Burroughs, Edgar Rice Tarzan 02 The Return of Tarzan
Saga rodu Michorowskich 02 CĂłrka Michorowskich RohĂłczanka Anna
H Beam Piper Fuzzy 02 Fuzzy Sapiens v2.0 (lit)
Hawkins Rachel Dziewczyny z Hex Hall 02 Diable SzkĹo rozdz 1 18
ambergris
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Long Julie Anne Nieuchwytny ksiaze
Frederik Pohl Heechee 2 Beyond the blue event horizon
Harris Charlaine Harper 4 Grobowa tajemnica
MdśÂośÂci Jean Paul Sartre
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was dead, fool; so will we all be, if we do not stand together.
Wavewatcher was howling in anguish. He grabbed his lance again, drew and
aimed. Gil saw sudden, deadly grace, synthesis of hunter, athlete and soldier.
The release was one of enormous force. The lance struck through a shield,
pinning the grapnel man to the boat s hull, penetrating the wood. The
attackers pulled frantically, drawing themselves in under the protection of
the stern while arrows rained down on them. Hidden by the stern s projection,
they d be able to climb to the deck.
Wavewatcher took up a cutlass. It was small, almost frivolous in his huge
band. You aloft there, ware my commands! The rest, position yourselves about
the deck.
Gil picked a spot at the portside rail and waited, one hand on a ratline, and
the other still tensing, loosening on his sword. There were outcries astern,
the first of the boarders. He turned, about to help, when a clambering caught
his ear. He leaned over the rail slowly and nearly had his head taken off. A
Southwastelander clung there, showing his teeth in a sneer. The fingers
clawing the hull for purchase were blunt and visibly strong, the Occhlon
nimble in his light mesh armor, his curved weapon dangling from its sword
loop. Unable to reach the American from where he was, he climbed directly
upward, unnerving Gil, who would never have gone against an enemy waiting with
the advantages of firm footing and weapon in hand.
The boarder abruptly began to edge sideways, catching Gil by surprise, to move
away from him before trying the rail. The American followed, listening to the
grunted, labored breathing, unsure what he d do when he faced the man.
The boarder sprang the last few feet, screaming Yardiff Bey s name. He had an
arm and a leg over the rail when the other, galvanized by the hated name, got
to him. Gil brought his heavy bastard blade around in a flat arc. The boarder
could only spare one hand to raise his scimitar; the broadsword carried it
backward and knocked the boarder off balance. Gil took a more resolute swing.
The blade bit through the woven gorget and into the neck. Dropping away, the
desert man s face was awful in its disregard of his own death.
A shouted warning from Skewerskean made him spin. Another boarder, a shorter
man, had dropped to the deck, ready to fight. Mariners and their foes
staggered across the deck, locked in death duels. Wavewatcher had a cutlass in
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either hand now, the ringlets on his chest holding drops of enemy blood
suspended among them.
Gil crossed swords with his new opponent, whose style relied on his edge.
Yells from the Mariners told of more of the assault party making it to the
deck. Seafarers raced to meet them, their bare feet slapping alarm on the
planks.
Gil engaged the second man in a high line, putting down his own panic. They
exchanged hair-raising strokes, edges laying back and forth. The man had a
long, strong arm, but his footwork was conservative. The American pressed
against that possibility as blood pounded at his temples. All sounds faded but
the swords clanging and his own heartbeat. He kept control of their fencing
distance, coming into range and getting out again to his own advantage. A
shout penetrated his concentration; the tinkling of bells proclaimed
Skewerskean in combat.
Gil s opponent was slow responding to a croise, backing up against the head
ledge of a hatch, and swaying. For a moment his defense was open, though the
American could not ordinarily have exploited it. But something in him drove
his point in under the vulnerable throat. The boarder fell back with a
flopping of limbs and that same expression of loathing. Gil paused to catch
his breath, hearing Wavewatcher call, Ho, aloft! Prepare to fill-all on
my dammit! on my order.
The interruption had been another antagonist. The harpooner was busy both with
the battle and monitoring the Gal s progress downriver. With both topsails
filled, the ship began to draw ahead at the wider mouth of the Wheywater. The
harpooner called on the embattled men at the tiller to keep her off a little,
to increase headway through the water.
There was a scraping at the ship s side. The dory had come with a second wave
of attackers. Snatching up a carpenter s hatchet from a weapons rack, Gil ran
farther toward the bow, to keep them from getting a line onto the Gal.
He was too late. Two boarders swarmed onto the deck together. With hatchet and
sword he launched himself at them, swinging wildly. The world swam at him,
begging combat through a red mist.
Berserkergang filled him; he coursed with a killing joy. His attack left one
dead, the hatchet buried in his chest, the deck-roll playing with pooling
blood. The second boarder joined Gil at the death-duel. The American felt
exultation in the Rage. Dunstan s sword seemed familiar now, sending strength
and cunning up his arm. Always heavy before, the weapon hefted light as a
fishing rod.
Berserker blade screamed against desert scimitar. Gil s lips were drawn back,
teeth locked, ears flattened to his skull in animal fury. He was hyperaware of
time, distance and possibilities of slaughter. He disowned fencing to hack and
hew without letup. The Occhlon was the bigger man, with a thick black mustache
and angry brows. His attack was powerful and confident. But Gil, enfolded by
savage depersonalization, met it, swinging Dunstan s sword with a terrible
vitality. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
