Blood of Tyrants. Naomi Novik
Читать онлайн.| Название | Blood of Tyrants |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | Naomi Novik |
| Жанр | Героическая фантастика |
| Серия | |
| Издательство | Героическая фантастика |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 9780007569090 |
HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by Ballantine Books 2013
Copyright © Naomi Novik 2013
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Cover illustration © Dominic Harman
Naomi Novik asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007569083
Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007569090
Version: 2016-08-31
To Cynthia Manson, my amazing agent and friend, with much love and gratitude
Contents
The Temeraire series by Naomi Novik
Water lapping salt at his cheek roused him, a fresh cold trickle finding its way into the hollow of sand where his face rested. It spurred him: with an effort he pushed to hands and knees and then up, to stagger indecorously along the shore and fall again at the foot of several gnarled old pines clinging to the edge of the beach.
His mouth was dry and cracked, his tongue swollen. His hands were clotted with sand. The wind bit sharply through the sodden wool of his coat, stained black with water, and he was barefoot. Slowly, he unfastened the remnants of a leather harness from around his waist: buckles and clasps of good steel, still bright, but heavily waterlogged; he let it fall to the sand. The sword-belt he kept. The blade when he drew it was bright Damascus steel, the hilt wrapped in black ray-skin, the collar the golden head of a dragon. He stared down at it, without recognition.
He rested it across his knees and leaned back against the tree, half-drifting. The empty ocean stood before him: water cold dark blue, the sky a thin grey; dark clouds receded into the east. He might have emerged onto the sand new-born. He felt as empty as the shore: of strength, of history, of name.
Thirst