"Emil Petaja - Tramontane" - читать интересную книгу автора (Petaja Emil)

backed up and raised their blasters. Kullervo stood at the drop, his ugly
face washed by the sudden dawning of the largest of the seven suns, which
Ryler 8 termed morning. This hot star turned Kullervo satanic red, made
him blink and grimace, standing there by the volcanic wrinkle, arms
dangling helplessly. He seemed not to understand what was about to
happen to him, yet when the muzzles of the three long blasters converged
on his misshapen body his hands moved up in an age-old gesture of
surrender.

Surrender wasnтАЩt enough. Die, Kullervo Kasi! Die!

The poising fingers stayed, as if to savor this death or reluctant to cause
it. Then, awkwardly, Kullervo moved. His right hand darted like a hairy
spider into his torn shirt. Something bright and pointed caught the new
red sunlight. It made the executioners blink from the backlash, lower
blasters.

тАЬSuckerтАЩs got a knife!тАЭ Pot cried.

тАЬSo? Get him before he decides to throw it.тАЭ

тАЬNo! I want it! I need a blade. Looks like a good one. No use letting it go
down the drop with him.тАЭ

Pot moved forward warily. For the first time Kullervo showed fight.
Like his curious blue stockings, this bone-handled blade was a personal
talisman. His and his alone. He must not lose it, even in death. When PotтАЩs
strides brought him within feet, Kullervo jumped aside with an animal
yelp. He went into a crouch, made his antique weapon cut the air between
them in swift inconclusive jabs.

Pot grinned and touched his blasterтАЩs trigger-stud. Fire leaped. Kullervo
gave a wolfish howl and flung himself flat on the crusty ground. Like all his
movements, it was lumbering and awkward, but for the moment it paid
off. He managed to undershoot the deathline. Yet it put him at a
disadvantage because he couldnтАЩt use his knife as Pot rushed him, angrily.
He did attempt to arch up enough to hurl the poinard blade at his enemy
but, with a laughing shout, Pot leaped, planning to bring his heavy boot
down on KullervoтАЩs wrist.

Kullervo dragged his arm back to save himself from crushed bones. The
eight-inch blade caught in a flinty outcrop of laval rock. The boot struck
down on KullervoтАЩs fingers and wrung an involuntary scream of agony
from him. The blow made him lose hold of his precious knife and sit up,
shaking the broken fingers as if to shake off the ravening demon pain. It
was half a minute before he remembered his treasure and groped down
for it, left-handed.

Pot looked at it and swore.