"Andre Norton - Warlock Trilogy - Storm over Warlock" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

4 : SORTIE

Five days later they came up from the south so that this time Shann’s view of the Terran camp was from a
different angle. At first sight there had been little change in the general scene. He wondered if the aliens
were using the Terran dome shelters themselves. Even in the twilight it was easy to pick out such
landmarks as the com dome with the shaft of a broadcaster spearing from its top and the greater bulk of the
supply warehouse.

“Two of their small flyers down on the landing field . . . ” Thorvald materialized from the shadow, his
voice a thread of whisper.
By Shann’s side the wolverines were moving restlessly. Since Taggi’s attack on the Throg neither beast
would venture near any site where they could scent the aliens. This was the nearest point to which the men
could urge either animal, which was a disappointment, for the wolverines would have been an excellent
addition to the surprise sortie they planned for tonight, halving the danger for the men.

Shann ran his fingers across the coarse fur on the animals’ shoulders, exerting a light pressure to signal
them to wait. But he was not sure of their obedience. The foray was a crazy idea, and Shann wondered
again why he had agreed to it. Yet he had gone along with Thorvald, even suggested a few modifications
and additions of his own, such as the contents of the crude leaf sack now resting between his knees.

Thorvald flitted away, seeking his own post to the west. Shann was still waiting for the other’s signal when
there arose from the camp a sound to chill the flesh of any listener, a wail which could not have come from
the throat of any normal living thing, intelligent being or animal. Ululating in ear-torturing intensity, the
cry sank to a faint, ominous echo of itself, to waver up the scale again.

The wolverines went mad. Shann had witnessed their quick kills in the wilds, but this stark ferocity of
spitting, howling rage was new. They answered that challenge from the camp, streaking out from under his
hands. Yet both animals skidded to a stop before they passed the first dome and were lost in the gloom. A
spark glowed for an instant to his right; Thorvald was ready to go, so Shann had no time to try and recall
the animals.

He fumbled for those balls of soaked moss in his leaf bag. The chemical smell from them blotted out that
alien mustiness which the wind brought from the campsite. Shann readied the first sopping mess in his
sling, snapped his fire sparker at it, and had the ball awhirl for a toss almost in one continuous movement.
The moss burst into fire as it curved out and fell.

To a witness it might have seemed that the missile materialized out of the air, the effect being better than
Shann had hoped.

A second ball for the sling—spark . . . out . . . down. The first had smashed on the ground near the dome of
the com station, the force of impact flattening it into a round splatter of now fiercely burning material. And
his second, carefully aimed, lit two feet beyond.

Another wail tearing at the nerves. Shann made a third throw, a fourth. He had an audience now. In the
light of those pools of fire the Throgs were scuttling back and forth, their hunched bodies casting weird
shadows on the dome walls. They were making efforts to douse the fires, but Shann knew from careful
experimentation that once ignited the stuff he had skimmed from the lip of one of the hot springs would go
on burning as long as a fraction of its viscous substance remained unconsumed.