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

But the rushing water was tearing the ice floe out from under him. The current was strong. His
tenuous hold on the tree was slipping.

Marit flung herself bodily on Hugh just as he lost his grasp. Her numb fingers clutching at the back
of his leather vest, she fought to pull him from the river. She was on her knees; the water was
rising. If she failed, they would both go under. Desperately she held on to his vest, pulled it up
nearly over his head. Digging her knees into the mud, she dragged the man's heavy body backward.
Hugh was strong; he gave her what help he could. He kicked with his feet, sought purchase with his
flailing legs, and, finally, managed to squirm his way onto the bank.

He lay still, gasping and shivering with cold and terror. Hearing a rumbling sound, Marit looked
upriver. A wall of black water tinged with red foam, pushing huge chunks of ice in its path,
thundered downstream.

"Hugh!" she cried.

He raised his head, saw the rushing floodwaters. He staggered to his feet, began scrambling up the
bank. Marit was past helping him; she could barely make it herself. She collapsed onto firm, level
ground; was dimly aware of Hugh the Hand falling somewhere near her.

The river roared in rage at losing its prey; or perhaps that was only her imagination. She stilled her
rapid breathing, calmed the wild beating of her heart. Letting the rune-magic warm her, she
banished the terrible cold.

But she couldn't lie here long. The enemyтАФ chaodyn, wolfen, tiger-menтАФmust be hiding in the
woods, perhaps watching them even now. She glanced at the sigla tattooed on her skin; the glow of
the runes would warn her of approaching danger. Her skin was slightly blue, but that was with cold.
The sigla were dark.

This should have been reassuring, but it wasn't. It was illogical. Certainly some of those who had
attacked the city with such fury yesterday must still be lurking outside the city walls, waiting for a
chance to pick off a scouting party.
But the runes did not glimmer, except perhaps very, very faintly. If any of the enemy were about,
they were far away and not interested. Marit couldn't understand it and she didn't like it. This
uncanny absence of the foe frightened her more than the sight of a pack of wolfen.

Hope. When the Labyrinth offers you hope, it means that it is just about to snatch that hope away.

She pushed herself to a crouching position, alert and wary. Hugh the Hand lay huddled on the
ground. He was shivering uncontrollably, his body racked by chills. His lips were blue, his teeth
chattering so violently he'd bitten his tongue. Blood dribbled from his mouth.

Marit didn't know much about mensch. Could he die of the cold? Perhaps not, but he might fall
sick, slow her up. Moving about, walking, would warm his blood, but she had to get him on his feet
first. She recalled hearing from Haplo that rune-magic would work to heal mensch. Crawling over
to Hugh, she clasped her hands over his wrists, let the magic flow from her body to his.

His shaking ceased. Slowly, a tinge of color returned to his pallid face. At length, he sighed, fell
back on the ground, closed his eyes, letting the blissful warmth spread through his body.