"Dennis L. McKiernan - Iron Tower1 - The Dark Tide" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKiernan Dennis L)

hissing through the air, striking home with deadly accuracy.
"Whang! Right square in the center, Tuck!" cried Old Barlo as the last arrow
thudded into the mark. "That's four for five, and you would'er got the other, too, if
you'd'er held a bit." Old Barlo, a granther Warrow, stood up to his full three feet two
inches of height and turned and cocked a baleful emerald-green eye upon the other
young buccen gathered on the snowy slopes behind. "Now I'm telling all you
rattlepates: draw fast, and loose quick, but no quicker as what you can fly it straight.
The arrow as strays might well'er been throwed away, for all the good it does." Barlo
turned back to Tuck. "Fetch up your arrows, lad, and sit and catch your breath.
Who's next now? Well, step up here, slowcoach Tarpy."
Tuckerby Underbank slipped his chilled hands back into his mittens and quickly
retrieved his five arrows from the tattered, black, Wolf silhouette on the haycock.
With his breath blowing whitely in the cold air, Tuck trotted back through the snow
to the watching group of archers at the edge of End Field, where he sat down on a
fallen log, standing his bow against a nearby barren tree.
 As Tuck watched little Tarpy sprint toward the target to fly arrows at the
string-circle mark, the young buccan sitting beside him—Danner Bramblethorn as it
was—leaned over and spoke: "Four out of five, indeed, Tuck," Danner said,
exasperated. "Why, your first arrow nicked the ring. But Barlo Stingy won't give you
credit for it, mark my words."
"Oh, Old Barlo's right, you know," replied Tuck. "I hurried the shot. It was out.
He called it true. But you ought to know he's fair, Danner. You're the best shot here,
and he says so. You're too hard on him. He's not a stingy, he just expects us to get
it right—every time."
"Humph!" grunted Danner, looking unconvinced.
Tuck and Danner fell silent and watched Old Barlo instruct Tarpy, and they
carefully listened to every word. It was important that they as well as the other hardy
youth of Woody Hollow become expert with the bow. Ever since the word had
come from the far borders of Northdell that Wolves were about— in autumn no
less—many young buccen (that time of male Warrowhood between the end of
childhood at twenty and the coming of age at thirty), in fact most young buccen of
the Boskydells, had been or would be in training.
Even before the onset of winter, which had struck early and hard this year, killing
most of the late crops, wild Wolves had been seen roaming in large packs up north;
and strange Men, too, were spied in the reaches across the borders beyond the
Thornwall. And it was rumored that occasionally a Warrow or two—or even an
entire family—would mysteriously disappear; but where they went, or just what
happened to them, no one seemed to know. And some folks said they'd heard an
awful Evil was way up north in the Wastes of Gron. Why, things hadn't been this
bad since the passing of the flaming Dragon Star with its long, blazing tail silently
cleaving the heavens, what with the crop failures, cattle and sheep dying, and the
plagues that it had brought on. But that was five years ago and past, and this winter
and Wolves and strange happenings was now.
And down at the One-Eyed Crow, not only was there talk of the trouble in
Northdell, but also of the Big Men far north at Challerain Keep, mustering it seems
for War. At the moment, holding forth to a most attentive Warrow audience was Will
Longtoes, the Second-Deputy Constable of Eastdell, who, because of his dealings
with the authorities— namely various Eastdell Mayors and the Chief Constable in
Centerdell—appeared to know more than most about the strange doings abroad:
"Now I heard this from young Toby Holder who got it in Stonehill—them