"Greg Keyes - Kingdoms of Thorn and Bone 2 - The Charnel Prince" - читать интересную книгу автора (Keyes J Gregory)

Church, resplendent in his lord’s plate, and five monks of the order of Saint Mamres—warriors all. They’d
arrived in Ehawk’s village four days ago and bargained for a native guide. The elders had appointed him,
for though Ehawk was scarcely beyond his seventeenth summer, there was no man more keenly gifted at
hunting and tracking. He’d been excited to go, for strangers were uncommon here near the Mountains of
the Hare, and he’d hoped to learn something of foreign lands.

He hadn’t been disappointed. Sir Oneu de Loingvele loved to talk of his adventures, and he seemed to have
been everywhere. The monks were quieter and somewhat frightening—except Gavrel, who was outspoken
and frightening—and Martyn, who was kind in his own brusque way. If he spoke laconically of his training
and his life, what he did have to say was usually interesting.

But one thing Ehawk had not learned—what these men were searching for. Sometimes he thought they
themselves did not know.
Sir Oneu doffed his conical helm and rested it under one arm. A stray beam of sunlight glinted from his
steel breastplate as he patted the neck of his warhorse to calm it. He shifted his gaze back to Martyn.

“Well, Brother?” he asked. “What are the saints whispering to you?”

“No saints, I think,” Martyn said. “A rustling, many men moving over the leaves, but they pant like dogs.
They make other strange sounds.” He turned to Ehawk. “What people live in these parts?”

Ehawk considered. “The villages of the Duth ag Pae are scattered through these hills. The nearest is
Aghdon, just up the valley.”

“Are they warriors?” Martyn asked.

“Not usually. Farmers and hunters, same as my people.”

“Are these sounds drawing nearer?” Sir Oneu asked.

“No,” Martyn replied.

“Very well. Then we’ll go on to this village and see what the local people have to say.”

“Not much to look at,” Sir Oneu observed half a bell later, when they reached Aghdon.

To Ehawk’s eyes, Aghdon wasn’t that different from his own village—a collection of small wooden houses
around a common square and a high-beamed longhouse where the chieftain lived.

The greatest difference was that his own village bustled with people, chickens, and pigs. Aghdon was
empty as a Sefry’s promise. “Where is everyone?” Sir Oneu asked. “Hallo? Anyone there?” But there
was no reply, and not a soul stirred. “Look here,” Martyn said. “They were trying to build a stockade.”
Sure enough, Ehawk saw that a number of fresh-cut timbers had been erected. Others logs had been cut,
but never set up.

“On your guard, fellows,” Sir Oneu said softly. “Let’s ride in there and see what happened to these folk.”

But there was nothing to be found. There were no bodies, no signs of violence. Ehawk found a copper
kettle with its bottom scorched out. It had been left on the cookfire, untended, until its contents had