"Andre Norton - Witch World - Warlock of the Witch World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

seemed that we were going back up into the Heights, but having climbed for a short
space, again we were on a downward slope. Narrow as this passage was, there were traces
that this had once been a road of sorts. Blocks of stone protruded from the soil as broad
steps which our four-footed companions took cautiously.

We came into a second valley, much choked with a growth of dark leafed vegetation
which was either stunted tree or tall bush. From this loomed masses of ancient masonry,
tumbled and broken, but still with a semblance of walls.
Ethutur nodded to it. “HaHarc—”

“Which being?” I prompted when he said no more.

“A safe place once.”
“Overrun by the Shadow?”

He shook his head. “The hills danced and it fell. But they danced to a strange piping
that night. Let us hope that that secret is indeed lost to those we front now.”
“How much of such knowledge does remain?” I asked, already sure men might only
guess.
“Who knows? Many of the Great Ones destroyed themselves when they fought.
Others went out through their gates to find new tests, new victories—or
defeats—elsewhere. Some are so withdrawn from our kind now that what happens here
holds no meaning for them. It is our hope that we face not the Great Ones of old, but
those who were their lesser shield men, whom they long ago left behind. But never forget
that those are formidable enough.”

Having seen some, I was not likely to.
Our faint and ancient road took us through the edge of the tumbled ruins. They were
well earth-buried, and trees had rooted themselves among those stones and died in turn.
Time had lain long here since HaHarc had been shaken to its ending.

Then Shapurn turned left, again following the traces of an old way. We rode from the
mouth of that haunted valley into a tall, grassed plain. Now the sun was well up and
warm. Ethutur threw back his cloak. Resting across his thighs was the warn-sword—not
fashioned of any steel but of white wood, with intricately carved runes running the length
of its broad and edgeless blade. About its haft and guard were, twined and tied in fantastic
knots, cords of red and green.

We were well out into the open when Shapurn threw high his head and halted, my
own mount following his example. The nose flaps of the Renthan were spread wide; he
turned his head from side to side in a slow sweep, questing for scent.
He spoke to our minds. “Gray Ones—”

I stared over the grass which rippled under the touch of the wind. It was tall enough
to provide hiding for a creeping man. Since Kaththea and I had fled before a wild pack of
mixed monstrosities, I had learned to distrust all landscape, no matter how innocent
seeming.
 “How do they cast?” Ethutur’s thought and mine were almost the same.

“They prowl; they seek—”