"Clayton Emery - Netheril 03 - Mortal Consequences" - читать интересную книгу автора (Emery Clayton)

be more than six hours on."
"What will you do when you arrive?" Knucklebones phrased the question delicately.
Sunbright rubbed his stubbly jaw, picked an icicle of blood off his upper lip, and said, "I have no
idea."
Knucklebones stifled a sigh. In the few months they'd been together, he'd explained how he left his
tribe, the Rengarth Barbarians of the tundra. How his father, Sevenhaunt, a great shaman, had died
suddenly, mysteriously wasting away. How Owldark, the new shaman, dreamed a vision that showed
Sunbright the ruin of his people, and so demanded his death. How his mother, Monkberry, warned her
only child to take his father's sword and flee. How he'd fled to the "lowlands," as barbarians called all
territories south, for no single individual could survive on the tundra. And of his adventures to hell and
to the future, where he met Knucklebones, then returned. How he'd conquered death. How in a few
years, the boy had grown to a man, then a warrior, and finally a shaman.
But a shaman was worthless without a tribe, and so, defying the sentence of death, Sunbright
journeyed home. And Knucklebones, herself cast to the winds, went with him, knowing she might be
executed too. So, without a plan, and with little hope, they trudged across the darkening wastes.
After a time, Knucklebones said, "It's a long way to come for revenge."
"I don't want revenge!" Sunbright snapped. "I want..."
"What?" she asked, peeking around her furred hood.
"I want to clear my name, and that of my father," the shaman, staring at the dark horizon, said. "I
want to find out why my father died, if possible. I want to disprove the notion that I'll bring destruction
to the tribe. I wantтАФI just want to go home. And I feelтАФI know bad times are coming. I want to be
with my tribe, for good or ill."
"Do you mean the fall of the Netherese Empire? That's not for three hundred and fifty-odd years
yet."
"No, sooner trouble. I've dreamt of it."
 Knucklebones's sigh blew fog. "I believe you," she said. "A shaman's dreams are both a gift and a
curse. Sometimes you thrash all night, then drag yourself through the day, half asleep."
The barbarian nodded grimly and said, "And sometimes dreams show the future, or distant events,
and sometimes they mean nothing. Sorting them out is the chore."
"Why do it then? Why take the responsibility of being a shaman? It must be hell trying to advise
folk on what's true and what's false."
Oddly, the shaman grinned in the darkness, his fine white teeth glowing by starlight. "Better to be a
thief," he asked, "see what one can steal without losing a hand? Like a jackdaw waiting to swoop
down and steal a button?"
"Yes, better that. Life is simple for thieves. If you can carry something off, fine. The owner should
have been more careful. It teaches folks responsibility."
Sunbright laughed aloud, and swatted her fanny wrapped in wool and fur. "I'll remember that," he
said. "But you were born to be a thief and I a shaman, like my father and forebears. We can't escape
our destiny, we can only endure it."
Knucklebones cast about the barren landscape, which hadn't changed a jot to her eye. "I'll be glad
to escape this wasteland."
"Wasteland?" Sunbright barked a laugh. "This is beautiful country! Wide open, bright and clean,
sweet-smelling, sharp-edged, and simple. Either you adapt or you die."
Knucklebones saw snow and stars. "Perhaps," she mumbled. "Maybe in the summertime...."
"Oh, no. Summer's a sea of mud. Bog so thick and gooey it jerks your boots off. No, in summer
you're a prisoner of the land, and have to camp by the sea and stay put. In winter you can hitch up dog
or reindeer sleds, or strap on snowshoes or skis, and go wherever you want. No, this is the finest time
of year!"
The thief swallowed a groan.
More walking, for the tenth straight day. A rest with cold rations, since they had nothing to burn.