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

silently until bidden otherwise—and then eased himself forward, keeping low and inching with infinite care,
looking for a tripwire that might bring death out of that close and dark foliage. He found nothing.
Unlacing the cords that secured his needle-thin whip-blade shortsword, Craer thrust it out before him
and waved it around. Its blade was black and dull finished, but the grease that might keep it from rusting
glistened in the first light of the rising moon. Nothing happened, even when he touched the walkway and
pressed down hard. Then he sighed, shrugged, and stepped forward and down, knowing this was going to
be a mistake.
It was, but Hawkril had joined him before something brushed Craer's leg. He spun away, and felt leather
tear. Looking down, he stared at a humanlike arm that had sprouted out of the stones to clutch at him.
Another was reaching for Hawkril—and a third!
"'Ware!" he snarled, shoving the armaragor away from him. His skin crawled as he saw a forest of
finger-tips growing out of the stones, now. "Jump!" he hissed. "We've got to get gone before—"
Cruel stone fingers clutched them from all sides.
"Horns!" Hawkril swore, and put his whole body behind a swing of his war sword. Craer heard stone
shat-ter and shards clack and clatter off the stones around the swordmaster, an instant before he bent to
hammer with the pommel of his own blade at the stony hands now tightening with crushing force around his
own ankles.
"Get off the wall!" he snarled in Hawkril's direction, twisting and stamping his feet as he whacked aside
stabbing fingers of stone.
He heard the tall armaragor grunt with effort, and something struck his leg a numbing blow. Craer felt
wetness in his boot—and sudden freedom. He spun away into space, drawing up his knees to land in what
he hoped was earth and not spikes or the waiting jaws of some guardian beast.
His heels found soft earth and leaves that tore under him—and then he was rolling desperately out of
the way, as an off-balance armaragor, arms flailing, toppled down out of the night almost on top of him. The
pro-curer felt another blow on his leg ... and then silence fell. He drew in a deep breath and sprang to his
feet, tugging at Hawkril.
"There may be a warning spell! Come!"
The armaragor answered him with a groan and then a curse. As he rolled over to find his feet almost
reluc-tantly, what was left of some spiny, berry-bedecked shrub fell from his back and shoulders. Hawkril
looked down, found that he'd crushed whatever it was thor-oughly, and waded rather stiffly out of its
shattered ruin onto what must be a moss path. The garden ahead was a maze of moon-silvered tree trunks,
winding paths, and beds of half-seen, shadowed flowers and shrubs. It seemed to be a succession of gentle
hills.
Craer was already a few paces down the path, crouching and peering intently as he drew on soft (and
sopping) leather gloves. "They say the baron hunts stags here," he murmured, "and that his daughter
wan-ders idly about in floral gardens that are probably that way."
Without another word the procurer set off in the di-rection he'd pointed, in a sort of crouching run. He
seemed to be limping. Ignoring his own pains, Hawkril dug in his heels and lumbered along in pursuit,
grum-bling, "If she's wandering around a garden right now, in the dark, it won't be for idle purposes . . . not
unless she's a deal less sane than most of us."
Neither of the intruders saw the wall behind them ripple and bulge, for all the world as if it was pudding
being mixed vigorously and not old and massive stone.
One of the crenellations toppled suddenly, and seemed to flow through the walkway and downward
rather than crashing and shattering. When it reached the torn flowerbed where the two men had landed, it
stopped, and its shape seemed to shift subtly. When it moved again, it walked like a man—a lumbering
knight in full armor, visor down and stony blade raised to slay, its free hand wearing a massive spiked war
gauntlet.
It moved stiffly, as if a little uncertain of its surround-ings, but its course was clear: it was following the
in-truders, sword raised and ready to slay.