The screams now silent, Bitterwood toppled into the ash.
He closed his eyes, then opened them to discover Poocher by his head. The pig was wearing the rider’s visor, standing on two legs.
“Evil man,” Poocher said, in a smooth and high-cultured tone. He pointed a cleft hoof at Bitterwood in a gesture of condemnation. “All your works amount to dust. All that remains of you will scatter with the winds.”
Bitterwood found himself concurring with the judgment of the pig. He welcomed this fate. It seemed a very light thing, to be carried off by air, unremembered, unmourned.
“Take care of Zeeky,” he whispered before the world spun in a whirl of white embers, then turned black.
Вы читаете Bitterwood
