"Christopher Stasheff - Rogue Wizard 07 - A Wizard In Midgard" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stasheff Christopher)

"They must have scouts in the last foothills near the flatland, and some way of
signaling back to the army," Magnus guessed. "How many lost their lives in this
skirmish, Herkimer?"
"Ninety-eight, counting the dead on both sides," the computer reported. "Judging
by the severity of their wounds, I estimate that sixteen more will die within a
few days."
Magnus scowled, the sunlight of discovery and investiga tion dimmed by the
shadow of death. "I wonder how frequent these battles are?"
"We found this one by only an hour's search," Herkimer replied. "Probability
analysis indicates an almost constant state of border clashes."
"Yes," Magnus said, brooding. "If they were rare, the odds of chancing upon such
a battle would have been extremely small. At least their wars seem to be
confined to small battles." Then agony seared through Magnus, and the dream
fled.
Awareness returned in the form of the racking ache in his head. Then a sudden
sharp pain exploded in his side, and a voice commanded, "Up with you, now! I saw
you twitch! You're awake!"
The accent was strong, but it was still Terran Standard. That was bad; if the
language hadn't drifted much from its origin, it meant that the government was
strict, harsh, and stonily conservative. Magnus struggled to rise, but the
effort made the pain spear from temple to temple, and he fell back with a groan,
thinking, Concussion....
The sharp pain jabbed at his side again, and the voice shouted, "Up, I said! By
Loki, you'll do as you're told, or you'll die for it!."
Anger overode the pain, and Magnus forced his eyes open. Light tore at his
brain, and he squeezed his eyelids to slits as he rolled, trying to ignore the
agony in his head and the nausea in his stomach, looking for his tormentor.
The man stood above him with a yard-long wooden stick capped with a metal
point-for all the stars, a cattle prod! "Up!" he bellowed. "Into the field with
you!" He jabbed again. "That for your arrogance, walking down the road in broad
daylight like a real man! Into the field with you, half-giant, and learn your
place!"
Through the raging in his head, all Magnus could think was, Half?
Then he remembered what he had seen from orbitfrom orbit, safe in Herkimer's
cozy, luxurious lounge.
Magnus pored over one photograph, then compared it with another and another.
"There's a pattern here."
"Of what sort?" the computer asked. Its injured tone had to be Magnus's
imagination; Herkimer couldn't really be feeling miffed that Magnus had
discovered something that it hadn't. In fact, Herkimer couldn't be feeling,
period. It was a machine.
"Some form of slavery," Magnus said. "In every picture showing people working,
the real drudgery is being done by the biggest and the smallest."
"Stronger people would naturally do the heavier work," the computer noted.
"It isn't always heavy." Magnus leafed through the pictures. "They're chopping
wood, drawing water, mucking out pigpens, that sort of thing. The medium-sized
women are feeding the chickens, sweeping the steps, and tending the gardens. The
medium-sized men are making barrels, driving wagons, forging iron
implements-crafts and trades. The big ones and the small ones do the unskilled
labor. More medium-sized men are watching them with sticks in their hands."