Книга только для ознакомления
.
The little line of defenders took the first assault and
turned it back, then closed ranks and retreated slowly,
drawing the barely disciplined goblins out of their for-
mation and into single -- or more often double or triple --
combat. For long minutes, the skill and sheer
desperation of the defending line held the field. But the
goblins were too many, and the refugee army retreated
again... and again. Camber Meld and Fleece Ironhill
found themselves fighting side by side, and knew that
this would be the final strategy. Hold and retreat, hold
and retreat, until none were left to face the goblins. It
was, simply, a buying of time.
At the edge of the ice field they retreated yet again, no
more than a dozen of them now against at least seventy
goblins. The goblins formed another charge, then
halted. Goblin mouths dropped open, and goblin eyes
stared aloft, beyond and above the line of defenders.
Fleece Ironhill glanced around just as something very
fast skimmed over his head and swept upward on wide,
pale wings. He didn't see what it was, nor did he try to
follow it with his eyes. Instead he stared at the second
flying thing, plunging down from above. A huge red
dragon, its mouth opened wide and a rush of fire coming
from it. The dragon flared its wings and soared over the
line of battle.
Without warning, the dragon's fire-breath smote the
ice field behind the goblins.
* * *
Bobbin was in trouble
|
