"Brooks, Terry - Jerle Shannara 01 - Ilse Witch" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brooks Terry)

ONE

Hunter Predd was patrolling the waters of the Blue Divide
north of the island of Mesca Rho, a Wing Hove outpost at
the western edge of Elven territorial waters, when he saw
the man clinging to the spar. The man was draped over the length
of wood as if a cloth doll, his head laid on the spar so that his face
was barely out of the water, one arm wrapped loosely about his
narrow float to keep him from sliding away. His skin was burned
and ravaged from sun, wind, and weather, and his clothing was in
tatters. He was so still it was impossible to tell if he was alive. It was
the odd rolling movement of his body within the gentle swells, in
fact, that first caught Hunter Predd's eye.
Obsidian was already banking smoothly toward the castaway,
not needing the touch of his master's hands and knees to know what
to do. His eyes sharper than those of the Elf, he had spotted the
man n the water before Hunter and shifted course to effect a
rescue. It was a large part of the work he was trained to do, locating
and rescuing those whose ships had been lost at sea. The Roc could
tell a man from a piece of wood or a fish a thousand yards away.
He swung around slowly, great wings stretched wide, dipping
toward the surface and plucking the man from the waters with a sure
and delicate touch. Great claws wrapped securely, but gently, about
the limp form, the Roc lifted away again. Depthless and clear, the
late spring sky spread away in a brilliant blue dome brightened by
sunlight that infused the warm air and reflected in flashes of silver
off the waves. Hunter Predd guided his mount back toward the
closest piece of land available, a small atoll some miles from Mesca
Rho. There he would see what, if anything, could be done.
They reached the atoll in less than half an hour, Hunter Predd
keeping Obsidian low and steady in his flight the entire way. Black
as ink and in the prime of his life, the Roc was his third as a Wing
Rider and arguably the best. Besides being big and strong, Obsidian
had excellent instincts and had learned to anticipate what Hunter
wished of him before the Wing Rider had need to signal it. They
had been together five years, not long for a Rider and his mount, but
sufficiently long in this instance that they performed as if linked in
mind and body.
Lowering to the leeward side of the atoll in a slow flapping of
wings, Obsidian deposited his burden on a sandy strip of beach and
settled down on the rocks nearby. Hunter Predd jumped off and hur-
ried over to the motionless form. The man did not respond when the
Wing Rider turned him on his back and began to check for signs of
life. There was a pulse, and a heartbeat. His breathing was slow and
shallow. But when Hunter Predd checked his face, he found his eyes
had been removed and his tongue cut out.
He was an Elf, the Wing Rider saw. Not a member of the Wing
Hove, however. The lack of harness scars on his wrists and hands
marked him so. Hunter examined his body carefully for broken