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

drowning man.

It had taken the last of his energy to haul himself onto the trunk of the long-dead tree. Having roughly
wedged himself upright between two branches, his mind slipped into post bioenhancement oblivion.

He regained consciousness to find his clothing being torn away by a scarecrow figure in a long, ragged
skirt. The stirring and opening of his eyes elicited a start and a surprised comment, "Well, damn me if it
ain't alive. Mebbe there's more profit in it than just a few bits o' black rag." He was vaguely aware of
being dragged, then of a delicious warmth stealing through his limbs.
 Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html




The Morkth-man drifted in and out of consciousness several times in the next few days. The man who
gave him broth and tended the fire, confirmed S'kith 235's beliefs that non-Morkth-bred humans were
very alien creatures indeed. Totally misshapen, bulging with fat on his chest, and wide about the hips, and
not wearing proper trousers. Long-haired too. Fever and darkness took him down again.

The place was silent when S'kith woke clear-headed at last, some three days after his flight and
involuntary escape from the hive. His ribs ached, and his scalp and chin itched furiously. He looked about
the place, trying to piece happenings together from a patchwork of memories.

He was in a low cave, crudely fronted with rocks, and a half-drawn curtain of hide. A smoky fire burned
at the back of the cave. He was lying under some rough covering on a straw pallet. His clothes were
gone, and his hands and ankles were bound. He heard voices, and they were coming closer.

". . . . found him on that spit yonder, more dead 'n alive, jammed in a dead tree, free days ago."

To S'kith there was something familiar about the voice. "Them Morkth-men is good workers. Too dumb
t'stop, heh, heh! You gonna give me a goo' price fer 'im then?" There was a wheedling, whining quality to
the voice.

Somebody snorted. "Likely not worth a bent copper, Sheela. He's probably so bent 'n buggered by the
river I won't find a buyer for him."

"Naw! 'E's in good nick, I promise. Checked him out meself, all over. 'E's well hung too. Fought of
keeping 'im for a stud for me old age, I did." The vaguely familiar voice went off into a cackle of laughter.

"He's entire?" The second speaker was incredulous. "Then he's no bloody Morkth-man. Stole the
clothes y'showed me, likely enough. Stupid bastard."

"Well, I'll take 'em off, then. I'll not let 'is nuts stand between me an' a goo' price." The hide was pushed
aside, and the skirted figure with long hair was suddenly outlined against the background of a river sand
spit. The face was prune-wrinkled. It was something that S'kith had never seen before. Morkth-men
were killed when they began to age past their prime. The eyes that looked out of the face were sharp,
and flickered across his attempt to sit up.

"See, Ser Farno. 'E's in good shape, considering. Now, I'll cut his cods off quickly." The knife that came
out of her sleeve was long and wickedly sharp looking. It was a mistake. The sight of the knife triggered