"Dennis L. McKiernan - Mithgar - Eye of the Hunter" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKiernan Dennis L)

Gwylly

Mid Summer, 5E985
[Three Years Past]



Whrrr. . . ! sounded the wings of the woodcock, veering among the
trees. Zzzzz . . . The sling bullet sissed through the air, missing the bird
altogether.
"Bother!" cried Gwylly, vexed. "How could I have missed?"
The question was purely rhetorical, for no one was there to answer
itтАФnone, that is, but Gwylly himself and his foster father's dog, Black,
now slumped dejectedly before him.
The Warrow looked at the ebony dog. "How could I have missed,
Black?"
Black's tail thumped against the ground a time or two, though his sad
eyes looked accusingly up at the wee buccan, as if to say, You missed!
"I know, boyo. You were all set to retrieve this one, too. But, well,
even I miss now and again. I'm not infallible, you know."
Black's eyes did not lose their sadness, nor their accusatory stare.
"Well, it wasn't by much, Black." Gwylly held up a thumb and
forefinger, an inch or so apart. "This close, boyo. This close."
Black looked away, elsewhere, peering into the great forest
surrounding them.
"All right. All right. I'm sorry! I didn't mean to miss. Besides, we'll go
for another."
Gwylly bent down and caught up a string of three woodcocks.
Holding them out before the dog, he shook them to get Black's
attention. "See, dog, we have had some luck today."
Black snorted.
"What?" asked the buccan. "Oh, not luck, you say. Instead it was
your skill at sniffing them out?"
Black's tail began to wag, and Gwylly smiled. "Perhaps you are right,
boyo. Perhaps you are absolutely right."
Black stood and looked expectantly at Gwylly.
"Go, Black. Find bird."
With a joyful bound the black dog ranged ahead among the trees,
nose alternately to the ground and then held high, sniffing the air.
Through the shaggy Weiunwood went buccan and dog, past hoary
trees, great-girthed and ancient, standing silently, their leaves faintly
stirring in the summer morn. Down mossy banks and across crystal rills
and up the far sides ranged the pair, Black splashing through the clear
water, not stopping to drink, Gwylly leaping from stone to stone after.
Through stands of ferns they brushed, the green fronds swish-swashing
at their passage. And the yellow Sun shone down through the interlaced
branches above, filling the high green galleries with soft shadows pierced
by golden shafts.
Suddenly Black veered, shying from a wall of dark oak trees
marching off to left and right to disappear beyond seeing in the depths of