JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 204 из 213That might be bad, but that is the way of people, and Sharpe’s sword tip hit the guard of the Kligenthal, forced it wide, came free when Leroux’s arm was off balance and Sharpe brought the blade scything back so it cut across Leroux’s chest, then back again so the sword cut Leroux’s forearm, and Sharpe knew this man would die.
He would die for McDonald, for Windham, for the unnamed Spaniards, for Spears, for El Mirador, for Sharpe himself, and Leroux knew it, for he became desperate. His right arm was wounded so he held his wrist with his left hand and scythed the Kligenthal in a glittering, air singing blow and Sharpe stepped back, let the blade pass, and then shouted his exultation as he lunged forward, picking his spot, and he did not hear Hogan shouting at him, nor Harper’s cry of acclamation, for the blade was going into Leroux’s body at the exact place where Leroux had wounded Sharpe, and Leroux let the Kligenthal go, his mouth opened, and his hands clutched at the blade that still pierced him, a flesh-hook that tortured him, that went through skin and muscle and tore the scream from him.
He fell. He was not dead yet. The pale eyes were wide. He drew up his legs as Sharpe had drawn up his legs, he gasped air into his lungs so that the scream could fight the pain that he had made Sharpe fight for two weeks, and then Sharpe twisted the sword free, held the point above Leroux’s throat, and finished him off.
He left his sword swaying above the lifeless Frenchman and stepped back. Leroux was dead.
Hogan had watched Sharpe’s anger. He rarely saw the Rifleman fight. He had been awed by Sharpe’s skill, troubled by the turbulence of his friend, and he saw the distaste that crossed Sharpe’s face when it was all done. Leroux was no longer the enemy, no longer Napoleon’s man, he was a pathetic, cringeing corpse. Hogan’s voice was mild. “Wouldn’t he surrender?”
“No, sir.” Sharpe shook his head. “He was a stubborn bastard.”
Sharpe picked up the Kligenthal, the sword he had wanted so much, and it could have been made for him. It settled in his right hand like a part of himself. It was a beautiful and deadly weapon.
He undipped Leroux’s snake-clasp belt, tugged the sword slings free from the body, and strapped the scabbard over his own scabbard. He pushed the Kligenthal home. His Kligenthal.
Leroux’s black sabretache was spotted with blood. Sharpe lifted the flap and there, on top, was a small leather notebook. He opened it, saw a star chart surrounded by a strange language, and tossed it to Hogan.“ That’s what we wanted, sir.
He would die for McDonald, for Windham, for the unnamed Spaniards, for Spears, for El Mirador, for Sharpe himself, and Leroux knew it, for he became desperate. His right arm was wounded so he held his wrist with his left hand and scythed the Kligenthal in a glittering, air singing blow and Sharpe stepped back, let the blade pass, and then shouted his exultation as he lunged forward, picking his spot, and he did not hear Hogan shouting at him, nor Harper’s cry of acclamation, for the blade was going into Leroux’s body at the exact place where Leroux had wounded Sharpe, and Leroux let the Kligenthal go, his mouth opened, and his hands clutched at the blade that still pierced him, a flesh-hook that tortured him, that went through skin and muscle and tore the scream from him.
He fell. He was not dead yet. The pale eyes were wide. He drew up his legs as Sharpe had drawn up his legs, he gasped air into his lungs so that the scream could fight the pain that he had made Sharpe fight for two weeks, and then Sharpe twisted the sword free, held the point above Leroux’s throat, and finished him off.
He left his sword swaying above the lifeless Frenchman and stepped back. Leroux was dead.
Hogan had watched Sharpe’s anger. He rarely saw the Rifleman fight. He had been awed by Sharpe’s skill, troubled by the turbulence of his friend, and he saw the distaste that crossed Sharpe’s face when it was all done. Leroux was no longer the enemy, no longer Napoleon’s man, he was a pathetic, cringeing corpse. Hogan’s voice was mild. “Wouldn’t he surrender?”
“No, sir.” Sharpe shook his head. “He was a stubborn bastard.”
Sharpe picked up the Kligenthal, the sword he had wanted so much, and it could have been made for him. It settled in his right hand like a part of himself. It was a beautiful and deadly weapon.
He undipped Leroux’s snake-clasp belt, tugged the sword slings free from the body, and strapped the scabbard over his own scabbard. He pushed the Kligenthal home. His Kligenthal.
Leroux’s black sabretache was spotted with blood. Sharpe lifted the flap and there, on top, was a small leather notebook. He opened it, saw a star chart surrounded by a strange language, and tossed it to Hogan.“ That’s what we wanted, sir.