"David Freer - The Forlorn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Freer Dave)

she could at least have wrapped it around herself. Then it occurred to her that she did have two large
shirts and, once unwrapped from her arms, they made reasonable short dresses on her small frame.

The comfort of the garments, and the first rays of sunlight lifted her spirits considerably. She raised her
arms and shook her small fists, jangling her bracelets defiantly. She looked at them and smiled to herself,
for the first time since her life had abruptly begun to unravel. On her arms was a small fortune. Perhaps,
perhaps she had the means to some power. In Shael's mind power and security were automatically
equivalent.

She was still trying to work out the best approach, considering each of her father's generals in turn, when
she stumbled upon the stream. She was unsure how one did this rough drinking: usually a servant brought
drinks on a silver tray in a container of some kind. She settled for kneeling and scooping water up rather
ineffectually with her hands. The water was cold and peat-stained. A day before she would have looked
at it, raised an eyebrow and rejected it disdainfully. Now she drank until her side had a stitch in it.

Her vanity was still intact however. Shael was still kneeling, looking at her reflection in the pool when a
coldness began creeping down her spine. Small, almost hidden sounds told her there was someone
behind her. Slowly she turned. She steeled her face for calmness, but the muscles in her neck were
jumping with tension, betraying fear which was mounting towards panic.

Well, he was no Morkth-man. Those were always clean-shaven, both on the head and face, and clad in
black. The heavy stubble on his cheeks was the only thing that was black about this man. He was
long-haired and his clothes had once been a Tyn States uniform, a lancer's at a guess. He attempted a
disarming grin. The blackened stumps of several rotting teeth made it less of a success than it could have
been. He touched the hank of limp, greasy hair on his brow, his shifty eyes darting about. "Morning,
missy. You alone?"

Her first inclination was to run. Her second, on realizing that this was totally impractical, was to claim a
score of companions.

"My . . . my servants are just back there. Lots of them. If you touch me, I'll scream and they'll come."
Despite her training her voice belied her.

He was certainly not fooled. He snorted derisively. "Likely bloody story, missy. They're hiding in the
grass, belike? Calm down, I'm not gonna hurt you."

She relaxed slightly, even if it was not a credible performance on his part either. This slightly run-to-fat
goliath might be physically stronger than she was, but she had other skills. Words . . . and certainother
talents. She was unaccustomed to being alone. She felt sure she could manipulate him easily. Then he
would provide her with company, protection andтАФmost important right nowтАФfood.
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CHAPTER 3
Humans are the vertebrate equivalent of the cockroach. They can, and will, adapt to nearly anything.
The Alpha-Morkth hives pushed this adaptability close to its limits. At this point most humans crack.
Some go insane, some try to rebel, and some become catatonic. Still, after more than three hundred
years of selection, the Alpha-Morkth had to weed out about seventy percent of each crop of humans