"Brian Lumley - Necroscope 2 - Wamphyri!" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)

He got his hundred men; also, like it or not, his banner: a golden dragon, one forepaw raised in
warning. 'The dragon of the true Christ, brought to us by the Greeks,' Vlad told him. 'Now the
dragon watches over Christian Kiev - Russia itself - and it roars from your banner with the voice of
the Lord! What mark of your own will you put on it?' On that same morning he had asked this
question of half-a-dozen other fledgling defenders, five Boyars with their own followers and one
band of mercenaries. All of them had taken a symbol to fly with the dragon. But not Thibor.


'I'm no Boyar, sire,' the Wallach had told him with a shrug. 'That's not to say my father's house
was not honourable, for it was, and built by a decent man - but in no way royal. No lord's or
prince's blood flows in my veins. When I've earned myself a mark, then I'll set it over your dragon.'


'I'm not sure I like you especially, Wallach.' The Vlad had frowned then, uneasy with this
great, grim man before him. 'Your voice sounds out perhaps a trifle loud from a heart as yet untried.
But - ' and he, too, had given a shrug, ' - very well, choose a device for yourself when you return in
triumph. And Thibor - bring me those thumbs or I'll likely string you up by yours!' And that day at
noon seven polyglot companies of men had set out from Kiev, reinforcements for the ensieged
defensive positions on the Ros. One year and one month later Thibor returned with nearly all of his
men, plus another eighty recruited from peasants hiding in the foothills and valleys of the southern
Khorvaty. He made no plea for audience but strode into the Vlad's own church where he was at
worship. He left his weary men outside and took in with him only one small sack that rattled, and
approached Prince Vladimir Svyatoslavich at his prayers and waited for him to finish. Behind him
Kiev's civilian nobles were deathly silent, waiting for their prince to see him.


Finally the Vlad and his Greek monks turned to Thibor. The sight they saw was fearsome.
Thibor had soil on him from the fields and forests; dirt was ingrained in him; he bore a freshly healed
scar high on his right cheek to the middle of his jaw, which made a pale stripe of scar tissue that cut
almost to the bone. Also, he had gone away as a peasant and returned something else entirely.
Haughty as a hawk, with his nose slightly hooked under bushy eyebrows that very nearly came
together in the middle, he gazed out of yellow, unblinking eyes. He wore moustaches and a scraggy,
twisting black beard; also the armour of some Pechenegi chief, chased in gold and silver, and an
earring set with a gemstone in the lobe of his left ear. He had shaved his head with the exception of
black forelocks that hung one to each side, in the manner of certain nobles; and in all his mien, there
was no sign that he knew he stood in a holy place or even considered his whereabouts.


'I know you now,' the Vlad hissed, 'Thibor the Wallach. Don't you fear the true God? Don't
you tremble before the cross of Christ? I was praying for our deliverance, and you-'


'And I have brought it to you.' Thibor's voice was deep, doleful. He tipped out his sack onto
the flags. The prince's retinue and the nobles of Kiev where they stood back from him who ruled
over them gasped and gaped. Bones clattered white in a heap at the Vlad's feet.


'What?' he choked. 'What?'