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

that, there was no doubt.
"Yah, yah!"
Onward hammered the team through the storm, the sled shsshing
after.
Faeril looked at Gwylly, her gaze of amber capturing his of emerald.
"Shlee knows," she said, smiling, glancing up at B'arr and then back to
Gwylly. "Shlee knows." Then the damman turned to face front once
more.
Out before her ran nineteen dogs, two by two, except for Shlee
alone in the lead, the dogs of each pair running on opposite sides of the
tow line, each fastened to that gang line by their individual tug lines. Had
Faeril measured, she would have found that the team was evenly spread
out over a distance of nearly eighty feet from the first dog to the last,
giving them room to run, and Faeril could see at most ten yards beyond
the lead dog ere her vision gave out. Hence she knew that if the eyesight
of Shlee in the lead was like her own, then the dog could be seeing no
more than thirty or forty yards beyond into the storm, and the wee
damman wondered what would happen should there be a crevasse in
the way?



They came to the old stone ring atop the low hill within a half hour,
Shlee somehow finding it in spite of the storm, Ruluk's sled with Laska in
the lead, and Tchuka's with Garr, running in on their heels. Still the snow
blew and swirled in the moaning wind, and the stone wall of the ruin was
but a vague darkness on the crown of the tor.
And as the Aleutans separated the three teams a distance from one
another, and began driving widely spaced individual stakes into the
frozen ground and tying a dog to each Gwylly and Faeril were joined by
Riatha and Aravan, and they began unloading the sleds, carrying goods
through the blow and into the tumbled remains of a small round building,
the ruin open to the sky, snow swirling in.
Her voice nearly lost under the groan of the windтАФ" 'Tis from the
eld days," murmured Riatha, setting down her burden, the golden-haired
Elfess running her hand over the stone, her silver-grey eyes gazing hither
and yon, her head turning this way and that, as if seeking unseen sights
and listening for unheard voices.
"A watchpost, I would say," responded Aravan, placing his bundle
next to Riatha's, the Lian Elf slender and dark, his hair as black as a
raven's wing, his eyes deep blue, as were those of other Elves of his
kindred.
A faint tremor ran through the earth, and Faeril placed a hand against
the rock. "Dragonslair?" she asked, receiving a nod from Riatha.
"Aye, wee one. From Kalgalath's ruin thousands of Springdays
agone. As a bell remembers its ring, so too does the world remember
the Dragon's destruction."
Faeril said nothing in return, for she had read the ancient diary of her
long-dead ancestor, some thirty generations removed; and the faded
writing spoke of a region of quakes, there in the Grimwalls. Even so, to