"David Weber & Linda Evans - Hells Gate" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weber David)

with Eric Flint:
1633
 with John Ringo:
March Upcountry
March to the Sea
March to the Stars
We Few

with Linda Evans:
Hell's Gate
Hell Hath No Fury (forthcoming)

Baen Books by Linda Evans

Far Edge of Darkness
Time Scout (with Robert Asprin)
For King and Country (with Robert Asprin)




Chapter One
The tall noncom could have stepped straight out of a recruiting poster. His fair hair and height were a
legacy from his North Shalhoman ancestors, but he was far, far away—a universe away—from their
steep cliffs and icy fjords. His jungle camo fatigues were starched and ironed to razor-sharp creases as
he stood on the crude, muddy landing ground with his back to the looming hole of the portal. His
immaculate uniform looked almost as bizarrely out of place against the backdrop of the hacked-out
jungle clearing as the autumn-kissed red and gold of the forest giants beyond the portal, and he seemed
impervious to the swamp-spawned insects zinging about his ears. He wore the shoulder patch of the
Second Andaran Temporal Scouts, and the traces of gray at his temples went perfectly with the
experience lines etched into his hard, bronzed face.
He gazed up into the painfully bright afternoon sky, blue-gray eyes slitted against the westering sun,
with his helmet tucked into the crook of his left elbow and his right thumb hooked into the leather sling of
the dragoon arbalest slung over his shoulder. He'd been standing there in the blistering heat for the better
part of half an hour, yet he seemed unaware of it. In fact, he didn't even seem to be perspiring, although
that had to be an illusion.
He also seemed prepared to stand there for the next week or so, if that was what it took. But then,
finally, a black dot appeared against the cloudless blue, and his nostrils flared as he inhaled in satisfaction.
He watched the dot sweep steadily closer, losing altitude as it came, then lifted his helmet and settled
it onto his head. He bent his neck, shielding his eyes with his left hand as the dragon back-winged in to a
landing. Bits of debris flew on the sudden wind generated by the mighty beast's iridescent-scaled wings,
and the noncom waited until the last twigs had pattered back to the ground before he lowered his hand
and straightened once more.
 The dragon's arrival was a sign of just how inaccessible this forward post actually was. In fact, it was
just over seven hundred and twenty miles from the coastal base, in what would have been the swamps of
the Kingdom of Farshal in northeastern Hilmar back home. Those were some pretty inhospitable miles,
and the mud here was just as gluey as the genuine Hilmaran article, so aerial transport was the only real
practical way in at the moment. The noncom himself had arrived back at the post via the regular transport
dragon flight less than forty-eight hours earlier, and as he'd surveyed the much below, he'd been struck