"Niven, Larry & David Gerrold - The Flying Sorcerers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Niven Larry)

wondered ...
Pilg the Crier had been predicting disaster for weeks--as
was his habit. He predicted his disasters twice a year, at the
times of the equinox. The fact that we were leaving the
influence of one sun and entering that of the other would
make the local spells completely unstable. As we approached
conjunction--the time when the blue sun would cross the face
of the red--Pilg had increased the intensity of his warnings.
This was disaster weather: something dire would certainly
happen.
Usually it did, of course. Afterward--and after we of the
village had somehow picked up the pieces--Pilg would shake
his heavy head and moan, "Wait until next year. Wait. It'll
be even worse."
Sometimes we joked about it, predicting the end of the
world if Pilg's "next year" ever arrived .. .
I lowered the ladder and joined Pilg on the ground. "What's
the trouble?"
"Oh, I warned you, Lant. I warned you. Now maybe you'll
believe me. I warned you though--you can't say I didn't
warn you. The omens were there, written across the sky.
What more proof did you need?"
He meant the moons. They were starting to pile up on one
side of the sky. Shoogar the Magician had predicted that we I
2 " THE FLYING SORCERERS
were due for a time of total darkness soon--perhaps even
tonight--and Pilg had seized on this as just one more omen
of disaster.
As we hurried through the village I tried to get Pilg to tell
me what had happened. Had the river changed its course?
Had someone's nest fallen from its tree? Had the flocks all
died mysteriously? But Pilg was so excited at having finally
been proven correct that he himself was not sure what exactly
had happened.
One of the hill shepherds, it seemed, had come running
into town, panic-stricken and shouting something about a new
magician. By the time I got this information out of Pilg, we
were already at the village clearing where the frightened
shepherd was leaning against one of the great housetrees,
gasping out his story to a nervous group of men. They pressed
in close to him, badgering him with questions. Even the
women had paused in their work, and hanging back at a
respectful distance, listened fearfully to the shepherd's words.
"A new magician," he gasped. "A red one! I saw him!"
Someone handed him a skin; he sucked the Quaff from it
noisily, then panted, "Near the cairn of the wind-god. He was throwing red fire across the mountains."
"Red fire. Red fire." The villagemen murmured excitedly
among themselves. "If he throws red fire, he must be a red
magician." Almost immediately, I heard the word "duel". The
women must have heard it too, for they gasped and shrank