"Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - Deathgate Cycle 7 - The Seventh Gate" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weis Margaret)

A hand touched his arm.

"Look, Headman. They have made it safely to the river."

One of the Patryns, standing beside Vasu, had obviously mistaken his sigh, thought it indicated fear
for the two who had left the city in the dark hour before the dawn. They were embarking on a
dangerous and probably futile search for the green and golden dragon who had fought for them in
the skies above Abri. The green and golden dragon was the Serpent Mage, who was also the
bumbling Sartan with the mensch name, Alfred.

Certainly Vasu was afraid for them, but he was also hopeful for them. That same illogical,
irrational hope.

Vasu was not a man of action. He was a man of thought, of imagination. He had only to look at his
soft and pudgy Sartan body, tattooed with Patryn runes, to know that. He must give thought to what
his people should do next. He should make plans, he should decide how they must prepare for the
inevitable. He should tell them the truth, give his speech of despair.

But he didn't do any of that. He stood on the walls, watching the mensch known as Hugh the Hand
and the Patryn woman Marit.

He told himself he would never see them again. They were venturing out into the Labyrinth,
dangerous at any time but doubly dangerous now that their defeated enemies skulked about in
anger and waited for revenge. The two were going on a foolhardy and hopeless mission. He would
never see them again, nor Alfred, the Serpent Mage, the green and golden dragon, for whom they
searched.

Vasu stood on the wall and waitedтАФhopefullyтАФfor their return.

The River of Anger, which flowed beneath the city walls of Abri, was frozen. Its water had been
frozen by their enemies, by spells cast on it. The hideous dragon-snakes had turned the river to ice
in order that their troops could cross more easily.

Clambering down the rock-strewn sides of the river-bank, Marit smiled grimly. The tactics of her
enemy would serve her.

There was just one small problem.
"You say this was done by magic?" Hugh the Hand, sliding down the bank behind her, skidded to a
halt beside the black ice floe. He jabbed at it with the toe of his boot. "How long will the spell
last?"

That was the problem.

"I don't know," Marit was forced to admit.

"Yeah." Hugh grunted. "I thought as much. It might end when we're standing in the middle."

"It might." Marit shrugged. If that happened, they would be lost. The rushing black water would
suck them down, chill their blood, grind their bodies against the sharp rocks, fill their lungs with