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

"How many would you say?" Weed asked Darros, after the
other had ridden ahead for a closer look.
"Not very many, by all signs," the crossbowman replied.
"Looks like just a few people are keeping the inn going. Them
and maybe a few travellers, I'd guess. Strange their dogs haven't
scented us."
"Shouldn't be much trouble, then." Weed turned in the
darkness to give orders. Frassos did not respond when he called
his name.
"Frassos?" he called again.
No reply. His riderless horse wandered forward instead.
They conferred in startled bewilderment. Frassos had ridden
behind, guarding their rear. No one had heard him cry out; no one
had heard the sound of a fall.
"We're all of us done in twice over," suggested Braddeyas.
"Maybe he passed out and fell."
"We should have heard him if he did," Weed pointed out.
 "Should we go back and look for him?"
The red moon burned down on them from the misty ridges.
Weed shivered under its rusty glow, remembering the mountain
legends he had heard of this night.
"Does anyone want the job?"
It was too dark to see their eyes, but Weed sensed that no one
met his face.
"If Frassos is all right, he can catch up to us at the inn,"
muttered Seth. There was no confidence in his voice.




II
A Guest Returns

For the space of a dream, Klesst drifted in the restless sleep of
fever. Shaken front her half-sleep by sudden angry stridor, she
flung herself free of covers in frightened awakening.
The moon's burning eve stared at her through the rippled panes
of her window, and Klesst threw her hand to her lips to stifle air
outcry. From below in the inn, angry shouts, splintering clamour
of overturned benches, a raw scream of pain.
Had the black hound at last found her? Had it broken past the
door? Was it even now climbing the stairs to her room?
 But the angry voices continued. The words were indistinct to
her, but their tone was clear. Now more carious than afraid,
Klesst decided she must see what had happened.
Dizzily she dropped her feet to the floor and held fast to the
oak bedstead until steadiness returned to hot limbs. The night's
chill pierced her thin cotton shift, and she hurriedly wound about
her shoulders the woolen coverlet Greshha had woven for her.
For the moment, her fever had left her, and though suddenly