Ironcrown Moon: Part Two of the Boreal Moon Tale. Julian May
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Название: Ironcrown Moon: Part Two of the Boreal Moon Tale
Автор: Julian May
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Героическая фантастика
isbn: 9780007378234
isbn:
‘I left my boat anchored in the lee of Cape Wolf. It won’t take long for me to get to the fjord. But are Maude and the child in danger as well?’
Not from him…Go now. Bring the body-husk back to me, and be very cautious during the crossing so that it is not lost
He nodded, released Dobnelu from his embrace, and vanished.
She stood there forlornly. What remained of her aura was so dull a purple as to be nearly brown. ‘It seems colder. And I suddenly feel very tired. May I be seated, Source?
Your vital energies are dwindling It’s to be expected but in order to protect you from true death, I must change you for awhile Don’t be afraid. If all goes well, you’ll awake later in your own home quite restored.
‘And if it goes badly, will I die?’
Don’t think of that. Only come and touch me.
She cringed. ‘You always forbade it before this.’
Now it’s necessary. Come. Hold out your hand, close your eyes, and let me take care of you.
The dead-black tentacle with its glowing blue chains reached out to her. She lifted her bony old hand and squeezed her eyes tight shut.
With a faint ringing sound, a tiny emerald sphere no larger than a pea fell to the cavern floor.
The One Denied the Sky was alone again. He picked up the sphere with great care, turned about, and pressed it into the ice of the wall behind him. It sank in until it was deeply embedded, joining scores of other glimmering little objects, all of them shining hopefully green.
There is a remedy. If it works, you’ll live. If it fails, you’ll also live, my poor human soul.
But what a life.
The slow-witted youth named Vorgo Waterfall had sense enough to follow the sarcastic advice of the bitch-princess who had slain his father. He floundered back to shore, stripped himself naked, and lay on a flat rock in the midsummer sun, shuddering and blubbering, until the encroaching tide forced him to move further inland. After his blood warmed and his skin dried, he wrung out his woolen shirt and trews and put them back on. They weren’t too uncomfortable. He still had his belt and his sheath-knife and the little charm-sack hung round his neck on a string. But nothing else – not even boots.
His father’s body had boots. Maybe other things. It was awash now, rolling a little with the wavelets that had appeared along with a rising wind. The thought of touching a dead man made his flesh creep with superstitious fear, and for a long time he held back, watching the ravenous, noisy mob of birds that dived and pecked, dived and pecked.
Finally he ran at them through the shallows, throwing stones and yelling at the top of his lungs. Some of the birds flew away, but others attacked him with such viciousness that he was afraid they’d get his eyes. So he gave up, sobbing, and ducked his head in the water to wash away the filth they’d splattered on him, and the blood.
What am I going to do now? he asked himself. The lugger had long since gone away, its escape from the shoaly bay assisted by the rising tide. The bitch-princess hadn’t even bothered rowing with the sweeps. She’d just hoisted the sail and jibed out through the reefs slicker’n eel slime!
Cursing monotonously, Vorgo Waterfall trudged along the shrinking beach. He knew he wasn’t clever. Dad’d told him that often enough, sometimes with a curse and a smack on the ear. ‘But you be a crafty one, Vorgo,’ he’d also said. ‘You got a nose for the main thing, like a cur pup. You can do lots worse than follow that nose o’ yourn.’
Right now, his nose was leading him back the way the women and the boy had come, toward the sea-hag’s steading. The tide was half-high, and in many places the going was hard, even dangerous, until he rounded the point and came to the fjord beach. There all he had to do was slog on. He tried to come up with a plan. Dad always had a plan. But now the bitch-princess who would have made them rich was gone. Only the sea-hag was left.
She was a witch, a very powerful one. All of the fishermen of the north-west shore knew that it was death to enter her fjord. But why should that be? He thought hard about it as he tramped and waded along. Why didn’t she want visitors? Other magickers were glad to sell their potions and amulets and spell-dollies to orn’ry folk, but not old Dobnelu. Why?
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