"01 - Mercadian Masques - Francis Lebaron 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lebaron Francis)

invisible violently struck his chest. The world before him
exploded in a silent sound.
Atalla staggered backward, tripped, and fell. He rolled to
his feet in time to see the air divide and slip away from the
sides of a ship, which burst across the screaming sky. A
flying ship? Atalla had seen oceangoing galleys last year in
Rishada, but a flying ship? It hurtled through the air as if
shot from one of the great cannons that guarded the city. A
flying warship-more than that, a comet, a sign from the
heavens....
What was that old myth Father spoke of? The Uniter?
A sudden gale threw Atalla down. Rocks dug into his knees.
The grass thrashed like flames. The barn's thatch was ripped
free. Jhovalls shrieked in their stalls. Every window in the
house shattered. The ship screamed so low overhead that lines
trailing from its side slapped the roof. For one frozen
moment, a bull's head stared at him over the rail. With a
great whoosh, the ship disappeared behind the house.
There was a heart-stopping crash. Wood rent and
splintered. Screams came with the sound. Earth flew outward in
a pelting hail. The ground shook. There was a loud crack, a
thud of some heavy body, and then silence.
The ship had crashed in the plowed field to the north of
Atalla's home.
He sprinted around the cottage, meeting his mother and
father. A confused babble of voices rose ahead. Charging out
to the brow of the low rise, they gazed down. Atalla's jaw
dropped as the scene opened before him.
Two deep furrows had been dug right through the heart of
the simsass plants. Broken stalks drooped forlornly, sap
oozing from their sides. At the end of the furrows was the
strange ship. One sail-were they sails? Atalla wondered- had
caught against the tartoo tree, the only tree for miles
around, and had snapped clean off. So had the top of the tree.
The ship lay below, near the dry riverbed.
In unison, Mother and Father muttered, "I'll be damned."

* * * * *

Gerrard Capashen wiped a trickle of blood from his close-
cropped beard. The once-healed cut on his left cheek had
opened again, but if that was his worst injury, he was lucky.
Ribs ached beneath his red waistcoat. He would have fallen if
not for the helm, but it had paid him back with a blow that
drove the air from his lungs. Clutching the wheel in strong
hands, he managed a shuddering sigh.
"I shouldn't have taken the wheel from Hanna." Gerrard
released the helm and staggered across the bridge of
Weatherlight. "Hanna!" he gasped out, approaching the
navigator. She slumped across the cartographer's desk. Gerrard