"David Gemmell - Rigante 3 - Ravenheart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

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Set in 10/12pt Sabon by Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd.
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Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox 8c Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire.
Ravenheart is dedicated with love to the memory of Bill Woodford, a big, flawed, tough and kindly man.
During the Second World War he fought with distinction at El Alamein, Anzio, Salerno and Monte Cassino,
and was mentioned in despatches twice for gallant conduct. In 1954 he married a woman he adored, and raised
her son as his own. As I said in the dedication to Legend, back in 1984, without him Druss the Legend would
never have walked the walls of Dros Delnoch. He was at the heart of many of the heroes I have created over the
years - none more so than Jaim Grymauch, whose story is told within these pages.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS




Many people helped to make Ravenheart the joy it was to create. To my test readers, Jan Dunlop, Tony Evans,
Alan Fisher, Stella Graham and Steve Hutt, many thanks. I am grateful also to editors Steve Saffel of Del Rey
and Selina Walker of Transworld for their valuable input, and to Nancy Webber for copy-editing the
manuscript and improving it.
Lastly my thanks to the guys from the good old days for fond memories of teamwork, rows, fun and occasional
craziness - Tony Goring, Bunk Harffey, Peter Hart, Ray Hodd, Dave Lyons, Pete Robertson, 'Shuffler', Brian
Smith, Pete Stevens, Tom Taylor and Glen Veness.

PROLOGUE




THE SUN WAS SETTING AND LANOVAR SAT SLUMPED AGAINST THE STONE, the last of the
sunlight bathing him in gold. There was a little heat in this dying winter sun, and the brightness felt good
against his closed lids. Lanovar sighed and opened his eyes. The huge figure of Jaim Grymauch stood close by,
gazing down at him.
'Let me carry you to the Wyrd, Lan,' he said. 'She'll cast some ancient spell and heal you.'
'In a while, my friend. I'll just rest here and gather my strength.'
Grymauch swore and turned away. Loosening the strap at his shoulder he swung the massive broadsword clear
of his back. The black hilt was almost a foot long, crowned with an iron globe pommel. The curved quillons
were beautifully crafted to represent the flared wings of a hunting falcon. Drawing the fifty-two-inch blade
from the scabbard, Grymauch examined the sword in the fading light. There were still bloodstains upon the
blade and he wiped them away with the hem of his black cloak. Beside him Lanovar lifted clear the wedge of
blood-soaked cloth he had been holding to the wound in his side. The bleeding had slowed, and the pain was