"Alan Dean Foster - Catechist 1 - Carnivores Of Darkness & Light" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

particularly tall warrior, tall even for a Naumkib, whose somber aspect was the subject of much good-
natured gibing among his peers. In response to the frequent jokes made at his expense, Etjole would
always smile tolerantly and nod. He was not one to spoil the fun of his hunting companions even when
he was the butt of their entertainment. "Help... me..." The words were barely audible, and for a moment
Etjole Ehomba thought they were only subtle distortions of the surf-music, sprinkled upon his innocent
ears like wind-blown foam. Having paused momentarily, he started to resume his walk, convinced he
had heard nothing. "Please... by whatever god you pray to... help me..." Not foam, not wind, but the
dying utterances of a man very like himself. Halting, Ehomba looked northward along the shore with a
tracker's experienced eyes, sweeping the rocks and sand for signs of life. Eventually, he found it-or what
was left of it. The man was younger than himself, sturdily built, and clad in the most elaborate garments
anyone had yet seen on the bodies on the beach. His fine leather armor extended down to cover his
upper arms and legs, but it had not been enough to preserve him. There was a great hole in his right side,
through which glistening red flesh and pale white bone were clearly visible. Ehomba wondered how he
had survived even this long with so deep a wound. It was ragged around the edges, clear evidence of a
bite. Whatever had done it had bitten clean through the thick, tough armor. A big shark might have made
such a wound, he knew. There were many sharks in the waters offshore from the village. Yes, it might
have been a shark-or something else. The man's hair was straight, shoulder length, and golden. Very
different from the thick braids that were bound up in a tight bunch at the back of Ehomba's neck. He
marveled at the wispy strands. Leaning forward, he wiped sea slime and sand from the pallid face. At his
kindly touch, the other's eyes opened. They were a delicate, diluted blue, but not yet entirely dimmed,
and they focused immediately on him. "You... who are... ?" "I am Etjole Ehomba, of the tribe of
Naumkib. You and many others have been cast ashore on the beach below our village. Your companions
are all dead." His gaze flicked briefly over the cavity in the younger man's torso. "You are dying too. I
know a little medicine, but not enough to help you. Not even the old wise women of the village could
help what I see. It is too late." The stranger's reaction was not what Ehomba expected. The man's eyes
grew suddenly, shockingly wide. Reaching up, he clutched the taller man's wool overshirt and used it to
pull his ruined, bleeding upper body off the sand until his face was only a foot away from that of his
finder. In light of the terrible injury he had suffered, the effort of will required to accomplish this feat
was nothing short of astonishing.
Staring straight into Ehomba's eyes, he hissed in his odd, uneven accent, "You must save her!" "Save
her? Save who?" Ehomba's bewilderment was absolute. "Her! The Visioness Themaryl of Laconda!"
Remarkably, and with what invisible reserves of strength one could only imagine, the man was shaking
Ehomba by the front of his overshirt. "I do not know of what, or of whom, you speak," the herder
responded gently. Exhausted by this ultimate physical exertion, the wounded stranger collapsed back on
the sand. He was breathing more slowly now, and Ehomba could sense Death advancing fluidly across
the surf, choosing as its avenue of approach, as it so often did, its friend the sea. "Know that I am Tarin
Beckwith, son of Bewaryn Beckwith, Count of Laconda North. The Visioness Themaryl was my
countess, or my countess-to-be, until she was carried off by that pustulance that walks like a man and
calls itself Hymneth the Possessed. Many"-he coughed raggedly, and blood spilled from his lips as from
an overfull cup-"many of the sons and masters of the noble houses of Greater Laconda took a solemn
oath never to rest until she was returned to us and her abductor punished. To my knowledge, I and my

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men were the only ones to track the monster's ship this far." He paused, wheezing softly, praying for
breath enough to continue. "There was a battle this morning, on the sea. My men fought valiantly. But
Hymneth is in league with the evils of otherness. He cavorts with them, delights in their company, and
calls upon them to help defend his miserable self. Against such foulness and depravity even brave men
cannot always stand." Once more the watery blue eyes, the life fading from them, fastened on Ehomba's