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

then again took up ranging back and forth, searching for bird scent. And
through the woods went Warrow and dog, all thought of strange forest
dwellers now gone from the buccan's mind, for although Gwylly knew of
these legends, of this lore, he was not part of the Weiunwood Warrows,
having been raised otherwise, elsewhere, on the fringes. And so, Gwylly
and Black searched woodland, hunting birds, leaving the legends for
others to dwell upon.
A quarter hour passed this way, Black veering back and forth,
Gwylly cutting through the dog's pattern in a more or less straight line.
Then Black stopped, his tail straight out, his muzzle fixed and pointing.
Sliding to a halt behind the quivering dog, Gwylly loaded his sling. "All
right, Black," he whispered. "Flush."
Slowly Black crept forward, Gwylly edging softly behind, sling in
hand, his eyes fixed on the place where the dog's muzzle pointed.
Whrrr . . . Woodcock wings hammered through the air. Gwylly
whipped his arm about and loosed a sling strap, the bullet flying to strike
the bird, the slain woodcock tumbling down through the air and to the
ground.
"Black, fetch!"
The dog bounded forward, disappearing through the ferny growth to
reappear moments later with the bird in his mouth.
Gwylly knelt and took the game, and ruffled Black's fur, scratching
the dog behind the ears. "Ah, Black, my good comrade, you are
undoubtedly the greatest bird finder and fetcher in all of the Weiunwood.
Hai! In all of Mithgar!"
Gwylly looped a slipknot into the cord, preparing to tie the
woodcock with the other three. "It is your nose and my sling which
makes this team so very successful. You and I, Black, we are mighty
hunters. And let no one deny it."
Black sat before Gwylly, his tail thumping the ground, his brown eyes
fixed upon the buccan, not knowing precisely what was being said but
knowing that whatever it was, it was good. And Black was ecstatic with
joy.
"Let's go, boyo," said Gwylly, woodcocks corded, slinging all across
his shoulder, "time for home. Time to show Mom and Dad what we've
downed for supper."
Understanding the word home, Black set off to the east, heading for
the fringe of the Weiunwood itself, for home lay some two or three miles
away on the marge of a sloping plain. The plains themselves led up into
the Signal Mountains, an ancient range, timeworn by wind and rain, now
no more than high tors, no more than the spines and ribs of former
giants, curving in a long easterly arc from Challerain Keep in the far
north to Beacontor and the Dellin Downs in the south.
Toward this ridge fared Gwylly and Black, though the forest blocked
out any sight of the crags and round tops and stone rises and grassy
slopes of the highland ahead.
As they wended their way among the now thinning trees, the Sun
rode upward in the sky, the noontide swiftly approaching, the light and
warmth of summer filling the woodland. Still they passed among hoary
giants, the massive, moss-laden trunks somehow protective in their