"Sean Russell - The Initiate Brother 2 - Gatherer of Clouds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russell Sean)

the unaccomplished daughters of peasant farmers. Komawara feared that, having seen women of true culture and great
beauty, he would have little hope of a happy life with the match he would likely make.

Another clump of falling snow brought him back to matters at hand. He could no longer see the barbarian tracks.
Darkness had become complete. Bending close to the ground and feeling lightly with his hand, he discovered that the
trail had not merely been hidden by darkness—it was gone.

An owl hooted somewhere in the mist. A dark-wing rattled its bill. They must have left the trail not far behind, he
thought. By Botahara! the young lord found himself almost whispering, what if I have passed close to them in the
mist? He whirled around and half drew his sword without intending to, convinced that barbarian warriors stalked him.
Calming his heart with an effort, Komawara listened for what he feared most: the small sounds of armored men
attempting to move in silence.

Waiting without the tiniest movement until his muscles ached, Komawara decided finally that the barbarians remained
unaware of him. He began to retrace his steps,

counting them consciously. Five paces, then stop; listen. He searched the ground as best he could, his hands
beginning to ache from the cold of the wet snow and melt water. Five paces more.

The tracks reappeared. Komawara could feel the depressions made by many hooves in the soft mud. Following them
carefully, he found a path branching off down the slope into the black curling mist.

He searched about in the darkness until his hand encountered a sapling to which he tethered his horse, hoping she
would not spook when he left her. As a precaution he took his saddlebags from her back and set them out of reach of
her hooves, praying that he would be able to find them again. Opening one bag he found some bread that was not yet
soaked and ate, crouched in the darkness and light rain. The barbarians would be forced to make a camp nearby, he
thought, they are as blind as I in this darkness and fog.

He listened. The sounds of the Jai Lung Hills surrounded him: creaking trees, meltwater running into streams. An owl
called again and the lord wondered if it truly was an owl. But nothing seemed amiss; there were no sounds that rang
untrue to this place nor was there an unnatural silence. The tribesmen are part of their world, even here, he thought.

Finishing his bread Komawara set off to follow the track, now crouching, now on all fours—fighting an absurd fear
that he would come upon a sleeping man in the darkness, discovering too late that he had blundered into the barbarian
encampment. But this was not to be. The sounds of voices came to him and then, unmistakably, the smell of smoke.

Komawara stopped again. What would he do now? If the fog lifted in the morning, he could go looking for his guard,
but the barbarians might well disappear while he searched. The lord was not confident that they could track the
tribesmen, especially if they did not wish to be followed. Bandits, he thought, and snorted. Bandits indeed.

He moved toward the voices. I will watch them for now, he told himself, and make decisions when I know what they
will do at sunrise.

The barbarians made their camp in an opening amidst the pines, a rock outcropping on one side giving protec-

tion from prevailing winds. Even before he could see the light, he could hear the hissing of wet wood as it
steamed and smoked on the fire. Komawara felt his hunger waken as the smell of cooking came to him.
They poach the Emperor’s deer, he found himself thinking, and almost smiled at his reaction.

Hiding himself behind fractured rocks, the lord lowered himself to the wet ground, prepared for a long vigil