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- Анджей Сапковский
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- Ведьмак: Кровь эльфов
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- Стр. 2/356
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Again
the
clash
of
iron
,
the
grunts
and
snorts
of
the
horses
.
The
houses
whirled
around
her
and
suddenly
she
could
see
windows
belching
fire
where
a
moment
before
there
'd
been
nothing
but
a
muddy
little
street
strewn
with
corpses
and
cluttered
with
the
abandoned
possessions
of
the
fleeing
population
.
All
at
once
the
knight
at
her
back
was
wracked
by
a
strange
wheezing
cough
.
Blood
spurted
over
the
hands
grasping
the
reins
.
More
screams
.
Arrows
whistled
past
.
A
fall
,
a
shock
,
painful
bruising
against
armour
.
Hooves
pounded
past
her
,
a
horse
's
belly
and
a
frayed
girth
flashing
by
above
her
head
,
then
another
horse
's
belly
and
a
flowing
black
caparison
.
Grunts
of
exertion
,
like
a
lumberjack
's
when
chopping
wood
.
But
this
is
n't
wood
;
it
's
iron
against
iron
.
A
shout
,
muffled
and
dull
,
and
something
huge
and
black
collapsed
into
the
mud
next
to
her
with
a
splash
,
spurting
blood
.
An
armoured
foot
quivered
,
thrashed
,
goring
the
earth
with
an
enormous
spur
.
A
jerk
.
Some
force
plucked
her
up
,
pulled
her
onto
another
saddle
.
Hold
on
!
Again
the
bone-shaking
speed
,
the
mad
gallop
.
Arms
and
legs
desperately
searching
for
support
.
The
horse
rears
.
Hold
on
!
...
There
is
no
support
.
There
is
no
...
There
is
no
...
There
is
blood
.
The
horse
falls
.
It
's
impossible
to
jump
aside
,
no
way
to
break
free
,
to
escape
the
tight
embrace
of
these
chainmail-clad
arms
.
There
is
no
way
to
avoid
the
blood
pouring
onto
her
head
and
over
her
shoulders
.
A
jolt
,
the
squelch
of
mud
,
a
violent
collision
with
the
ground
,
horrifically
still
after
the
furious
ride
.
The
horse
's
harrowing
wheezes
and
squeals
as
it
tries
to
regain
its
feet
.
The
pounding
of
horseshoes
,
fetlocks
and
hooves
flashing
past
.
Black
caparisons
and
cloaks
.
Shouting
.
The
street
is
on
fire
,
a
roaring
red
wall
of
flame
.
Silhouetted
before
it
,
a
rider
towers
over
the
flaming
roofs
,
enormous
.
His
black-caparisoned
horse
prances
,
tosses
its
head
,
neighs
.
The
rider
stares
down
at
her
.
Ciri
sees
his
eyes
gleaming
through
the
slit
in
his
huge
helmet
,
framed
by
a
bird
of
prey
's
wings
.
She
sees
the
fire
reflected
in
the
broad
blade
of
the
sword
held
in
his
lowered
hand
.
The
rider
looks
at
her
.
Ciri
is
unable
to
move
.
The
dead
man
's
motionless
arms
wrapped
around
her
waist
hold
her
down
.
She
is
locked
in
place
by
something
heavy
and
wet
with
blood
,
something
which
is
lying
across
her
thigh
,
pinning
her
to
the
ground
.
And
she
is
frozen
in
fear
:
a
terrible
fear
which
turns
her
entrails
inside
out
,
which
deafens
Ciri
to
the
screams
of
the
wounded
horse
,
the
roar
of
the
blaze
,
the
cries
of
dying
people
and
the
pounding
drums
.
The
only
thing
which
exists
,
which
counts
,
which
still
has
any
meaning
,
is
fear
.
Fear
embodied
in
the
figure
of
a
black
knight
wearing
a
helmet
decorated
with
feathers
frozen
against
the
wall
of
raging
,
red
flames
.
The
rider
spurs
his
horse
,
the
wings
on
his
helmet
fluttering
as
the
bird
of
prey
takes
to
flight
,
launching
itself
to
attack
its
helpless
victim
,
paralysed
with
fear
.
The
bird
--
or
maybe
the
knight
--
screeches
terrifyingly
,
cruelly
,
triumphantly
.
A
black
horse
,
black
armour
,
a
black
flowing
cloak
,
and
behind
this
--
flames
.
A
sea
of
flames
.
