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

failure, about possibly being far from his goal when the next day dawned. In this late afternoon, all that
was left of his mental energy was concentrated on the next step, and the next, and the one after thatтАж

So he was only dimly aware of the lengthening shadows, as the sun moved lower in the sky. And he was
even less aware, as he moved along the floor of a broad, shallow gully, of the strange plants that were
scattered here and there in his path.

But he became aware of them when his throbbing left arm brushed painfully against the needle-tips of
thorns. He jerked away, stopping and glancing round at the cause of the new hurt. And then he might
have smiled, if his lips were not cracked and crusted.

The plants had tall, spindly stems, twice Keill's height, from which trailed a number of slender growths
like vines that reached to the ground and penetrated deep into the sand. These stringy growths bore the
thorns - but what had stopped Keill in his tracks were the other growths, round and bulbous, that clung
to the tops of the stems. Keill had seen only the domesticated sort, and then rarely, for they were hard to
cultivate. But he knew what they were.
The Legions called them spikeberries, though each could be as large as a human head. They had a thick
outer shell, shiny brown and bristling with their own thorny protection. But inside was a dense, moist,
reddish pulp. Cooked in the Moros way, they were a delicacy. Raw, they were bitter and foul-tasting -
but they were one of the few plants on Moros that humans could digest.

Reaching carefully past the thorny vines, Keill grasped the spindly stem and shook it. The spikeberries
bobbled, bounced and fell, four of them, plump and bulging.

Urgently he searched for and found a narrow, flat shard of stone, and used it like a crude knifeblade to
hack the fruit open. When he scooped a handful of the soggy pulp into his mouth, the mixture of feelings
was almost unbearable. The pure pleasure of the wetness on his thirst-swollen tongue - but also the
stomach-wrenching bitterness of the taste.

Another day he might have spat out the mouthful, gagging. But now, though he winced and shuddered, he
forced himself to swallow, and to take another mouthful, and another.

His stomach informed him that it could happily manage all the spikeberries he could pick. He firmly
informed his stomach that it would have to make do with two, for now. He knew better than to gorge,
after fasting. But he scraped the thorns from the other two so that he could carry them with him for later.

Soon he was moving away through the gully, with his much-tormented loincloth now serving a new
purpose, as a carrier for the two spikeberries, together with the flat blade of stone. And once again he
was feeling restored, as the moisture and the food poured new energy into his body. He even began to
think that he might still reach the Colourless Valley in time, if the food that he was carrying could keep
him moving fairly briskly through the night.

But then he rounded a bend in the broad gully, and his hopeful thoughts were swept away like a puff of
dust. The way was barred. And what was barring it was about to devote itself to the task of killing him.

Mammoths, the Legions called them. Not really as large as the name implied - no more than half again as
tall as Keill. But large enough in their immense girth and ground-shaking weight. Bodies like great
grey-blue boulders, with huge humped backs, six short stumpy legs. Their hide was an almost
impenetrable armour, and their square, bony heads were even better armed. Wicked tusks curved up
from each side of the mouth, and ridges of bone above the tiny eyes sprouted a forest of spikes and