"ED Greenwood - Band of Four 01 - The Kingless Land" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenwood Ed)

island, to the rough outcropping in the otherwise sheer castle walls, where a jetty had been torn away at the
or-ders of Faerod Silvertree—to keep unwanted visitors far from his daughter.
Their only hope of even reaching the castle alive was to get to it before the moon rose and transformed
the river into a sheet of rippling silver. Even a yawning guard could hardly miss two heads moving steadily
nearer.
Tarry, old moon ... for once.. . .
"Close, now," Craer gasped, so quietly that Hawkril only just caught the words. As their fingertips
brushed wet and slimy stone at about the same time, the pro-curer added in an almost soundless breath,
"Seems like we've been in this bebolten river all night!"
He shivered like a swift-wriggling eel as he clawed himself up the broken face of rock, a dark and
glisten-ing shadow in front of Hawkril's nose. They both wore carry-sacks and bore their weapons lashed
into goose-greased scabbards . .. and they were both cold, wet, and having second thoughts about this
bold—ah, by the Three, call it true and call it "foolish"—plan.
"Ready?" Craer asked in Hawkril's ear, as the ar-maragor clambered up onto a rock shelf beside him
and tugged off one boot to let far too much river water spill out.
"No, but if we meet a guard, I can always drown him," the swordmaster muttered, carefully working his
boot back on. They both wore their light fighting-leathers without the battle padding that, when wet, would
have made it too heavy to climb in. At least the walls here were rough set and easy to scale. No doubt the
Lords Silvertree, down the years, hadn't given much thought to the steadily diminishing ranks of thieves
idi-otic enough to try to drop in on a succession of barons known for their cruelty, slave-dealings, and love
of tor-ture. It seemed that the latest flowering of the line, Baron Faerod, was no more vigilant.
"Well, that's it: he's doomed now, the fool," Craer told himself in silent sarcasm, as he wiped his
fingertips on the stone walls until he judged them dry enough and reached up to find his first fingerholds.
The palace was somewhere on the far side of the is-land, with a Silvertree riverboat—according to local
gossip, the home of restless Silvertree soldiery set there to intercept attempts by enemies of the baron to
use his ferry—anchored not far off its walls.
Hopefully no one and nothing dwelt or guarded the walls just here, where the pavilion and jetty had been
torn down, and two desperate men were now making their way up. "Desperate, or just foolish," Craer
grunted, not realizing he'd spoken aloud until he heard Hawkril answer from below.
"Master it, Longfingers: you're desperate. I'm just foolish, look you?"
Craer grinned into the darkness and climbed on with-out answering. The going was easy—too easy, old
in-stincts were shrieking at him—and they were almost at the crenellations that topped the wall already.
He'd heard and seen no sign of sentries, but...
Straining to make no sound, and to hear even the slight whistle of sliced air a stealthily swung weapon
might make, the procurer hauled himself up onto smooth stone strewn with bird droppings—a thankful sign
of neglect—between two merlons. The wall was thick and showed not the slightest signs of weathering,
here at its top. Not the slightest signs .. .
The hair rose on the back of his neck. A frowning Craer unlaced the ties on two of his daggers. Then,
swallowing, he crawled forward to make room for Hawkril. The armaragor was patting his leg impatiently,
wanting to get clear of the danger of a killing fall back down to the cold, waiting river.
A simple, railless walkway ran along the inside of the walls for as far as the lastalan's eyes could see in
ei-ther direction, without stair or tower or platform to break its run. It seemed deserted, silent trees standing
in thick ranks right in front of them. The walkway was perhaps the height of three men aboveground. It
didn't seem to bear any traps or pitfalls but was in truth largely lost in darkness.
Some spells give off a faint, high singing, an endless keening of aroused magic ... but there was no such
sound here. The trees had been trimmed to keep ambi-tious boughs from reaching out to overhang the
walk-way. Craer looked up and down the deserted curve of the wall, frowning, but could see nothing amiss.
Behind him, he could feel more than hear Hawkril's heavy breathing on his shoulder. Something was
wrong....
He reached back and tapped the armaragor's arm de-liberately, twice—the Blackgultan signal to wait