"Janny Wurts - That way lies Camelot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wurts Janny)

fountains around his chin.
She gripped him under his flaccid arms and dragged mightily.
Despite her best effort, his head dipped under the flood. He
swallowed a mouthful, gagging on salt, while she grunted in tearful
frustration. The wave sucked back. He dragged his face free of its
deadly, clinging currents with the dregs of his failing strength. His
feet seemed fastened to the shoaling sands as if they were moored in
place.
Belatedly suspicious, Sabin kept tugging. 'Your ankles. Are they
in irons also?'
He made a sound between a laugh, a sob, and a cough. 'Always.'
His floundering efforts managed to coordinate for a moment with
hers. Together they stumbled a few yards shoreward, harried on by
flooding water. Again the wave ebbed and he sank and bumped against
the sand. Panting, Sabin locked her fingers in his shirt. She held
him braced against the hungry drag of the sea, desperate, while her
heart raced drumrolls with the surf. Something was not quite right,
she thought, her stressed mind sluggish to reason. The incoming tide
carried no flotsam, not a stick or a plank that a shipwrecked man
might have used to tioat his way ashore. 'You never swam,' she
accused again, as he regained the surface and spluttered.
Weak as he was, her sharpness stung him. He raised his chin, and
eyes that were piercingly clear met hers, lit by the uncertain
moonlight. 'I didn't.' His voice held a roughness like harpstrings
slackened out of tune. 'I begged help from the seaborne spirits that
can be called to take the shape of horses. They answered and drew

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