"Alan Dean Foster - Krull" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

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Krull

The boy pulled the collar of his coat tighter against his neck. It was a damp, chilly
morning. The first suggestions of winter reached thin, icy fingers down from the North Country.
Soon the land would sleep beneath a thick mantle of white wet down.
Nearby the flock cropped methodically at the long grass. They would work their way to the
top of the gentle slope, perhaps, as far as the large boulder protruding like a giant's nose from
the hillside, before it was dark and time to herd them in. The boy thought hungrily of the
steaming stewpot that awaited him back in the village, of the hot tea that could drive out a day's
chill as it spread outward in a steadily warming circle from his belly.
Life was not easy, his father repeatedly told him, but with a little hard work it might be
made bearable. The sheep would provide meat for the coming year, their wool would give warmth, and
there should be enough of both left over to trade
for money in the marketplace. They might even make enough money to travel to his cousin's
hometown of Banbreak, where there was much talk of uniting all the towns and villages in the
region to form a kingdom. The boy's father was all for such unification. A single government could
provide strength and protection from which all might prosper. There was too much division and
argument among men, especially now, when they ought to join together against a common enemy.
The dominant ram let out a nervous baa and the boy stirred himself. It wouldn't do to be
caught daydreaming. Standing atop the little knoll he'd chosen for a resting place, he leaned on
his staff and carefully inspected the surrounding terrain. You never could tell what might be
lurking out there, crouched low among the bushes or in the rustling branches up a tree. He prided
himself on his watchfulness. Since the flock had been entrusted to his care, he'd lost not a
single sheep to marauders, no matter whether they approached on four legs or two or eight.
The ram let out a second bleat and there were echoes from others in the flock. They began
to mill together uncertainly, clustering around the mature rams and ignoring the grass. The boy's
fingers tightened on the staff as he turned a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the source of their
unease. He could see nothing. In the trees all that moved were wind-stirred leaves, on the ground
nothing but rippling grass and weeds. As if to worry him further a stiff breeze suddenly sprang to
life, bending the taller bushes and rattling the gravel underfoot.
Then it occurred to the boy that it had become preternaturally silent. There were no bird
sounds, no digger barks, not even the buzz of omnipresent insects from the small stream that
flowed nearby.
The wind intensified, swirling his cloak around him. It was rapidly growing darker. Storm
coming up, he thought. Probably from behind Ignatus Mountain. But that wasn't sufficient
to explain the flock's eerie behavior. They were all bleating now, crying out anxiously.
Still the source of their collective distress remained hidden from sight.
No matter. He did not have any more time to hunt for invisible threats. His job now was to
get the flock under cover before the storm broke. Still keeping a wary eye on the nearest clump of
cover, which might conceal a lurking predator, he hopped down from his perch and began shooing the
sheep back toward the village.
They refused to budge, clustering so tightly together they threatened to trample the
lambs. Now what the devil had got into those fool animals?
He turned his gaze upward, the better to gauge the speed and strength of the approaching
storm, and his jaw dropped.
The lowing sky was full of dark cumulus, but the largest cloud of all was not drifting
southward with its billowy companions. It was falling steadily earthward. Lights flickered along