"Roger Taylor - Ibryen" - читать интересную книгу автора (Taylor Roger)

 He growled angrily to end the questioning. Then, though it was some three hours until dawn, he swung
aside his rough blankets and, draping them about his shoulders, went to the door. As the night cold
struck him, he took a deep breath and pulled the blankets tight about him. There was no moon, and the
stars shone brightly through the clear air, as familiar and unchanging in their patterns as the mountains
themselves.

And as ancient and indifferent, Ibryen mused, shivering despite the lingering bed-warmth in the sheets.

All about him, the camp, or, more correctly, the village, which is what the camp had developed into over
the years, was quiet. Yet it would not be asleep. Around the perimeter and on the nearby peaks, eyes
would be staring into the darkness, ears would be listening, waiting for that movement, that sound which
would indicate the approach of some spy, or even the GevethenтАЩs army. Briefly, his old concerns
surfaced again. Practical and tactical this time. How long could such vigilance be maintained? How long
could he keep up the spirits of his own followers? How long before the Gevethen discovered this place
and launched a full attack? How long . . .

Frowning, he dashed the thoughts aside and turned his mind back to whatever it was that had wakened
him in the middle of the night and had been disturbing him during the day whenever he found himself in
quietness between tasks. Maybe itтАЩs just Spring coming, he thought, smiling to himself, but the whimsy
did little to allay the peculiar unease that was troubling him. For it was still here тАУ permeating the soft
breeze that was drifting along the valley. Calling to him тАУ a haunting . . .

What? He closed his eyes and leaned back against the door frame.

Urgency and appeal was all around him, faint and shifting, but distinct for all that. Yet it was not the
urgency and appeal of his present predicament, nor those of his people whom he had abandoned. He
curled his lip at the bitterness in the word. For a moment, memories threatened to flood in upon him, but
he let the word go. That too was a well-worn debate, and that he had had no choice gave him no
comfort.

The breeze returned its unsettling burden to him again. There was an almost alien quality in what he could
feel тАУ or was it, hear? It was as though he were listening to a creature from an ancient fable, articulate
and intelligent, yet wholly different from him in every way. Images formed and re-formed in his mind, but
none clearly, each dissolving as he turned his thoughts towards it like shapes within a swirling mist.

тАШAre you all right, Count?тАЩ

The voice thundered into his inner silence, rasping, uncouth and distorted, making him start violently.
Only years of silent and stealthy warfare kept him from crying out. His questioner however was as
shaken as he by the response.

тАШIтАЩm sorry, Count,тАЩ he gasped. тАШI didnтАЩt mean to startle you. I . . .тАЩ

Ibryen raised a hand to silence him. The manтАЩs voice was becoming normal in his ears тАУ a tone scarcely
much above a whisper тАУ the tone he would have expected anyone to be using in the sleeping camp. He
identified the speaker. It was unthinkable that he above all should have spoken as Ibryen had heard. It
had been like the shattering of night vision by a sudden brilliant light. What had he been listening to with
such intensity? He made no attempt to answer the question.

тАШItтАЩs all right, Marris,тАЩ he said to the dark shape in front of him. тАШI was a little restless. I just came out to