"Karl Edward Wagner - Ravens Eyrie" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wagner Karl Edward)

scratched the dirty bandages that bound his own hairy forearm.
Signs of recent and desperate combat marked each man of their
small band.
"I don't like to stop," frowned Weed, assuming Kane's
leadership. "They're too close on us to risk it."
Braddeyas drew his cloak tighter about his narrow shoulders.
"Kane won't last till morning unless we rest."
"Pleddis won't push on through these mountains tonight,"
offered Darros, who had ridden back to join them. "Why won't
be?" Weed demanded. "He must know we're only hours ahead of
him. The bastard's probably counting his bounty money right
now!"
The dark-bearded crossbowman shook his head decisively.
"Then he'll be counting it beside a roaring fire. You won't find
nobody riding these trails tonight. Not with this moon. A man will
risk his life for gold maybe, but not his soul."
Weed glanced toward the rising moon in sudden awareness.
The long-limbed bandit was from the island Pellin, and not a
native of Lartroxia. Nonetheless, years of raiding along the
continent's hinterlands had made him familiar with the tales and
legends of the Myceum Mountains. He looked at the red moon of
autumn and remembered.
"The Demonlord's Moon," he whispered.
"Pleddis will have to make camp," Darros asserted. "His men
won't ride past nightfall. He'll have to wait for dawn before he
takes up our trail again."
"We can risk a halt, then," Weed surmised.
"We've no choice," commented Darros, his jaw set.
The two remaining members of their band, tall Frassos and
crop-eared Seth, proclaimed agreement by their grimfaced
silence.
"By the red moon of autumn, the Demonlord hunts;
His black hound beside him, lie seeks along the ridges,
Hunting blood for demonhound, souls for Demonlord..."
"Shut up, Braddeyas!" growled Weed, his ragged nerves
overstrung by the creeping sense of fear.
"We ain't going to make camp along the trail, are we?"
mumbled Seth uneasily. "Kane's just dead weight, and that's only
five of us to wait through the night."
"Any other ideas?" demanded Weed. "Night's coming on fast."
Kane's head did not lift from where he slumped against his
horse's neck, but his voice slurred thickly: "Raven's Eyrie."
"What'd he say?" Weed asked.
 "Raven's Eyrie," answered Braddeyas, bending close to Kane.
He held water to their leader's cracked lips, then shook his head.
"Still unconscious. Like he's saving up what strength he has. I've
seen him do this before."
"Any idea what be meant?"
"Raven's Eyrie is an inn not far, maybe two miles from here,"
explained Darros, who knew the region well. "It overlooks the