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- Джордж Мартин
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- Стр. 8/751
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Finally
,
Gared
looked
down
.
"
No
fire
,
"
he
muttered
,
low
under
his
breath
.
Royce
took
it
for
acquiescence
and
turned
away
.
"
Lead
on
,
"
he
said
to
Will
.
Will
threaded
their
way
through
a
thicket
,
then
started
up
the
slope
to
the
low
ridge
where
he
had
found
his
vantage
point
under
a
sentinel
tree
.
Under
the
thin
crust
of
snow
,
the
ground
was
damp
and
muddy
,
slick
footing
,
with
rocks
and
hidden
roots
to
trip
you
up
.
Will
made
no
sound
as
he
climbed
.
Behind
him
,
he
heard
the
soft
metalic
slither
of
the
lordling
's
ringmail
,
the
rustle
of
leaves
,
and
muttered
curses
as
reaching
branches
grabbed
at
his
longsword
and
tugged
on
his
splendid
sable
cloak
.
The
great
sentinel
was
right
there
at
the
top
of
the
ridge
,
where
Will
had
known
it
would
be
,
its
lowest
branches
a
bare
foot
off
the
ground
.
Will
slid
in
underneath
,
flat
on
his
belly
in
the
snow
and
the
mud
,
and
looked
down
on
the
empty
clearing
below
.
His
heart
stopped
in
his
chest
.
For
a
moment
he
dared
not
breathe
.
Moonlight
shone
down
on
the
clearing
,
the
ashes
of
the
firepit
,
the
snow-covered
lean-to
,
the
great
rock
,
the
little
half-frozen
stream
.
Everything
was
just
as
it
had
been
a
few
hours
ago
.
They
were
gone
.
All
the
bodies
were
gone
.
"
Gods
!
"
he
heard
behind
him
.
A
sword
slashed
at
a
branch
as
Ser
Waymar
Royce
gained
the
ridge
.
He
stood
there
beside
the
sentinel
,
longsword
in
hand
,
his
cloak
billowing
behind
him
as
the
wind
came
up
,
outlined
nobly
against
the
stars
for
all
to
see
.
"
Get
down
!
"
Will
whispered
urgently
.
"
Something
's
wrong
.
"
Royce
did
not
move
.
He
looked
down
at
the
empty
clearing
and
laughed
.
"
Your
dead
men
seem
to
have
moved
camp
,
Will
.
"
