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- Джордж Мартин
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- Стр. 599/853
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He
ran
toward
the
sound
,
his
brother
racing
beside
him
.
The
stone
dens
rose
before
them
,
walls
slick
and
wet
.
He
bared
his
teeth
,
but
the
man
-
rock
took
no
notice
.
A
gate
loomed
up
,
a
black
iron
snake
coiled
tight
about
bar
and
post
.
When
he
crashed
against
it
,
the
gate
shuddered
and
the
snake
clanked
and
slithered
and
held
.
Through
the
bars
he
could
look
down
the
long
stone
burrow
that
ran
between
the
walls
to
the
stony
field
beyond
,
but
there
was
no
way
through
.
He
could
force
his
muzzle
between
the
bars
,
but
no
more
.
Many
a
time
his
brother
had
tried
to
crack
the
black
bones
of
the
gate
between
his
teeth
,
but
they
would
not
break
.
They
had
tried
to
dig
under
,
but
there
were
great
flat
stones
beneath
,
half
-
covered
by
earth
and
blown
leaves
.
Snarling
,
he
paced
back
and
forth
in
front
of
the
gate
,
then
threw
himself
at
it
once
more
.
It
moved
a
little
and
slammed
him
back
.
Locked
,
something
whispered
.
Chained
.
The
voice
he
did
not
hear
,
the
scent
without
a
smell
.
The
other
ways
were
closed
as
well
.
Where
doors
opened
in
the
walls
of
man
-
rock
,
the
wood
was
thick
and
strong
.
There
was
no
way
out
.
There
is
,
the
whisper
came
,
and
it
seemed
as
if
he
could
see
the
shadow
of
a
great
tree
covered
in
needles
,
slanting
up
out
of
the
black
earth
to
ten
times
the
height
of
a
man
.
Yet
when
he
looked
about
,
it
was
not
there
.
The
other
side
of
the
godswood
,
the
sentinel
,
hurry
,
hurry
.
.
.
Through
the
gloom
of
night
came
a
muffled
shout
,
cut
short
.
Swiftly
,
swiftly
,
he
whirled
and
bounded
back
into
the
trees
,
wet
leaves
rustling
beneath
his
paws
,
branches
whipping
at
him
as
he
rushed
past
.
He
could
hear
his
brother
following
close
.
They
plunged
under
the
heart
tree
and
around
the
cold
pool
,
through
the
blackberry
bushes
,
under
a
tangle
of
oaks
and
ash
and
hawthorn
scrub
,
to
the
far
side
of
the
wood
.
.
.
and
there
it
was
,
the
shadow
he
’
d
glimpsed
without
seeing
,
the
slanting
tree
pointing
at
the
rooftops
.
Sentinel
,
came
the
thought
.
He
remembered
how
it
was
to
climb
it
then
.
The
needles
everywhere
,
scratching
at
his
bare
face
and
falling
down
the
back
of
his
neck
,
the
sticky
sap
on
his
hands
,
the
sharp
piney
smell
of
it
.
It
was
an
easy
tree
for
a
boy
to
climb
,
leaning
as
it
did
,
crooked
,
the
branches
so
close
together
they
almost
made
a
ladder
,
slanting
right
up
to
the
roof
.
Growling
,
he
sniffed
around
the
base
of
the
tree
,
lifted
a
leg
and
marked
it
with
a
stream
of
urine
.
A
low
branch
brushed
his
face
,
and
he
snapped
at
it
,
twisting
and
pulling
until
the
wood
cracked
and
tore
.
His
mouth
was
full
of
needles
and
the
bitter
taste
of
the
sap
.
He
shook
his
head
and
snarled
.
His
brother
sat
back
on
his
haunches
and
lifted
his
voice
in
a
ululating
howl
,
his
song
black
with
mourning
.
The
way
was
no
way
.
They
were
not
squirrels
,
nor
the
cubs
of
men
,
they
could
not
wriggle
up
the
trunks
of
trees
,
clinging
with
soft
pink
paws
and
clumsy
feet
.
They
were
runners
,
hunters
,
prowlers
.
Off
across
the
night
,
beyond
the
stone
that
hemmed
them
close
,
the
dogs
woke
and
began
to
bark
.
One
and
then
another
and
then
all
of
them
,
a
great
clamor
.
They
smelled
it
too
;
the
scent
of
foes
and
fear
.
A
desperate
fury
filled
him
,
hot
as
hunger
.
He
sprang
away
from
the
wall
loped
off
beneath
the
trees
,
the
shadows
of
branch
and
leaf
dappling
his
grey
fur
.
.
.
and
then
he
turned
and
raced
back
in
a
rush
.
His
feet
flew
kicking
up
wet
leaves
and
pine
needles
,
and
for
a
little
time
he
was
a
hunter
and
an
antlered
stag
was
fleeing
before
him
and
he
could
see
it
,
smell
it
,
and
he
ran
full
-
out
in
pursuit
.
The
smell
of
fear
made
his
heart
thunder
and
slaver
ran
from
his
jaws
,
and
he
reached
the
falling
tree
in
stride
and
threw
himself
up
the
trunk
,
claws
scrabbling
at
the
bark
for
purchase
.
Upward
he
bounded
,
up
,
two
bounds
,
three
,
hardly
slowing
,
until
he
was
among
the
lower
limbs
.
Branches
tangled
his
feet
and
whipped
at
his
eyes
,
grey
-
green
needles
scattered
as
he
shouldered
through
them
,
snapping
.
He
had
to
slow
.
Something
snagged
at
his
foot
and
he
wrenched
it
free
,
snarling
.
The
trunk
narrowed
under
him
,
the
slope
steeper
,
almost
straight
up
,
and
wet
.
The
bark
tore
like
skin
when
he
tried
to
claw
at
it
.
He
was
a
third
of
the
way
up
,
halfway
,
more
,
the
roof
was
almost
within
reach
.
.
.
and
then
he
put
down
a
foot
and
felt
it
slip
off
the
curve
of
wet
wood
,
and
suddenly
he
was
sliding
,
stumbling
.
He
yowled
in
fear
and
fury
,
falling
,
falling
,
and
twisted
around
while
the
ground
rushed
up
to
break
him
.
.
.
