"Douglas Hill - Last Legionary 0 - Young Legionary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hill Douglas)

no higher than Keill's hip, except for their huge, upraised ears. He smiled slightly at their fearful
squeaking, as their oversized hind legs carried them away in panicky leaps. And he smiled again when he
saw the clear brook tumbling across the meadow ahead of him.

All his control was needed to make him sip, and pause, and sip, rather than gulping his belly full. Then he
lowered himself full length in the brook, letting the cool water douse the flames in his flesh. Emerging, he
inspected himself. His wounds needed medication, he knew, but they would keep a while longer. He
knelt by the brook, scooping up more small mouthfuls of water, and took stock.

The meadow was a fertile little island in the depths of the planet's most inhospitable terrain - the bleak
mountains on one side, and on the other the foothills that led down into the powdery sands and lethal heat
of the desert. His goal - the Colourless Valley - formed one of the main entry routes into the desert from
the edge of the hills. It was a great many hours' march away. Which meant that he would have to forego
sleep, and travel most of the night, if he was to reach the valley by dawn the next day.

The water and the rest were reviving him, but he knew their effects would be shortlived. He had also
seen that there was nothing edible, for him, in this meadow - and he might not find another water supply
between here and the Colourless Valley. But without something to recharge his energies, could he hope
to keep going through the night?

The thought crept like an evil whisper into his mind. It was possible, the whisper said, that he was not
going to make it.

The idea did not particularly disturb him. Right then he felt no sense of urgency. It was too peaceful. The
lulling whisper of the breeze, the gentle chuckle of the brook, the warm glow of the sunlit meadow - there
were so few places like this on Moros. This is what life should be like, said the whisper in his mind. Not
harsh rock, and pain, and danger. This was paradise - and the voice in his mind saw no reason why he
should not stay here, and wait for the others to come and find him.

But there was something else in his mind besides a rebellious, tempting voice. He was a child of Moros -
and though his inner disciplines were wearing thin, they were still part of him. As they were of all his
people, in the soul, in the blood and bone. The tempting voice within him stopped, as if some unseen
hand had closed on some invisible throat. And Keill was on his feet and moving away before his
conscious mind had begun to give the orders for movement.

Then shame flooded through him, as he realized how close he had come to giving up. He paused a
moment, glowering around at the alluring meadow, at the tall bleak mountains beyond it.

Maybe I won't get there in time, he thought. But I will get there. If I have to crawl.



By late afternoon, he was feeling exactly as he had expected. Certainly the foothills now offered fewer
hardships: he could follow a meandering tangle of paths through shallow vales and hollows, not needing
to tackle the demanding slopes and rises. But still there was little shelter from the sun, and no sign of
water among the dusty rocks and stretches of flat brown sand. The blistering fire was blazing again in his
wounds. Thirst dried his mouth as if the brook in the meadow had been a dream. Hunger and weariness
made his legs feel rubbery, and turned his progress into a halting plod.

And after all the hours of weary travel, his mind had almost disengaged. He was no longer thinking about