"Janny Wurts - The Master of Whitestorm" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wurts Janny)

 Shortly, the red-faced and furious mate stamped down the companionway. Braced for trouble, Haideth
glanced at his benchmate. Korendir never flicked a muscle. His mouth described as grim a line as ever in
the past, even when the mate ordered double speed from the rowers with vengeful disregard for the heat.

The drumbeat quickened. Na!lga's oars slashed into the water. Waves creamed into spray beneath her
dragon figurehead as the full complement of her two hundred slaves bent to increase stroke. Faster paces
were nor-mally maintained only to keep the slaves in battle trim; today, the drill extended unreasonably
long. Soon the most seasoned palms split, blistered and raw, and each stroke became a separate labor of
endurance. Blood pounded in Haldeth's ears, cut periodically by the crack of the lash as the mate laid his
whip across some unfortu-nate laggard's back. With lungs aching and eyes stung blind with sweat, he
reflected that Korendir's fellow cap-tives would pound the life from his body should they discover him
responsible for the mate's ugly mood. Yet the man himself bore the agonies of exertion with impas-sive
lack of regret.



The mate's fury did not abate until the waterboy ar-rived with evening rations. Sensible enough to recall
that unfed slaves made slow passage, the officer restored his whip to his belt and at last slackened the
pace. Beaten with exhaustion, Haideth dropped his head on crossed wrists. Since the evening meal was
more lavish than that served at midday, the slaves ate in shifts, permitted use of both hands. But like
Haldeth, most of the men were far too winded to eat. Still irritable, the mate paced the gangway, urging
them to haste with his whipstock until the night officer reported for duty. Soon after he called the order
for rest, heavy sleep claimed the entire lower deck.

Nallga held course under reduced speed, driven by her upper oars. Midnight would bring a reversal, the
lower oarsmen resuming work while the slaves above slept until dawn. The wind blew steadily off the
starboard quarter, ;and the galley's single, square sail curved against a zenith bright with tropical
constellations. Mhurga's fleet plied south in winter, to avoid the cold, storm-ridden waters of their native
latitude. In expectation of mild seas and fair sky, the captain retired below, which left the quarter-master
the only officer awake on deck. Phosphorescence plumed like smoke beneath the ga!ley's keel. The lisp
of her wake astern described a rare interval of peace be-tween the frailty of wood and sinew, and the
ruthless demands of the ocean.

"Bhaka! Out oars! Reverse stroke!" The shout disrupted the night like a warcry, its bitten, authoritative
tones unmistakably the mate's.

The lower deck oars ran out with a rumble. Dry blades lapped into water, muscled by a hundred rudely
wakened slaves. Entrenched in the long established rhythm of for-ward stroke, the exhausted upperdeck
rowers adapted sluggishly to the change. Chaos resulted.

Slammed by the conflicting thrust of her oars, Nallga slewed. Crewmen crashed like puppets against
bulkhead and rail. The sail backwinded with a bang which tore through boltrope and sheet. Canvas
thundered untamed aloft while the oars crossed and snarled, slapped aside by the swell. Leaded beech
punched the ribcages of some rowers with bone-snapping force, and a barrage of ago-nized screams
arose from the benches.

"Oars in! Quartermaster, hard aport!"

Nallga's captain pounded up the companionway, still naked from his berth. His hand clutched a bleeding
shoulder, and his face was purpled with outrage above his broad chest.