Игра престолов

Jon

           Hethrewhimselfforward,shouting,bringingdownthelongswordwithallhisweightbehindit.Steelshearedthroughsleeveandskinandbone,yetthesoundwaswrongsomehow.Thesmellthatengulfedhimwassoqueerandcoldhealmostgagged.Hesawarmandhandonthefloor,blackfingerswrigglinginapoolofmoonlight.Ghostwrenchedfreeoftheotherhandandcreptaway,redtonguelollingfromhismouth.

           Thehoodedmanliftedhispalemoonface,andJonslashedatitwithouthesitation.Theswordlaidtheintruderopentothebone,takingoffhalfhisnoseandopeningagashcheektocheekunderthoseeyes,eyes,eyeslikebluestarsburning.Jonknewthatface.Othor,hethought,reelingback.Gods,he’sdead,he’sdead,Isawhimdead.

           Hefeltsomethingscrabbleathisankle.Blackfingersclawedathiscalf.Thearmwascrawlinguphisleg,rippingatwoolandflesh.Shoutingwithrevulsion,Jonpriedthefingersoffhislegwiththepointofhisswordandflippedthethingaway.Itlaywrithing,fingersopeningandclosing.

           Thecorpselurchedforward.Therewasnoblood.One-armed,facecutnearinhalf,itseemedtofeelnothing.Jonheldthelongswordbeforehim."Stayaway!"hecommanded,hisvoicegoneshrill."Corn,"screamedtheraven,"corn,corn."Theseveredarmwaswrigglingoutofitstornsleeve,apalesnakewithablackfive-fingeredhead.Ghostpouncedandgotitbetweenhisteeth.Fingerbonescrunched.Jonhackedatthecorpse’sneck,feltthesteelbitedeepandhard.

           DeadOthorslammedintohim,knockinghimoffhisfeet.

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