"Terry Goodkind - Sword of Truth 9 - Chainfire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goodkind Terry)

As they raced along, the unpainted wooden walls of a small building came
into view, followed by a twisting livestock fence weathered to a sil-ver gray.
Startled chickens squawked in fright as they scattered out of the way. Men
shouted orders. Richard hardly noticed the ashen faces watching him being
carried past as he stiffened himself against the dizzying pain of the rough
journey. It felt as if he were being ripped apart.
The whole mob around him funneled through a narrow doorway and
shuffled into the darkness beyond.
"Here," the first woman said. Richard was surprised to realize, then, that it
was Nicci's voice. "Put him here, on the table. Hurry."
Richard heard tin cups clatter as someone swept them aside. Small items
thunked to the ground and bounced across a dirt floor. The shutters banged
back as they were flung open to let some of the flat light into the musty room.
It appeared to be a deserted farmhouse. The walls tilted at an odd angle as
if the place were having difficulty standing, as if it might collapse at any
moment. Without the people who had once made it home, given it life, it had
the aura of a place waiting for death to settle in.
Men holding his legs and arms lifted him and then carefully set him down
on the crudely hewn plank table. Richard wanted to hold his breath against
the crushing agony radiating from the left side of his chest, but he desperately
needed the breath that he couldn't seem to get.
He needed the breath in order to speak.
Lightning flashed. A moment later thunder rumbled heavily.
"Lucky we made it into shelter before the rain," one of the men said.
 Nicci nodded absently as she leaned close, groping purposefully across
Richard's chest. He cried out, arching his back against the heavy wooden
tabletop, trying to twist away from her probing fingers. The other woman
immediately pressed his shoulders down to keep him in place.
He tried to speak. He almost got the words out, but then he coughed up a
mouthful of thick blood. He started choking as he tried to breathe.
The woman holding his shoulders turned his head aside. "Spit," she told
him as she bent close.
The feeling of not being able to get any air brought a flash of hot fear.
Richard did as she said. She swept her fingers through his mouth, working to
clear an airway. With her help he finally managed to cough and spit out
enough blood to be able to pull in some of the air he so desperately needed.
As Nicci's fingers probed the area around the arrow jutting from the left
side of his chest, she cursed under her breath.
"Dear spirits," she murmured in soft prayer as she tore open his blood-
soaked shirt, "let me be in time."
"I was afraid to pull out the arrow," the other woman said. "I didn't know
what would happen—didn't know if I should—so I decided I'd better leave it
and hope I could find you."
"Be thankful you didn't try," Nicci said, her hand slipping under Richard's
back as he writhed in pain. "If you'd pulled it out he'd be dead by now."
"But you can heal him." It sounded more a plea than a question.
Nicci didn't answer.
"You can heal him." That time the words hissed out through gritted teeth.
At the tone of command born of frayed patience, Richard realized that it
was Cara. He hadn't had time to tell her before the attack. Surely she would