Книга только для ознакомления
. A killing frost
shriveled any plants that had survived the fires.
Then, one day, a small band of humans, traveling up from
the south, had offered to trade game for shelter. The manor,
they said, looking at it in awe, was one of the few buildings
in these parts still standing. Michael agreed, was forced to
eat animal flesh to stay alive. He hoped, all things
considered, the goddess would forgive him.
But, once they were rested and had buried their dead,
the refugees left, looking for new hunting grounds. Michael
had figured, only this morning, that they had dried meat and
berries to last them another few days. South, at least, there
apparently was game to be had in the forests, the plains.
Besides, Michael had a sudden urgent longing for his home.
"Xak Tsaroth," said Michael.
"What about it?" Nikol asked him.
"The Temple of Mishakal is there. And so are the holy
disks. Why didn't I think of those sooner?" He began to
pace the room excitedly.
"What disks? What are you talking about?"
"The Disks of Mishakal. All the wisdom of the gods are
written on these disks. Don't you see, beloved? It's on those
disks that we will find the answers 1"
"If there ARE answers," Nikol said, frowning. "We
buried a child yesterday. A little child! What had that babe
to do with Kingpriests or clerics? Why should the gods
punish the innocent?"
"If we find the disks, we'll find the answers," he said.
"In Xak Tsaroth!" Nikol scoffed. "Don't you remember
what those refugees told us about Xak Tsaroth?"
"I remember
|
