Книга только для ознакомления
.
As long as she lived, she would keep and use the thing
that owned her.
The slaves had been brought forward to set up the
Commander's pavilion. They were mostly hill dwarves,
with a few other creatures among them -- a few miserable
Aghar, an elf shackled and mutilated almost beyond rec-
ognition, a few humans. Kolanda Darkmoor watched
the work, wrinkling her nose. So pitifully few, they
were. But there would be more. One day she would have
all the slaves she wanted, to use as she wished.
It was a thing she had learned from Caliban, or maybe
had always known. People are of value only if they are
owned.
She glanced at the slaves again. Among them, the lone
elf was clinging to the rails of a forage cart, staring at her.
Both legs made useless by cut tendons, still he clung to
stay upright and looked at her with eyes that held no ex-
pression at all. Drivers goaded him, marked him with
whips, and he ignored them. I should kill him, she
thought. But this was the one who had ambushed her
scouting party -- had cost her half her escort -- and she
wanted him to live and suffer for that.
Among the wounds the elf carried were recent ones.
His face had been battered, and one of his ears was gone.
Bitten off, by the look of it.
Kolanda looked around for Thog, one of her hobgob-
lins, and summoned him. "The elf has been beaten
again." She pointed at the slave accusingly. "I want him
alive."
"Tried to 'scape," Thog growled
|
