fs.thefirstbookofswords-第26部分

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　　　〃Halt！〃
　　　The　order　was　ignored。　Only　a　moment　later；　the　first　arrows　flew；　aimed　quite　well　considering　conditions。　One　shaft　pierced　the　cloth　cover　of　the　wagon　above　Mark's　head；　and　another　split　one　of　the　wooden　uprights　that　supported　the　cloth。
　　　〃Fight　'em！〃　roared　Nestor。　He　had　no　more　than　that　to　say　to　his　human　panions；　but　turned　his　energy　and　his　words；　in　a　torrent　of　exhortation　and　abuse；　toward　his　team。　The　loadbeasts　were　running　already　as　Mark　had　never　known　a　team　to　run　before。　Meanwhile　inside　the　wagon　a　mad　scramble　was　in　progress；　with　Ben　going　for　the　crossbow　and　Mark　for　his　own　bow　and　quiver。　Mark　saw　Barbara　slipping　the　thong　of　a　leather　sling　around　one　finger　of　her　right　hand；　and　taking　up　an　egg…shaped　leaden　missile。
　　　Looking　out　from　the　left　front　of　the　wagon　with　bow　in　hand；　Mark　saw　a　mounted　man　swiftly　materializing　out　of　the　mist。　He　wore　a　helmet　and　a　mail　shirt；　under　a　jerkin　of　white　and　blue；　and　he　rode　beside　the　racing　team；　raising　his　sword　to　strike　at　its　nearest　animal。　Mark　quickly　aimed　and　loosed　an　arrow；　in　the　bounding　confusion　he　couldn't　be　sure　of　the　result　of　his　own　shot；　but　the　crossbow　thrummed　beside　him　and　the　rider　tumbled　from　his　saddle。
　　　The　caged　dragon；　bounced　unmercifully；　screamed。　The　terrified　loadbeasts　bounded　at　top　speed　through　the　fog；　as　if　to　escape　the　curses　that　Nestor　volleyed　at　them　from　the　driver's　seat。　It　seemed　to　Mark　that　missiles　were　sighing　in　from　every　direction；　with　most　of　them　tearing　through　the　wagon's　cloth。　Someone　outside　the　wagon　kept　shouting　for　it　to　halt。　Ben；　in　the　midst　of　recocking　his　crossbow；　was　almost　pitched　out　of　the　wagon　by　a　horrendous　bounce。
　　　Mark　saw　Barbara　leaning　out。　Her　right　arm　blurred；　releasing　a　missile　from　her　sling　in　an　underhand　arc。　One　of　the　cavalry　mounts　pursuing　stumbled　and　went　down。
　　　The　patrol　had　first　sighted　the　wagon　across　a　bight　of　the　meandering　road；　and　in　taking　a　short　cut　to　head　it　off　had　encountered　some　difficult　terrain。　This　had　provided　the　wagon　with　a　good　flying　start　on　a　fairly　level　stretch　of　road。　But　now　the　faster　riders　were　catching　up。
　　　〃Border's　near！〃　yelled　Nestor　to　his　crew。　〃Hang　on！〃
　　　We　know　it's　near；　thought　Mark；　but　which　direction　is　it？　Maybe　now　Nestor　really　did　know。　Mark　loosed　another　arrow；　and　again　he　could　not　see　where　it　went。　But　a　moment　later　one　of　the　pursuing　riders　pulled　up；　as　if　his　animal　had　gone　lame。
　　　Another　bounce；　another　tilt　of　the　wagon；　bigger　than　any　bounce　and　tilt　before。　This　one　was　too　big。　Mark　felt　the　tipping　and　the　spinning；　the　wagon　hitting　the　earth　broadside；　with　one　crash　upon　another。　He　thought　he　saw　the　dragon's　cage；　still　intact；　fly　past　above　his　spinning　head；　all　jumbled'　with　a　stream　of　bedding；　and　a　frog…crock　streaming　frogs。　He　hit　the　ground；　expecting　to　be　killed　or　stunned；　but　soft　earth　eased　the　impact。
　　　Aware　of　no　serious　injury；　he　rolled　over　in　grass　and　sand；　the　ground　beneath　him　squelching　wetly。　Nearby；　the　wagon　was　on　one　side　now；　with　one　set　of　wheels　spinning　in　the　air；　and　the　team　still　struggling　hopelessly　to　pull　it。　Meanwhile　what　was　left　of　the　cavalry　thundered　past；　rounding　the　wagon　on　both　sides；　charging　on　into　thickets　along　the　roadside　just　ahead。　Mark　could　catch　just　a　glimpse　of　people　there；　who　looked　like　Ben　and　Barbara；　fleeing　on　foot。
　　　The　dragon　was　still　keening；　inside　its　upended　but　unbroken　crate　beside　the　wagon。
　　　On　all　fours；　Mark　scrambled　back　into　the　thick　of　the　spilled　contents　at　the　wagon's　rear。　He　went　groping；　fumbling；　looking　for　the　sword。　He　let　out　a　small　cry　of　triumph　when　he　recognized　Townsaver's　blade；　and　thrust　a　hand　beneath　a　pile　of　spilled　potatoes　for　the　hilt。　He　had　just　started　to　lift　the　weapon　when　he　heard　a　multitude　of　feet　e　pounding　closer　just　behind　him。　Mark　turned　his　head　to　see　men　in　half…armor；　wearing　the　Duke's　colors；　leaping　from　their　mounts　to　surround　him。　A　spearman　held　his　weapon　at　Mark's　throat。　Mark's　hand　was　still　on　the　sword；　but　he　could　feel　no　power　in　it。
　　　〃Drop　it；　varlet！〃　a　soldier　ordered。
　　　And　overhead；　out　of　the　mist；　great　wings　were　sighing　down。　And　the　caged　dragon's　continuous　keening　was　answered　from　up　there　by　a　creak　that　might　have　issued　from　a　breaking　windmill　blade。
　　　Another　inhuman　voice　interrupted。　This　one　was　a　basso　roar；　projecting　itself　at　ground　level　through　the　mists。　Mark's　knees　were　still　on　the　ground；　and　through　them　he　could　feel　the　stamp　of　giant　feet；　pounding　closer。　A　shape　moving　on　two　treetrunk　legs；　tall　as　an　elder's　house；　swayed　out　of　the　fog；　two　forelimbs　raised　like　pitchforks。　Striding　forward　faster　than　a　riding…beast　could　run；　the　dragon　closed　in　on　a　mounted　man。　Flame　jetted　from　a　beautiful　red　cavern　of　a　mouth；　the　glow　of　fire　reflecting；　resonating；　through　cubic　meters　of　the　surrounding　fog。　The　man　atop　his　steed；　five　meters　from　the　dragon；　exploded　like　a　firework；　lance　flying　from　his　hand；　his　armor　curling　like　paper　in　the　blast。　Mark　felt　the　heat　at　thirty　meters'　distance。
　　　Without　pausing；　the　dragon　altered　the　direction　of　its　charge。　It　snorted；　making　an　odd　sound；　almost　musical；　like　metal　bells。　Once　more　it　projected　fire　from　nose　and　upper　mouth。　This　time　the　target；　another　man　on　beastback；　somehow　dodged　the　full　effect。　The　riding…beast　screamed　at　the　light　brush　of　fire；　and　veered　the　wrong　way。　One　pitchfork　forelimb　caught　it　by　one　leg；　and　sent　it　and　its　rider　twirling　through　the　air　to　break　their　bodies　against　a　tree。
　　　All　around　Mark；　men　were　screaming。　He　saw　the　Duke's　men　and　their　riding…beasts　in　desperate　retreat。
　　　The　dragon　changed　the　direction　of　its　charge　again。　Now　it　was　ing　straight　at　Mark。
　　　Nestor；　at　the　moment　when　the　wagon　tipped；　had　tried　to　save　himself　by　leaping　as　far　as　he　could　out　from　the　seat；　to　one　side　and　forward。　He　did　get　clear　of　the　crash；　landed　on　one　leg　and　one　arm；　and　managed　to　turn　the　flying　fall　into　an　acrobat's　tumbling　roll；　thanking　all　the　gods　even　as　he　struck　that　here　the　earth　was　soft。
　　　Soft　or　not；　something　struck　him　on　the　side　of　the　head；　hard　enough　to　daze　him　for　a　moment。　He　fought　grimly　to　stay　free　of　the　descending　curtain　of　internal　darkness；　and　collapsed　no　farther　than　his　hands　and　knees。　He　was　dimly　aware　of　someone；　Ben；　he　thought　it　was　…　bounding　past　him；　into　nearby　thickets　promising　concealment。　And　there　went　a　pair　of　lighter；　swifter　feet；　Barbara's　perhaps。
　　　In　the　thick　fog；　cavalry　came　pounding　near。　Beside　Nestor　in　the　muck；　partially　buried　in　it　even　as　he　was；　there　was　a　log。　He　let　himself　sink　closer　to　it；　trying　to　blend　shapes。
　　　The　cavalry　swept　past　with　a　lot　of　noise；　then　was；　for　the　moment；　gone。　Nestor　scrambled　his　way　back　toward　the　tipped　wagon。　He　had　to　have　the　sword。　Whatever　else　happened；　he　wasn't　going　to　leave　that　for　the　Duke。
　　　When　he　reached　the　spill；　he　found　the　sword　at　once；　as　if；　even　half…dazed；　he　had　known　where　Dragonslicer　must　be。　With　the　familiar　shape　of　the　hilt　tightly　in　his　grip；　and　the　sound　of　the　returning　cavalry　in　his　ears；　Nestor　moved　in　a　crouching　run　back　toward　the　thickets。　He　hoped　the　others　were　getting　away　somehow。
　　　Once　among　the　bushes；　Nestor　crouched　down　motionless。　Once　more；　in　the　fog；　cavalry　went　pounding　blindly　past　him；　towards　the　wagon。　He　jumped　up　and　ran　on　again。　A　moment　later；　a　hideous；　monstrous　bellowing　filled　the　air　behind　him。　It　sounded　like　the　grandfather　of　all　dragons；　and　the　noise　it　made　was　followed　by　human　screams。
　　　Nestor　ran　on。　He　had　his　dragon…killing　sword　in　hand；　but　he　wasn't　about　to　turn　back　and　risk　his　neck　to　use　it　to　save　his　enemies。　Now；　with　the　dragon　providing　such　great　distraction；　he　could　calculate　that　his　chances　of　getting　away　were　quite　good。　Behind　him　the　sounds　of　panic　and　fighting　persisted。　Possibly　the　Duke's　patrol　could　be　strong　and　determined　enough　to　fight　a　dragon　off。　Nestor　kept　going；　angling