• Пожаловаться

James Silke: Prisoner of the Horned helmet

Здесь есть возможность читать онлайн «James Silke: Prisoner of the Horned helmet» весь текст электронной книги совершенно бесплатно (целиком полную версию). В некоторых случаях присутствует краткое содержание. категория: Фэнтези / на английском языке. Описание произведения, (предисловие) а так же отзывы посетителей доступны на портале. Библиотека «Либ Кат» — LibCat.ru создана для любителей полистать хорошую книжку и предлагает широкий выбор жанров:

любовные романы фантастика и фэнтези приключения детективы и триллеры эротика документальные научные юмористические анекдоты о бизнесе проза детские сказки о религиии новинки православные старинные про компьютеры программирование на английском домоводство поэзия

Выбрав категорию по душе Вы сможете найти действительно стоящие книги и насладиться погружением в мир воображения, прочувствовать переживания героев или узнать для себя что-то новое, совершить внутреннее открытие. Подробная информация для ознакомления по текущему запросу представлена ниже:

James Silke Prisoner of the Horned helmet

Prisoner of the Horned helmet: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

Предлагаем к чтению аннотацию, описание, краткое содержание или предисловие (зависит от того, что написал сам автор книги «Prisoner of the Horned helmet»). Если вы не нашли необходимую информацию о книге — напишите в комментариях, мы постараемся отыскать её.

James Silke: другие книги автора


Кто написал Prisoner of the Horned helmet? Узнайте фамилию, как зовут автора книги и список всех его произведений по сериям.

Prisoner of the Horned helmet — читать онлайн бесплатно полную книгу (весь текст) целиком

Ниже представлен текст книги, разбитый по страницам. Система сохранения места последней прочитанной страницы, позволяет с удобством читать онлайн бесплатно книгу «Prisoner of the Horned helmet», без необходимости каждый раз заново искать на чём Вы остановились. Поставьте закладку, и сможете в любой момент перейти на страницу, на которой закончили чтение.

Шрифт:

Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

She waited again for a response, got none, and her smile coiled restlessly in the cool beauty of her face. For a moment it was naked, then suddenly flashed hotly, all rouge and painted lips.

She said, “Understand, Cobra seeks no payment for her words. Not of you. What I will have of you is far more than a mere tuft of your fur or a cup of your urine could provide.”

She turned, moved back through the parted ferns with the Glyder Snake following at a respectful distance, then the ferns closed, and they were gone.

Three

LEMONTRAIL CROSSING

It was midday before Sergeant Yat’s squad reached the lowest cataract and descended a twisting, shadow-filled gully out of which blew a welcome cool breeze. Its walls were as pockmarked with caves as the skull of the nine-eyed crab. A perfect place for an ambush. They rode on, not breaking stride.

They were confident with reason. The Kitzakk Horde had not known failure in one hundred years, and the scouts had helped enslave tribes, nations and continents with the routine indifference of camels dropping manure cakes. As members of a Chel Regiment they were among the Kitzakk elite, handpicked by the Warlord Klang who commanded the armies, tent camps and skintowns of the Great Desert which formed the western third of the Kitzakk empire.

For the last nine years Yat’s squad had found and mapped the trails and villages of the desert tribes so the Invader Regiments and commercial Companies of Chainmen could follow with ease and efficiency. But now the deserts were mapped, and the merchants in the skintowns were complaining because their customers were becoming bored with desert merchandise, with dusky-skinned women and lean, truculent men. They wanted new produce, and the high priest of the Temple of Dreams had said the time was right. It was summer, the Time of Harvest. So the first year of a nine-year campaign against the barbaric forest tribes had begun.

Emerging from the gully, the scouts reined up. In front of them was the last bridge, a crude, sun-bleached wooden structure spanning the wide, deep gorge which separated the steep cataracts from the edge of the forest. Flayed ropes and sagging timbers barely held it upright, and it swayed in the light breeze, showing a definite inclination toward falling down. This was Lemontrail Crossing. But the scouts were looking beyond it, their eyes transfixed by a seemingly endless sea of green which spread in all directions behind a stand of mist-filled trees. This was the Great Forest Basin. The Land of the Barbarians.

Only the sun and moon can remember now how it looked then. Lush, rich, tangled. Savage. Shadowed. A world populated by demons and serpents, by wild men and proud, sensual women. A world of mystery. Magic. Music. Murder. Here and there in the distance beyond their vision, islands of rock rose like massive citadels out of the verdant green, islands which would one day be called Malta, Sicily, Majorca.

Beyond the sea of forest was the land mass which would become the continent of Europe, its northern half now buried under blue ice. In time, a long time, the ice would melt and the oceans would rise, break past the massive pillars of rock far to the west, and drown this fabled land of legends. But that is a story of another time, another age.

Now, warring, laughing, lusty tribes lived here. Independent men and women given to changing their chiefs with the season. Bickering, fighting people who could not agree on laws or borders, or raise an army larger than a marauding outlaw band.

Even though facing the land of the enemy for the first time, the faces of the scouts showed little concern. They knew that in the coming campaign there would be no organized defense. No armies to overwhelm. No citadels to storm. The work should be easy, like scraping flesh from boiled skulls.

Soong said, “The companies are going to be short on cages, I’m thinking. There are as many people out there as there are leaves on the trees.”

Akar, the second in command, nodded. “Not enough cages or time. Nine years won’t do it this time.”

“Fine by me,” Yat said. “There’s nothing like steady work to keep the regiment sharp.”

They dismounted, watered their horses and themselves, stretched in the sunshine, remounted and walked their horses forward. Reaching the bridge, they suddenly reined up, and their eyes darted furtively, hunting, bodies cocked. What did they hear, sense? They plucked crossbows from saddle holsters, mounted finely pointed steel bolts and waited.

Beyond the bridge a wide dirt trail ran east and west alongside the deep gorge. Another trail joined it at the intersection with the bridge. It ran north through a scattered stand of lemon trees, then into the forest. A thick grey mist covered the ground at the edge of the forest. Suddenly a huge grey timber wolf emerged from it and studied the scouts with narrow yellow eyes. Then it casually strolled back inside the mists as if the scouts were meatless creatures not worth his trouble.

The scouts glanced at Sergeant Yat uncertainly, then turned sharply as a screeching flock of sparrows erupted from one treetop, a hawk from another. The scouts watched the birds. As they did, they made magic signs on their groins and foreheads. Then they started forward again. Suddenly a wind blew up out of the trees, gathered the clinging gray mist in its embrace, and swept it through the lemon trees and across the bridge.

It was as if some silent, unseen Lord of Nature had sneezed. The scouts quickly covered their faces with their neck cloths and the fog swirled over them. When it passed, they looked back at the bridge and relaxed. This they understood.

The wide, ragged, black shape of a helmeted man carrying a shield and axe was advancing through the mist still swirling on the bridge. When it drifted off, the sun revealed a thick body layered with slabs of muscle which rippled under burnished flesh, glistening as if only he had the right to wear the sunshine. A massive Barbarian as confident as a continent, but seemingly without reason to be.

His armor consisted of stained black hides. Dark bits of fur were strapped to his feet and waist with hide thongs. His axe was the kind called elephant killer, too heavy headed and long handled for close combat, despite its size. His masked helmet, like his small circular shield, was of wood belted by metal bars. The axe blade and belts were of crude iron.

The Barbarian stopped a third of the way across the bridge and waited. His eyes, deep within his helmet, blinked as shafts of sunlight ricocheted off the Kitzakks’ armor and splashed across his body.

The scouts, moving with disciplined habit, spread out in three units and studied the Barbarian as if he were dead game to be skinned and boned.

Soong spoke first. He said thoughtfully, “I think he thinks he’s defending the bridge… maybe even the whole forest.”

Yat said, “Maybe, maybe not. But he surely wants a fight.”

“The fool,” Akar cackled. “He’s meat now.”

“Perhaps more than meat,” Soong said. “In that forest some still mate with serpents and cats. Even demons.”

Yat nodded. “Akar, let’s look at the color of his blood.”

Akar, still cackling, edged his mount forward, leveled his crossbow casually, fired from the hip.

The dark figure settled slightly. A flick of white heat showed within the eye slits of his helmet as he watched the steel bolt drive towards him cutting the air with a faint whistle only the coyote or owl could hear.

At the last moment, the dark Barbarian lifted his shield and caught the flying bolt with the corner, just above his heart. The impact made a loud clang as the bolt imbedded itself in one of the metal belts and shoved him back two steps.

Читать дальше

Шрифт:

Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

Похожие книги на «Prisoner of the Horned helmet»

Представляем Вашему вниманию похожие книги на «Prisoner of the Horned helmet» списком для выбора. Мы отобрали схожую по названию и смыслу литературу в надежде предоставить читателям больше вариантов отыскать новые, интересные, ещё не прочитанные произведения.


Theodore Stickles: Prisoner Of Lust
Prisoner Of Lust
Theodore Stickles
Greg Scowen: The Spanish Helmet
The Spanish Helmet
Greg Scowen
Энтони Хоуп: The Prisoner of Zenda
The Prisoner of Zenda
Энтони Хоуп
Victor Pelevin: Helmet of Horror
Helmet of Horror
Victor Pelevin
Nancy Berberick: Prisoner of Haven
Prisoner of Haven
Nancy Berberick
Отзывы о книге «Prisoner of the Horned helmet»

Обсуждение, отзывы о книге «Prisoner of the Horned helmet» и просто собственные мнения читателей. Оставьте ваши комментарии, напишите, что Вы думаете о произведении, его смысле или главных героях. Укажите что конкретно понравилось, а что нет, и почему Вы так считаете.