. УIТve seen it before, once at least, though not as strongly. Or possibly that Being wears him like a glove. And that One is no friend to us, or to any of humankind.Ф
а
The four of them went the last thousand yards on their bellies, their bows resting across the crooks of their elbows as they crawled through the dry bunchgrass. Whoever commanded the Cutters had been wise not to start a fireЧbesides attracting attention, it would have killed the night vision of anyone who looked at it, and the temptation was irresistible to most people. Rudi could feel the hoofbeats of the guards approaching through the ground; he drew a deep breath, wordlessly invoked the Crow Goddess and Lugh, and rose smoothly to his feet.
Though it was dark and the kilt and plaid were fairly good camouflage, as was the dark green of their brigandines and helms, the sentries would spot them soon. And therefore . . .
And I donТt particularly like killing men, even bad ones. But itТs . . . Necessary, sometimes,he thought, and let the thought flow away with his next breath.
УYou take the one with the bow,Ф he said softly to Edain.
The man was fifty yards away, riding with a shaft on the string and his reins knotted on the cantle of his saddle, controlling the beast effortlessly with thighs and balance. His head came up before Edain started to move, prompted by some warning sign, but the Mackenzie arrow was on its way before the ProphetТs man could begin to bend the short thick recurve. Thesnap of the string on EdainТs bracer came a tiny instant before the tooth-grating crunch of the bodkin as it smashed its way into the manТs AdamТs apple and out through his neck bone.
That was showing off; they were the two best archers of their generation in Clan Mackenzie, and Edain was a bit touchy about it. RudiТs own shaft went through the second manТs chest, the safer center of mass, even at the price of the harder, loudercrack as it punched into the lacquered-leather armor.
The Cutter went over the cantle of his saddle with lance and shield flying to either side. The horses reared and neighed at the scent of blood, and there were shouts from the dark camp of the ProphetТs men. The twins broke to either side as hooves thundered in the dark, vanishing into a swifter version of their behind-the-lines crawl.
Good,Rudi thought, lips skinning back from his teeth, as the enemy approached with a twinkle of starlight on edged metal and a thunder of hooves he could feel through the soles of his boots.DidnТt occur to them to come on foot.
War out here in the dry rangelands was mostly a quicksilver mounted snap-and-run, a wolfpack business. Western OregonТs country of forest and farm-field had developed different ways after the Change. The Cutters were about to learn why Mackenzie longbows were the terror of every battlefield that saw them.
But thereТs only two of us, remember,Rudi thought.What I wouldnТt give for a hundred, and a how-captain shouting to let the gray geese fly!
He pulled the hundred-and-fifteen-pound draw past the angle of his jaw Clan-fashion, and loosed at the dim shape that was a rider brandishing a shete, aiming as much by instinct as by eye. The arrow vanished in the darkness with awhirrt and a flicker of gray vanes as the bow surged against his left hand. The right hand snapped back over his shoulder to the quiver, twitched out another shaft, put it to the string and drew with a smooth twist that was as much gut and torso as arms against the pressure of the yew stave, nock-draw-loose, as fast as a man counting aloud one-two-three. Beside him Edain did the same.
The Cutters recoiled for a moment, shouting in confusion amidst the screams of wounded men and horses. Then their officerТs voice overrode it; he was too far away to see and shoot, but Rudi and Edain both shifted aim to chance a dropping shaft at the sound. They were rewarded with a yelping curse, but the voice went on rallying his men, shouting that there couldnТt be many of whoever it was and damning them for cowards. TheywerenТt cowards, just jumpy and confused for an instant; they were veteran fighting men, and there were more than enough of them to overrun the two Mackenzies with numbers.
If the other part of the plan didnТt work, he was going to die in the next five minutes; it would either work very well, or not at all. If it failed he couldnТt even run away, not on foot.
He loosed at a flicker of movement; if the blade wasthere , then the man had to behere.
Not that he intended to run, anyway.
а
Knight-Brother Ignatius of the Order of the Shield of St. Benedict said his rosary as he waited, patient beneath the weight of his long mail hauberk and visored sallet helm, coif and vambraces and greaves and steel-backed gloves. His tall destrier snorted quietly and tossed its head with a muted clatter of peytral and chamfron and crinet, scenting the CuttersТ mounts in the darkness ahead, but too well trained to bugle a challenge.
УSo, so, Godfrey,Ф the priest soothed it, thumping the leather palm of his gauntlet down on the big geldingТs metal-covered neck. УSoon, soon, boy.Ф
Frederick Thurston sat his own mount beside the warrior-cleric; a dozen Boise cavalry formed a blunt wedge on either side of them, light horse in short mail-shirts, armed with saber and bow and small round shields. TheyТd remained loyal to the young man, believing his version of their rulerТs death rather than his elder brotherТs. And because the travelers from the West had saved his life in that massacre, the younger son was willing to risk all for them.
Impulsive. Still, he is only eighteen,Father Ignatius thought, from the lofty height of his mid-twenties; but he had been trained to self-command in a hard school.
Yet he is one who seeks the good, I think. In somebody who may have the rulingof men and lands, that is a pearl beyond price. Wisdom can be learnedЧable men are common, but good ones are far rarer.
УVery soon now, my son,Ф he said quietly.
FrederickТs nod was half seen in the night. Starlight glittered on honed metal as the Boiseans drew their curved swords. They left their bows cased in the boiled-leather scabbards at their knees; shooting in a nighttime melee was an invitation to friendly fire casualties. Ignatius pulled on the strap that slung his long kite-shaped shield over his back, shifting it around until he could run his arm through the loops, and then took the long ash lance in his right hand. A long deep breath, and one last prayer. It was too dark to make out the black cross and raven on its sheet-metal cover, but he knew they were there, and what those symbols stood for.
Suddenly they could all hear horses neighing in fear, and a sudden brabble of shouting from the camp three long bowshots ahead of them, and then a scream of human pain. And the war cry of the Church Universal and Triumphant:УCut! Cut! Cut!Ф
Ignatius filled his chest and shouted,УJesu-Maria!Ф from the bottom of his lungs.
He swung the lance-point forward as he did, bracing his feet in the long stirrups. The curved top of the shield came up under his eyes, the blunt point at the other end reaching down to his foot in the stirrup. The light Eastern quarter horses on either side picked up speed faster than his charger, and they were carrying a lot less weight anyway. But the destrier was seventeen hands tall, and a great deal of that was leg; it caught up quickly and then gained a little with each stride. Riding at this speed over unknown ground in the dark was asking for your horse to break a leg and roll over you when it fell . . .
But IТm riding towards men who want to kill me anyway,he thought.The Lord God has a sense of humor, eh?
The Boiseans were shouting,USA! USA! as they rode. Figures loomed up out of the night, on foot and horseback, scattering or turning to fight, and the sabers slashed. The long point of the knightТs lance took a mounted man in the belly; Ignatius could feel the doublecrunch-crunch up the ashwood as it speared through the front and back plates of the CutterТs armor.
Impact slammed him back against the high cantle of his war-saddle. Black under starlight, blood shot out of the CutterТs mouth in a spray that wet the clericТs shield and face. The lance broke across in a hard crack; he clubbed the stub of the shaft on a footmanТs head and then let it drop, sweeping out his cross-hilted sword.
УJesu-Maria!Фhe yelled again. Then: УA rescue! A rescue!Ф
а
Mathilda Arminger could see the Cutter leaderЧnot the officer in charge of the fighting men, but the one-eyed man named KuttnerЧstart erect and put a hand on the hilt of his shete. She tensed silently; the troopers hadnТt been gratuitously cruel, but they hit the captives if they tried to speak. Beside her Odard turned his head, blinking his eyes . . . or at least the one that wasnТt swollen nearly shut. HeТd kept trying to talk longer than she had. Her rage had been a slow-burning fire; now it swelled up, and hunger and thirst and aches dropped away, and even the maddening consciousness of her own filthy itchiness. She was suddenly very glad the enemy hadnТt bothered to take her armor, instead of being driven nearly mad by the heat and constriction.
ThatТs arrows!she thought exultantly as she hear the distinctivewhssst . Then:Careful. It might be rovers or deserters or bandits.
The Cutters knew her hostage value. Ordinary desert scum wouldnТt.
KuttnerТs mouth was open to shout when the noise came out of the west; horses in shocked fear, and then men.
УSee to it!Ф he snapped.
The Cutter officer was already moving, whistling sharply for his horse. The superbly trained animal trotted over to its master; he grabbed the horn of the saddle and swung up with a skipping vault as it went by, his feet finding the stirrups. A part of her grudgingly admired the horsemanship; the manТs leather-and-mail armor was lighter than a Western knightТs panoply, but it was still a formidable display.
Kuttner stayed on his feet, the heavy slightly curved sword that Easterners called a sheteЧderived from the tool, but lengthened in blade and hiltЧin his hand. His one blue eye probed the darkness. From it came the officerТs bark: