"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Dus 3 - Sword Of Bheleu" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

opportunity to surrender to me. Any trade in Skelleth will be by my rules. I
will forgive you this one intrusion, but the next time armed overmen come
here, I will send word to the High King at Kholis. Now, put away that
ridiculous sword and go, all of you; leave me in peace!"
Garth's mounting fury could no longer be contained; he spun the Sword of
Bheleu over his head, screaming, and then hurled it at the Baron's back as the
man stepped through the doorway.
With a roar, the sword burst into flame in mid-air, and plunged burning
into the Baron's back; his embroidered robe blazed up immediately as two feet
of fiery, bloodstained blade protruded from his chest.
Despite the obvious force of the blow which had so easily pierced him,
the Baron staggered and remained upright. He turned one last time, to face out
toward the marketplace; his clothes and hair were lost in red flame. For an
instant it seemed to Garth that his eyes, too, were afire.
"Fool!" he said; then he toppled forward onto his face. The sharp impact
with the threshold drove the blade backward through his chest and out his
back; as he twitched one final time it came free and fell forward across one
shoulder, its hilt pointed directly at Garth.


CHAPTER SEVEN

There was a frozen moment of near-silence; the only sound was the crackling of
the flames. For long seconds, no one moved.
Garth thought he heard soft, mocking laughter; he turned, but could not
locate its source. The fury still boiled within him, but when he had thrown
the sword its hold had loosened, and he was able to think again.
As he looked around, he saw shock and astonishment on every face; humans
and overmen alike were staring at the burning corpse. No one was laughing; no
one smiled; no one spoke. Then one of the guardsmen broke the silence,
speaking in a harsh whisper that carried to every corner of the square. "Black
magic!"
Another voice, this one from one of the crowded streets, shouted, "Kill
them! Kill the overmen!" Garth spun about and thought he saw the shouter, an
old man wearing dark red who stood in the forefront of the crowd in the street
that led to the West Gate. He had no chance to reply or to make certain of his
identification before he heard the snap of a bowstring. Instinctively, he
ducked.
For the second time that day, an arrow whistled over his head; it
continued on, to scrape against Galt's breastplate before falling to the clear
ground between the soldiers of Skelleth and the first row of warbeasts.
"Down! Get down!" Garth called; following his own advice, he slid from
the saddle. As he reached the ground, a ragged volley of arrows followed,
coming from all directions.
Immediately, he understood the entire situation and berated himself for
not anticipating it. He had seen the twenty-five guardsmen in front of the
mansion and considered them to be the entire force, even though he knew there
were more than thirty men in the Baron's service. The others had been
stationed in windows and on rooftops all around the square. The Baron had been
a clever man, even in his madness. It was possible there were other dangers