"Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon - Mage Wars 01 - The Black Gryphon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

him stroked rapidly to pursue, crying out in rage. He passed the makaar leader, who predictably took a
swipe at him and lost precious speed, and Kili's recovery was further fouled by the wind turbulence of his
passing underlings. The six rowed past Kili, gaining on Skandranon as he coursed back toward Laisfaar.
 Stupid gryphon, the point is to get away from this place!
The barrier range swept inexorably closer. Skandranon narrowed his concentration to the rockface
before him, and studied the erosion channels cut into the stone by ages past. His breath turned ragged
through his nares as he struggled against fatigue. From the edge of his vision, he saw the other makaar
winging through the Pass, cutting an arc toward the pursuit.
They'll see my wings flare, and assume I'm braking to turn or climb—
Skan cupped his wings as he streaked in a straight line for the sheer cliff-face, feeling but not seeing
the bloodthirsty makaar gaining on him from behind. The barrier stone filled his vision as he executed his
desperate move: he folded his wings until their leading edges curled under him with a clap and his
straining body rolled into a tumbler's somersault. He plummeted in a descending arc as lift abandoned him
and momentum hurled him toward unforgiving stone.
Gravity reversed itself; his head snapped into his chest as he fell. Numbly, detachedly, he realized
the new, tiny pain in his chest was where the sharp tip of his beak had pierced it. Disorientation took him.
All he could do was keep his jaws closed as his world went black, and wonder how many bones this last
trick of his would break.
Follow through—do it, bird, do it—
He stretched his hindlegs out, and fanned his tail. Wind rushed against the lay of his feathers as he
hurtled backward.
In the next instant, he was surrounded by shocked makaar, three above, three below, whose
attention was locked on him instead of the rock rushing to strike them from the sky.
It's going to work—lucky, stupid gryphon—
The dizzying sensations of gravity's pull, momentum's throw, and the rushing of blood mixed with the
sound of six makaars' screams and the crunch of their bodies against stone. Skandranon's feet touched
the unforgiving rock behind him—and he pushed off.
The strange maneuver stabilized his tumble; gave him the chance to spread his wings in a snap and
break his fall, turn it from a fall into a dive.
Only the ground was awfully close....
Pull up, stupid bird, pull up!
Wings straining, heart racing, he skimmed the rock at the bottom of the cliff, so close that his
wingtips brushed it, using his momentum to send himself shooting skyward again, past the spreading stain
on the rock that was all that was left of his first pursuers.
Now get out of here, idiot!
He reversed his course, away from the pass, back toward home and safety—and looked down.
At several hundred crossbows.
Of course, they couldn't see him, except, perhaps, as a fleeting shadow. But they knew he was up
there, and they only had to fill the sky with arrow bolts and rocks, and one or more of them would
probably hit him. A quick glance to either side showed that he'd been flanked by the two new flights of
makaar; they hemmed him in, and had several gryphon-lengths' worth of altitude on him. Kili was not in
sight; he was probably up above, somewhere, waiting.
His only chance lay in speed. If he could just get past the archers before they let fly—
Too late.
From below came a whirring sound; the air around him filled with a deadly reverse-rain of
crossbow-bolts and slung shot. He pulled in his wings in a vain attempt to narrow the target area.
At first, he didn't feel pain, only impact. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a mist of his own blood
as his right wing came forward on the downstroke.
Then it crumpled.
Then it hurt.