"L. E. Modesitt - The Forever Hero 1 - Dawn for a distant Ear" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

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Dawn For A Distant Earth
L.E. Modesitt Jr.




Chapter I

In the west wing of the tower of time, abandoned as it is by the keepers of the clock, lies an
ancient key. Not an impressive long steel shaft is this key, but a small volume, a compendium of
pages enameled against the ravages of the decades and the centuries.
The book has no title, no preface, no table of contents, nor any title embossed on its black
spine, nor even printed pages evenly matched and marching end to end.
What is it, you ask? That question must hold for another. The other question? What is the tower
of time? For there are no towers left on Old Earth, only the rambling farms, the sweep of grass,
the ramparts of the west mountains, and a few score towns nestled into their restored places in
history. There is only a single shuttle field . . . without a tower.
This tower of time rears backward into history, not into the dark starred nights that are so
cold to one used to, the light-strewn nights on planets that once belonged to the Empire. Backward
into history, you say? How far?
Far enough. Back to the time when purple landspouts raged the high plains, back to the time
when boulders fell like rain, and when the devil kids were the only beings who dared to run the
hillocks outside the shambletowns. . . .
Yes, that far. Back to the days of the Captain. . . . ,

The Myth of the Rebuilding
J Alarde D'Lorina - New Augusta, 4539 N.E.C



Chapter II

Step . . . pause . . . listen. Step . . . pause ... listen.
The boy crept through die thin bushes and scattered patches of ground fog toward the
shambletown wall. The leathers of his tunic were ripped, and the thonging where the skins were
joined was loosening. The rain stung his skin, as the chill wind froze the droplets before they
struck.
Overhead, the thick clouds were barely visible in the gloom that passed for twilight.
Most of the torches on the shambletown wall had blown out and would not be relighted until the
wind and rain abated. That would not be long. Beneath the west mountains, on the high plains east
of the shambletown, the rains seldom lasted. Nor did the purple furies of the landspouts usually
penetrate into the hills and gullies.
A single torch by the gate flared back to light, and the boy ducked behind one of the few
grubushes left near the walls, just below the outcropping of old brick, powderstone, and purpled
clay on which the shambletown had been raised.
In the gloom downhill from the wall, he would not be seen. Even if a sharp-eyed guard did sight
the small shadow created by the torches, that darkness would be blamed on a skulking coyote, or
even a king rat scuttling for his hole.