"Lawrence Watt-Evans - War Surplus 01 - The Cyborg And The Sorcerers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

He looked both ways and saw nothing but more road, winding off in either direction until it was lost
among the trees. Still, it was a good sign; roads invariably led somewhere, and this one, which curved
northeastward off to his right, might well lead where he wanted to go.

He was tired and hot, though, and not inclined to march onward immediately; instead he sat down by the
roadside, took some foodbars from his pouch, and ate lunch.

Standard procedure called for him to live off the land and use the ship's stores only in emergencies, a
course he preferred anyway, in view of the taste of the processed algae he ate on board; he had,
therefore, brought only a few bars. He wished he had more; he couldn't eat pine sap, and as yet he had
seen not so much as a chipmunk by way of animal life. He had seen insects and various fungi and a few
vines and creepers, but he had no way of knowing which were edible—even those that matched
terrestrial life in appearance could be poisonous mutants. Besides, such foods weren't much more
appealing than algae. Sooner or later, though, he knew he would reach an inhabited area, and anything
the locals could eat, he could eat.

He was brushing the last crumbs from his lap when he first heard approaching hoofbeats.

He picked up the submachine gun and got quickly to his feet; the riders were approaching from the right,
the east. He could not judge their distance well, but he could make out the jingle of harness now as well
as the thudding hoofs; they could not be far. He considered taking cover but rejected the idea, as he was
unsure he would have sufficient time. Furthermore, he would have to make contact with the locals
eventually if he was to get anywhere with his investigation. Keeping the gun loose in his hands, he stood
by the roadside and waited.

Within a few seconds half a dozen horsemen rode around the bend into view. All were big, burly
warriors, clad in fur vests much like his own—he had chosen his garment well—and elaborately arranged
loincloths. Each carried a sword slung on a broad metal-studded leather belt and a spear strapped to his
shoulder; shields were slung at the back of each saddle. Their horses were large, sleek beasts, bay or
black in color, and each carried a bulky pack as well as its rider.

The leader caught sight of the stranger by the roadside and slowed his mount from its trot. The others
followed suit; the entire squad approached Slant at a slow walk and drew up in front of him.

The leading rider was a huge fellow, with heavily muscled limbs, long flowing black hair, and an immense
drooping mustache; Slant guessed the man to be younger than himself. The horseman was first to speak.

"Hello, stranger!" His voice was a booming bass. "We had not expected to see anyone in this area.
Whence do you come, and whither are you bound?" His speech was a degenerate form of the
Anglo-Spanish pidgin spoken on many of the colony worlds; the computer relay translated it to Slant as
quickly as possible, but the slight delay was enough to irritate the warrior with Slant's slowness of reply.

The reply was made in the same pidgin, twisted as closely as Slant could manage to the same form the
horseman spoke, but it had been a long time since he had used any language but his own and the speech
did not come readily at first.

"Hello, sir. I come from far away, a place called "Tur, and have no particular destination." The name
"Tur" was the first he could think of; he hoped it would be acceptable.