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- Джордж Мартин
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- Битва королей
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- Стр. 757/853
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The
battering
ram
crashed
down
into
the
mud
,
forgotten
in
an
instant
as
its
handlers
fled
or
turned
to
fight
.
Tyrion
rode
down
an
archer
,
opened
a
spearman
from
shoulder
to
armpit
,
glanced
a
blow
off
a
swordfish
-
crested
helm
.
At
the
ram
his
big
red
reared
but
the
black
stallion
leapt
the
obstacle
smoothly
and
Ser
Mandon
flashed
past
him
,
death
in
snow
-
white
silk
.
His
sword
sheared
off
limbs
,
cracked
heads
,
broke
shields
asunder
—
though
few
enough
of
the
enemy
had
made
it
across
the
river
with
shields
intact
.
Tyrion
urged
his
mount
over
the
ram
.
Their
foes
were
fleeing
.
He
moved
his
head
right
to
left
and
back
again
,
but
saw
no
sign
of
Podrick
Payne
.
An
arrow
clattered
against
his
cheek
,
missing
his
eye
-
slit
by
an
inch
.
His
jolt
of
fear
almost
unhorsed
him
.
If
I
’
m
to
sit
here
like
a
stump
,
I
had
as
well
paint
a
target
on
my
breastplate
.
He
spurred
his
horse
back
into
motion
,
trotting
over
and
around
a
scatter
of
corpses
.
Downriver
,
the
Blackwater
was
jammed
with
the
hulks
of
burning
galleys
.
Patches
of
wildfire
still
floated
atop
the
water
,
sending
fiery
green
plumes
swirling
twenty
feet
into
the
air
.
They
had
dispersed
the
men
on
the
battering
ram
,
but
he
could
see
fighting
all
along
the
riverfront
.
Ser
Balon
Swann
’
s
men
,
most
like
,
or
Lancel
’
s
,
trying
to
throw
the
enemy
back
into
the
water
as
they
swarmed
ashore
off
the
burning
ships
.
"
We
’
ll
ride
for
the
Mud
Gate
,
"
he
commanded
.
Ser
Mandon
shouted
,
"
The
Mud
Gate
!
"
And
they
were
off
again
.
"
King
’
s
Landing
!
"
his
men
cried
raggedly
,
and
"
Halfman
!
Halfman
!
"
He
wondered
who
had
taught
them
that
.
Through
the
steel
and
padding
of
his
helm
,
he
heard
anguished
screams
,
the
hungry
crackle
of
flame
,
the
shuddering
of
warhorns
,
and
the
brazen
blast
of
trumpets
.
Fire
was
everywhere
.
Gods
be
good
,
no
wonder
the
Hound
was
frightened
.
It
’
s
the
flames
he
fears
.
.
.
A
splintering
crash
rang
across
the
Blackwater
as
a
stone
the
size
of
a
horse
landed
square
amidships
on
one
of
the
galleys
.
Ours
or
theirs
?
Through
the
roiling
smoke
,
he
could
not
tell
.
His
wedge
was
gone
;
every
man
was
his
own
battle
now
.
I
should
have
turned
back
,
he
thought
,
riding
on
.
The
axe
was
heavy
in
his
fist
.
A
handful
still
followed
him
,
the
rest
dead
or
fled
.
He
had
to
wrestle
his
stallion
to
keep
his
head
to
the
east
.
The
big
destrier
liked
fire
no
more
than
Sandor
Clegane
had
,
but
the
horse
was
easier
to
cow
.
Men
were
crawling
from
the
river
,
men
burned
and
bleeding
,
coughing
up
water
,
staggering
,
most
dying
.
He
led
his
troop
among
them
,
delivering
quicker
cleaner
deaths
to
those
strong
enough
to
stand
.
The
war
shrank
to
the
size
of
his
eye
-
slit
.
Knights
twice
his
size
fled
from
him
,
or
stood
and
died
.
They
seemed
little
things
,
and
fearful
.
"
Lannister
!
"
he
shouted
,
slaying
.
His
arm
was
red
to
the
elbow
,
glistening
in
the
light
off
the
river
.
When
his
horse
reared
again
,
he
shook
his
axe
at
the
stars
and
heard
them
call
out
"
Halfman
!
Halfman
!
"
Tyrion
felt
drunk
.
The
battle
fever
.
He
had
never
thought
to
experience
it
himself
,
though
Jaime
had
told
him
of
it
often
enough
.
How
time
seemed
to
blur
and
slow
and
even
stop
,
how
the
past
and
the
future
vanished
until
there
was
nothing
but
the
instant
,
how
fear
fled
,
and
thought
fled
,
and
even
your
body
.
"
You
don
’
t
feel
your
wounds
then
,
or
the
ache
in
your
back
from
the
weight
of
the
armor
,
or
the
sweat
running
down
into
your
eyes
.
You
stop
feeling
,
you
stop
thinking
,
you
stop
being
you
,
there
is
only
the
fight
,
the
foe
,
this
man
and
then
the
next
and
the
next
and
the
next
,
and
you
know
they
are
afraid
and
tired
but
you
’
re
not
,
you
’
re
alive
,
and
death
is
all
around
you
but
their
swords
move
so
slowly
,
you
can
dance
through
them
laughing
.
"
Battle
fever
.
I
am
half
a
man
and
drunk
with
slaughter
,
let
them
kill
me
if
they
can
!
