-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джон Толкин
-
- Властелин колец: Возвращение короля
-
- Стр. 47/277
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
Merry
wondered
how
many
Riders
there
were
.
He
could
not
guess
their
number
in
the
gathering
gloom
,
but
it
looked
to
him
like
a
great
army
,
many
thousands
strong
.
While
he
was
peering
from
side
to
side
the
king
's
party
came
up
under
the
looming
cliff
on
the
eastern
side
of
the
valley
;
and
there
suddenly
the
path
began
to
climb
,
and
Merry
looked
up
in
amazement
.
He
was
on
a
road
the
like
of
which
he
had
never
seen
before
,
a
great
work
of
men
's
hands
in
years
beyond
the
reach
of
song
.
Upwards
it
wound
,
coiling
like
a
snake
,
boring
its
way
across
the
sheer
slope
of
rock
.
Steep
as
a
stair
,
it
looped
backwards
and
forwards
as
it
climbed
.
Up
it
horses
could
walk
,
and
wains
could
be
slowly
hauled
;
but
no
enemy
could
come
that
way
,
except
out
of
the
air
,
if
it
was
defended
from
above
.
At
each
turn
of
the
road
there
were
great
standing
stones
that
had
been
carved
in
the
likeness
of
men
,
huge
and
clumsy-limbed
,
squatting
cross-legged
with
their
stumpy
arms
folded
on
fat
bellies
.
Some
in
the
wearing
of
the
years
had
lost
all
features
save
the
dark
holes
of
their
eyes
that
still
stared
sadly
at
the
passers-by
.
The
Riders
hardly
glanced
at
them
.
The
Púkel-men
they
called
them
,
and
heeded
them
little
:
no
power
or
terror
was
left
in
them
;
but
Merry
gazed
at
them
with
wonder
and
a
feeling
almost
of
pity
,
as
they
loomed
up
mournfully
in
the
dusk
.
After
a
while
he
looked
back
and
found
that
he
had
already
climbed
some
hundreds
of
feet
above
the
valley
,
but
still
far
below
he
could
dimly
see
a
winding
line
of
Riders
crossing
the
ford
and
filing
along
the
road
towards
the
camp
prepared
for
them
.
Only
the
king
and
his
guard
were
going
up
into
the
Hold
.
At
last
the
king
's
company
came
to
a
sharp
brink
,
and
the
climbing
road
passed
into
a
cutting
between
walls
of
rock
,
and
so
went
up
a
short
slope
and
out
on
to
a
wide
upland
.
The
Firienfeld
men
called
it
,
a
green
mountain-field
of
grass
and
heath
,
high
above
the
deep-delved
courses
of
the
Snowbourn
,
laid
upon
the
lap
of
the
great
mountains
behind
:
the
Starkhorn
southwards
,
and
northwards
the
saw-toothed
mass
of
Irensaga
,
between
which
there
faced
the
riders
,
the
grim
black
wall
of
the
Dwimorberg
,
the
Haunted
Mountain
rising
out
of
steep
slopes
of
sombre
pines
.
Dividing
the
upland
into
two
there
marched
a
double
line
of
unshaped
standing
stones
that
dwindled
into
the
dusk
and
vanished
in
the
trees
.
Those
who
dared
to
follow
that
road
came
soon
to
the
black
Dimholt
under
Dwimorberg
,
and
the
menace
of
the
pillar
of
stone
,
and
the
yawning
shadow
of
the
forbidden
door
.
Such
was
the
dark
Dunharrow
,
the
work
of
long-forgotten
men
.
Their
name
was
lost
and
no
song
or
legend
remembered
it
.
For
what
purpose
they
had
made
this
place
,
as
a
town
or
secret
temple
or
a
tomb
of
kings
,
none
could
say
.
Here
they
laboured
in
the
Dark
Years
,
before
ever
a
ship
came
to
the
western
shores
,
or
Gondor
of
the
Dúnedain
was
built
;
and
now
they
had
vanished
,
and
only
the
old
Púkel-men
were
left
,
still
sitting
at
the
turnings
of
the
road
.
Merry
stared
at
the
lines
of
marching
stones
:
they
were
worn
and
black
;
some
were
leaning
,
some
were
fallen
,
some
cracked
or
broken
;
they
looked
like
rows
of
old
and
hungry
teeth
.
He
wondered
what
they
could
be
,
and
he
hoped
that
the
king
was
not
going
to
follow
them
into
the
darkness
beyond
.
Then
he
saw
that
there
were
clusters
of
tents
and
booths
on
either
side
of
the
stony
way
;
but
these
were
not
set
near
the
trees
,
and
seemed
rather
to
huddle
away
from
them
towards
the
brink
of
the
cliff
.
The
greater
number
were
on
the
right
,
where
the
Firienfeld
was
wider
;
and
on
the
left
there
was
a
smaller
camp
,
in
the
midst
of
which
stood
a
tall
pavilion
.
From
this
side
a
rider
now
came
out
to
meet
them
,
and
they
turned
from
the
road
.
As
they
drew
near
Merry
saw
that
the
rider
was
a
woman
with
long
braided
hair
gleaming
in
the
twilight
,
yet
she
wore
a
helm
and
was
clad
to
the
waist
like
a
warrior
and
girded
with
a
sword
.
'
Hail
,
Lord
of
the
Mark
!
'
she
cried
.
'
My
heart
is
glad
at
your
returning
.
'
