Read Online The Towers Of the Sunset by L.E. Modesitt Jr. - Free Book Online
Authors: L.E. Modesitt Jr.
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consort crashed through it. His breath continues to rasp through his lungs like an ice saw, for brushing the winds across his tracks is more effort than physically moving himself.
He rests, leaning against a dark-trunked fir whose branches do not spread until far above his head, trying to breathe deeply and evenly through his nose rather than gasping for breath, remembering the damage that air will do to his lungs with too much deep mouth-breathing.
He cannot rest long, and he begins his strides once more even as the shadows of the twilight increase, even as he looks for a place of shelter and some way to conceal his tracks. While he can see in the depths of the looming snow-lit night, his legs ache, and his jaw is sore from the effort of keeping it closed so as to protect his lungs.
In time, Creslin locates another clump of elder bushes, and, after removing the near-frozen thongs that hold boots to skis, he uses one ski to dig down into the natural hollow beneath a frozen overhang. Between the oil cloth, the winter quilt, and the protected space, he will be warm enough. Not comfortable, but warm enough to survive.
As he pads the hollow where he will sleep with mostly dry needles over the fir sprigs he has carefully placed, a shadow flickers in the comers of his eye. Barely, just barely, he does not jump. Instead, he moves his head slowly around to view the pair of spruces where the figure might lurk. The trees stand perhaps ten cubits from his hollowedout den.
Between the branches of the low, bluish-needled trees there is a distance of less than two cubits, an expanse untouched even by hare prints. Behind the spruces, the wind gusts shuffle and reshuffle the white powder that has already covered most of the lines left by Creslin’s skis.
Unmoving, he watches, his left hand ready to pull the sword from the scabbard set on the pack by his feet. The wind reshuffles the fine ice dust again, moaning without tone in the darkness that has dropped on the high forest.
Creslin sinks into a lower profile within his hollow, drawing pack and sword within, still watching the silence.
Wooooooooo…
He ignores the bird of prey, wriggling only his toes to warm them within his still-dry boots.
Click…
A frozen limb, or a pine cone, drops against a tree trunk.
Wooooooo…
The shadow is back, although it appears from nowhere.
Creslin sucks in his breath silently, for the shadowy figure wears no parka, stands on the powdered snow crust without making a track, and stares across the space between them. She wears but thin trousers and a high-necked and long-sleeved blouse. She is clearly female. Her eyes burn.
Creslin stares back, but says nothing.
Then the shadow is gone as if it had never been. Creslin shivers, for he has never seen the woman before, nor one like her. Yet she hunts him. Of that he is certain.
Although he is not cold, he draws his parka around him. The morning will be early, and he has hundreds of kays upon hundreds of kays to go before he can escape the regent of Westwind and the Marshall of the Roof of the World. And that is just the beginning.
But first, he must escape. If he can ever escape. He purses his lips, studies the two spruces for a last time before leaning back into his den, fully out of the wind. Wooooooo… Click…
XIV
EVEN BEFORE DAWN, Creslin wakes stiff, but pleased that no shadows await him, female or otherwise.
Moving slowly in air so cold and still that the crystals of his breath fall like snow upon his parka sleeves, the would-have-been consort wriggles his toes to ensure they are still functional before he extracts the small packet of battle rations from his pack, chewing the dried-apple slices first. Each small bite is a chore for his dry mouth.
He moistens his lips with a thin trickle of water from the melt bottle carried in his trousers. When he is finished, he scoops more snow into the bottle and replaces it, then nibbles on a piece of hard cheese from his pack. The remaining
He rests, leaning against a dark-trunked fir whose branches do not spread until far above his head, trying to breathe deeply and evenly through his nose rather than gasping for breath, remembering the damage that air will do to his lungs with too much deep mouth-breathing.
He cannot rest long, and he begins his strides once more even as the shadows of the twilight increase, even as he looks for a place of shelter and some way to conceal his tracks. While he can see in the depths of the looming snow-lit night, his legs ache, and his jaw is sore from the effort of keeping it closed so as to protect his lungs.
In time, Creslin locates another clump of elder bushes, and, after removing the near-frozen thongs that hold boots to skis, he uses one ski to dig down into the natural hollow beneath a frozen overhang. Between the oil cloth, the winter quilt, and the protected space, he will be warm enough. Not comfortable, but warm enough to survive.
As he pads the hollow where he will sleep with mostly dry needles over the fir sprigs he has carefully placed, a shadow flickers in the comers of his eye. Barely, just barely, he does not jump. Instead, he moves his head slowly around to view the pair of spruces where the figure might lurk. The trees stand perhaps ten cubits from his hollowedout den.
Between the branches of the low, bluish-needled trees there is a distance of less than two cubits, an expanse untouched even by hare prints. Behind the spruces, the wind gusts shuffle and reshuffle the white powder that has already covered most of the lines left by Creslin’s skis.
Unmoving, he watches, his left hand ready to pull the sword from the scabbard set on the pack by his feet. The wind reshuffles the fine ice dust again, moaning without tone in the darkness that has dropped on the high forest.
Creslin sinks into a lower profile within his hollow, drawing pack and sword within, still watching the silence.
Wooooooooo…
He ignores the bird of prey, wriggling only his toes to warm them within his still-dry boots.
Click…
A frozen limb, or a pine cone, drops against a tree trunk.
Wooooooo…
The shadow is back, although it appears from nowhere.
Creslin sucks in his breath silently, for the shadowy figure wears no parka, stands on the powdered snow crust without making a track, and stares across the space between them. She wears but thin trousers and a high-necked and long-sleeved blouse. She is clearly female. Her eyes burn.
Creslin stares back, but says nothing.
Then the shadow is gone as if it had never been. Creslin shivers, for he has never seen the woman before, nor one like her. Yet she hunts him. Of that he is certain.
Although he is not cold, he draws his parka around him. The morning will be early, and he has hundreds of kays upon hundreds of kays to go before he can escape the regent of Westwind and the Marshall of the Roof of the World. And that is just the beginning.
But first, he must escape. If he can ever escape. He purses his lips, studies the two spruces for a last time before leaning back into his den, fully out of the wind. Wooooooo… Click…
XIV
EVEN BEFORE DAWN, Creslin wakes stiff, but pleased that no shadows await him, female or otherwise.
Moving slowly in air so cold and still that the crystals of his breath fall like snow upon his parka sleeves, the would-have-been consort wriggles his toes to ensure they are still functional before he extracts the small packet of battle rations from his pack, chewing the dried-apple slices first. Each small bite is a chore for his dry mouth.
He moistens his lips with a thin trickle of water from the melt bottle carried in his trousers. When he is finished, he scoops more snow into the bottle and replaces it, then nibbles on a piece of hard cheese from his pack. The remaining
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