"Mithgar - Hel's Crucible - 01 - Into The Forge" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKiernan Dennis L)

Thd! Thd!

"Beau! Beau! Wake up!"

Again came the hammering on the cottage door and a rattling of the latch—Thd-thmp-clk-clttr!—followed by another call: "Beau! Blast it!" Thd-thd!

In the chill dark, Beau Darby groaned awake.

Thd!

"Ho—" croaked Beau, then, "Hold it! Are you trying to wake the dead?" Striving to not touch the floor at all, the buccan—"Ow, oh"—gingerly tiptoed across the cold wood to the door.

Thd! "Bea—!" the caller started to yell just as Beau clacked back the bar and flung open the portal. An icy waft of air drifted in. "Oh, there you are, Beau. Get dressed; grab your satchel. There's trouble afoot. I've a wounded man at the mill."

In the starlight and moonlight, Beau saw his friend of nearly two years—the only other Warrow living nigh Twoforks—standing on the doorstone of the cote, his bow in hand. They were nearly of the same age, these two, Tipperton a young buccan of twenty-three, Beau at twenty-two, though often in Twoforks they were treated as children simply because of their size.

"What is it, Tip?"

"I said, I've a wounded man at my mill."

"Wounded?"

"Aye. Rucks and Hloks. He's bleeding badly."

"Bleeding?"

"Yes, yes. That's what I said, bucco, bleeding." Tipperton pushed past Beau and limped into the cottage and began searching for a lantern. "They killed his horse. Tried to kill him, too. One even came at me. But he slew them all. Right there at the mill. Seven, eight Rucks and a Hlok." Tipperton caught up a lantern and lit it.

In the soft yellow light Tipperton looked across at Beau, that Warrow yet standing dumbstruck, his mouth agape, as was the door.

"Well, come on, Beau. Time's wasting."

Beau closed his mouth as well as the door and sprang across the room even as he pulled off his nightshirt. "Rucks and such? Here? In the Wilderland? Near Twoforks? Fighting at the mill?" He threw the garment on the rumpled bed and looked at Tipperton, his amber eyes wide with wonder. "What were they doing at the mill? And are you all right? I thought I saw you limping."

"Cut my foot on a piece of glass. My own fault. You can look at it when we've seen to the man. And as to what they were doing at the mill, I haven't the slightest idea. Happenstance, I would suppose."

Beau slipped into his breeks. "Why would Rucks and such be after a man, I wonder?"

Tipperton shrugged. "Who knows? And mayhap it was the other way about: him after them, I mean. But I'll tell you this: no matter the which of it, they're all dead and he's not... at least I don't think so. He was alive when I left him, but bleeding. Oh yes, bleeding. He took a lot of cuts, what with that mob and all. I bandaged him the best I could."

Tipperton agitatedly paced the room as Beau pulled his jerkin over his shoulder-length brown hair and slipped his arms into the sleeves. "Don't worry, Tip. I'm sure that if you bandaged him, we can save him."

"But what if those Ruck blades were poisoned? I mean, I've heard that they slather some dark and deadly taint on their swords."

Beau pulled on his boots and stood and stamped his feet into them. "All the more reason to hurry." He slipped into his down jacket and snatched up his medical satchel and turned to his friend. "I'm ready. Let's go."

Tipperton took up his bow and said, "Quash the light and leave it behind. The man said that there were more Rucks and such out there."