"Eric Flint - Mother of Demons" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)

The darts were not deadly, of course. The blunted tips could do no more than
lightly score the thick mantle of the hunnakaku, and the slaver was being
careful not to shoot at the easily-damaged eyes. But the darts were painful;
and the hunnakaku were by nature timid and easily frightened.
The gratuitous cruelty of the scene caused a sudden rage to swell within
Nukurren. She shoved aside the mercenary before her. The mercenary began to
protest angrily. Then, seeing who it was who had pushed her, she fell silent.
Ochre uncertainty rippled along the mercenary's mantle, shadowed by pink
undertones of anxiety.
Nukurren ignored the mercenary altogether and advanced upon the slaver.
Feeling her presence, the slaver left off her amusement and glanced back.
Back, and up, for Nukurren was a huge gukuy. At the sight of the warrior
looming above her, the green pleasure tones in the slaver's mantle were
instantly replaced by the same pink-within-ochre.
"What do you want?" demanded the slaver. She eyed Nukurren's mantle, trying to
determine the warrior's mood. But Nukurren had long since learned to maintain
the gray of placid indifference, no matter what she was feeling within. Partly
that was due to her training as an elite guard, and partly to the male secrets
of emotional control she had learned over the years from Dhowifa. It was very
difficult to master shoroku, as the Anshac called the art of maintaining a
gray mantle. As a rule, shoroku was a skill found only among high-clan gukuy.
But Nukurren had persevered in the study for years. She found some spiritual
solace in the discipline. And, as a warrior, it had the practical virtue that
there is perhaps nothing so intimidating as a gukuy whose emotions can't be
determined.
"What do you want?" demanded the slaver, once again.
Nukurren made the gesture of contemptuous dismissal.
"Go," she said. "Leave the hunnakaku be."
The slaver slid back two paces on rigid peds. Pink was now predominant on her
mantle, and flashes of red fear were beginning to appear. Without moving her
eyes from the slaver, Nukurren could detect the same colors on the four
mercenaries standing nearby.
A surreptitious motion in the corner of her eye. Once of the mercenaries had
touched her flail. Without looking at her, Nukurren said softly:
"If that flail comes out of its harness, I'll strip the mantle off your body
and feed your guts to the slugs."
Casually, Nukurren drew her own flail. At the sight of it unharnessed, the
mercenaries and the slaver fell back. Nukurren's flail was truly impressive.
Twice the size of a normal warflail, it could only be wielded by a gukuy of
her immense strength. And where most warflails were armed with flint or
obsidian blades, hers gleamed with bronze. The weapon of an elite soldier. And
the mercenaries were well aware that the warfork harnessed on the right side
of her mantle was a twofork -- the most difficult variety to master. The forks
on their own mantles were mere sixforks, or even eightforks.
For a moment, all was frozen. Then the tableau was interrupted by the arrival
of Kjakukun.
"What in the name of the Clam is going on?" demanded the caravan master.
Nukurren was silent. The slaver began loudly complaining of her conduct. The
mercenaries said nothing, but began a slow withdrawal from the scene.
After listening to the slaver, Kjakukun stared at Nukurren.