-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Терри Пратчетт
-
- Мор - ученик смерти
-
- Стр. 342/357
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
Mort
yelled
and
swung
his
sword
up
,
to
the
faint
cheers
of
the
crowd
that
had
been
waiting
for
him
to
do
this
for
some
time
.
Even
Albert
clapped
his
wrinkled
hands
.
But
instead
of
.
the
tinkle
of
glass
that
Mort
had
expected
there
was
–
nothing
.
He
turned
and
tried
again
.
The
blade
passed
right
through
the
glass
without
breaking
it
.
The
change
in
the
texture
of
the
air
made
him
bring
the
sword
around
and
back
in
time
to
deflect
a
vicious
downward
sweep
.
Death
sprang
away
in
time
to
dodge
Mort
’
s
counter
thrust
,
which
was
slow
and
weak
.
THUS
IT
ENDS
,
BOY
.
’
Mort
,
’
said
Mort
.
He
looked
up
.
’
Mort
,
’
he
repeated
,
and
brought
the
sword
up
in
a
stroke
that
cut
the
scythe
’
s
handle
in
two
.
Anger
bubbled
up
inside
him
.
If
he
was
going
to
die
,
then
at
least
he
’
d
die
with
the
right
name
.
’
Mort
,
you
bastard
!
’
he
screamed
,
and
propelled
himself
straight
towards
the
grinning
skull
with
the
sword
whirring
in
a
complicated
dance
of
blue
light
.
Death
staggered
backwards
,
laughing
,
crouching
under
the
rain
of
furious
strokes
that
sliced
the
scythe
handle
into
more
pieces
.
Mort
circled
him
,
chopping
and
thrusting
and
dully
aware
,
even
through
the
red
mists
of
fury
,
that
Death
was
following
his
every
move
,
holding
the
orphaned
scytheblade
like
a
sword
.
There
was
no
opening
,
and
the
motor
of
his
anger
wouldn
’
t
last
.
You
’
ll
never
beat
him
,
he
told
himself
.
The
best
we
can
do
is
hold
him
off
for
a
while
.
And
losing
is
probably
better
than
winning
.
Who
needs
eternity
,
anyway
?
