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

Now Thorvald had gone into action. A Throg suddenly halted, struggled frantically, and toppled over into
the edge of a fire splotch, legs looped together by the coils of the curious weapon Thorvald had put
together on their first night of partnership. Three round stones of comparable weight had each been
fastened at the end of a vine cord, and those cords united at a center point. Thorvald had demonstrated the
effectiveness of his creation by bringing down one of the small “deer” of the grasslands, an animal
normally fleet enough to feel safe from both human and animal pursuit. And those weighted ropes now
trapped the Throg with the same efficiency.

Having shot his last fireball, Shann ran swiftly to take up a new position, downgrade and to the east of the
domes. Here he put into action another of the primitive weapons Thorvald had devised, a spear hurled with
a throwing stick, giving it double range and twice as forceful penetration power. The spears themselves
were hardly more than crudely shaped lengths of wood, their points charred in the fire. Perhaps these
missiles could neither kill nor seriously wound. But more than one thudded home in a satisfactory fashion
against the curving back carapace or the softer front parts of a Throg in a manner which certainly shook up
and bruised the target. And one of Shann’s victims went to the ground, to lie kicking in a way which
suggested he had been more than just bruised.
Fireballs, spears . . . Thorvald had moved too. And now down into the somewhat frantic melee of the
aroused camp fell a shower of slim weighted reeds, each provided with a clay-ball head. The majority of
those balls broke on landing as the Terrans had intended. So, through the beetle smell of the aliens, spread
the acrid, throat-parching fumes of the hot spring water. Whether those fumes had the same effect upon
Throg breathing apparatus as they did upon Terran, the attackers could not tell, but they hoped such a
bombardment would add to the general confusion.

Shann began to space the hurling of his crude spears with more care, trying to place them with all the
precision of aim he could muster. There was a limit to their amount of varied ammunition, although they
had dedicated every waking moment of the past few days to manufacture and testing. Luckily the enemy
had had none of their energy beams at the domes. And so far they had made no move to lift their flyers for
retaliation blasts.

But the Throgs were pulling themselves into order. Blaster fire cut the dusk. Most of the aliens were now
flat on the ground, sending a creeping line of fire into the perimeter of the camp area. A dark form moved
between Shann and the nearest patch of burning moss. The Terran raised a spear to the ready before he
caught a whiff of the pungent scent emitted by a wolverine hot with battle rage. He whistled coaxingly.
With the Throgs eager to blast any moving thing, the animals were in danger if they prowled about the
scene.

That blunt head moved. Shann caught the glint of eyes in a furred mask; it was either Taggi or his mate.
Then a puff of mixed Throg and chemical scent from the camp must have reached the wolverine. The
animal coughed and fled westward, passing Shann.

Had Thorvald had time and opportunity to make his planned raid on the supply dome? Time during such
an embroilment was hard to measure, and Shann could not be sure. He began to count aloud, slowly, as
they had agreed. When he reached one hundred he would begin his retreat; on two hundred he was to run
for it, his goal the river a half mile from the camp.

The stream would take the fugitives to the sea where fiords cut the coastline into a ragged fringe offering a
wealth of hiding places. Throgs seldom explored any territory on foot. For them to venture into that maze
would be putting themselves at the mercy of the Terrans they hunted. And their flyers could comb the air
above such a rocky wilderness without result.