Книга только для ознакомления
.
Rennard sneered. Arrogant and self-serving, that was the
Order of the Rose. Most of the high lords of the Solamnic
brotherhood came from the ranks of the Rose.
Rennard had murdered one of them, and here was the
epitome of the handsome and heroic warrior that peopled
the stories of bards and the dreams of maidens: perfect,
honed features; dark, brooding eyes and firm jaw; black hair
that curled from under his helm; a well-groomed moustache
in the style still traditional among the Knights of Solamnia.
The ghost touched his own marred features. Here was
everything that Rennard had never been. He'd rather look at
the corpse, and the young knight was studying the corpse,
too, with more than casual interest.
Although the hapless peasant evidently had suffered
from many things, disease had killed him. Rennard, who
knew of such things, could see the signs.
"Aaah, good folk of Ansalon," Rennard muttered as he
looked at the corpse, "the gods treat you so well!"
The young knight had lost interest in the corpse and
was now gazing down the road.
The peasant had not been alone. The tracks of more
than a dozen people and one or two animals spoke of a long,
arduous journey by a group of people in great haste.
Rennard saw an endless trek, much like a journey he once
had made. One by one, the members of the party had
collapsed and been left behind, like this, left behind by
those too terrified to stop to bury their dead.
The young knight began to talk, and at first Rennard
wondered if another ghost haunted this region, for there was
no one to respond
|
