"Denning, Troy - Forgotten Realms - All Shadows Fled" - читать интересную книгу автора (Denning Troy)

Belkram and Itharr stood a little behind Sharantyr. Right in front of her was a tall, broad-shouldered and hard-faced man whose steely eyes raked both Harpers for a moment before he took a catlike step forward and crushed her into an embrace.
"Shar, by the grace of all the gods!"
The lady ranger's shoulders shook for a moment as she clung to him, her drawn sword forgotten, and she
knew tears would be bright on her face when she turned to introduce them. Florin Falconhand did not give her the chance.
"I've missed you, little one," he growled, and as Shar reached up to tousle his unruly hair, he added, "but you've found companions on the trail, I see. Who are these two gentlemen you've brought?"
Eyeing the drawn blades crowding in around them, Belkram deemed the moment right. He bent his knee, parted the leathers at his throat to show his silver harp pin, and said, "Belkram and Itharr of the Harpers to fight alongside you, Lord Florin. Elminster sent us."
A good-natured grin split the famous ranger's face, and he reached one long arm around Sharantyr to clasp their forearms. "Be welcome! We have need of swords, good men to wield them . . . and adventurers brave enough to stand up to Elminster, too!"
"Pardon, Lord," Itharr said smoothly, "but shouldn't that be 'foolish enough*?"
There were chuckles from all around the room, and other men thrust forward their hands in welcome. They were accepted.
Shar tossed her silver blade under the table and put her freed hand on Florin's cheek to guide him down into a kiss. As their lips touched, she was overheard to be murmuring, "Well, here we go again.. . ."
Bodies, Frzesh and OfheRtoise
Misttedale, Fiamerule 15
It was horribly dark and somehow dusty, followed by a whirling moment of wrenching pain that became a red agony in her chest, rising up to choke her. Threads of pain rolled down limbs stiff from disuse to an aching _ forest of fingertips . . . and then light and sound suddenly burst and swam all around her. The Witch of Shadowdale found herself blinking back tears.
She had a body again!
Fighting an urge to shriek in triumph, Sylune clung to that thought: she had a body again! A body Torm had obviously just finished dressing in a black lace cutaway gown that left her bare there and there and there. . . . He stood with his back to her, humming a contented ditty as he held up a red silk garter before the lamp and surveyed it critically.
It did look rather splendid, but Sylune bent all her attention to making the still unfamiliar body move—pushing against the bed with utmost care to sit up silently, and then leaning forward into a quick barefoot step, slipping her arms around him. Her lips went straight to his ear, and before she kissed its hairy lobe, she murmured
ALL SHADOWS FUCD
into it, "Torm ... I've come for you! Torm..."
With a gratifying shriek, Torm leapt into the air, red silk flying. Sylune clung to his trembling limbs and made the leap with him, but the Knight twisted in the air to fling her free and grabbed at his belt dagger. The Witch of Shadowdale put one leg behind her, bounced on it, and lifted her other knee smartly between his, ere she bounded backward onto the bed.
Lord Torm of Shadowdale, Knight of Myth Drannor and thief of some skill, rose into the air once more, sobbing. His darkening eyes met hers for just a moment— with a look of mingled pain, terror, and disbelief—before he crashed face first to the floor.
Some minutes later, the figure sprawled on the furs beside the bed stopped moaning and writhing, and asked hesitantly, "Sylune? Is it you, truly?"
She stood up and walked slowly around the room, kicking experimentally to limber up stiff legs and toes. "It is, Torm . . . which is why you still live, I suppose."
Weakly, the thief on the floor began to chuckle. "Bits of me do. Others I'm not so sure about. I'm sorry, Lady."
"Apology accepted, lecherous scum."
He laughed openly this time, his whooping breaking off with a catch as the shaking brought him fresh pain. "Ohhh, gods," he said at last, rolling over. "I've not felt this much pain since . .. well, never mind."
"I hope she was worth it," Sylune said teasingly, and then asked curiously, "Why weren't you wearing one of your usual flamboyant codpieces?"
Torm looked hurt. "I wasn't dressed yet! Can you see me going downstairs in this?" He held his arms wide to fully display the patched and stained cotton undersuit that went under his fighting leathers. "Ladies first," he added, gesturing at her.
Sylune put her hands on her hips and gave him a level stare as she gestured, up and down, at herself. "This is your idea of 'dressed,' I take it?"
Torm gave her a sly look from the floor, and rolled up
ED GREENWOOD
to a sitting position, wincing once. "Well, you hadn't complained before tonight," he said, feigning innocence.
"Yet—as you may just have noticed—I'm doing so now," Sylune told him calmly. Then she snapped, "Take this frippery off me—at once!"
Torm bounded to his feet with an alacrity that belied the severity of his injury. "My pleasure, Lady Sylune!"
"I'll bet," she said dryly. Try to keep your hands on the buckles and thongs, now, and when you're done, 111 need a neck rub. Hmm—my calves, too. This body is as stiff as old wood!" She struck a pose, pirouetted experimentally, admired herself in the burnished metal looking glass, and rubbed her nose. "You've taken some care with my hair," she said in tones of pleased surprise. "Diligent brushing, at the least. My thanks, Torm."
"Lady," Torm said seriously, reaching out a finger to stroke the silvery fall of her hair, "in all my life I'd never dared touch your hair, or Storm's, but I always wanted to. It's . .. truly beautiful. . . like spun silver."
SylunS laughed lightly and laid a hand on his cheek. "Why, thank you, Torm—this, from the maid-chaser of Shadowdale?"
"Lady, I meant it," the thief replied, and bowed. " Twas an honor caring for your body." A twinkle crept into his eye. "In fact, if you weren't so many years my senior. .."
Sylune glared at him, and gestured again at herself. "You were hard at work removing all this saucy stuff, remember?"
Torm's j*aze dropped—and he discovered the fallen garter. Plucking it up from the floor, he offered it to her mutely. Sylune gave him a withering look, so he shrugged and tossed it over his shoulder. Then he undid her sash, put his hands on her shoulders and spun her around lightly. He stripped her with a speed and expertise that told her he'd done this a time or two before.
"This bit's much easier when you're standing up and—er, with us," he commented. "Oh, by the way . . .
ALL SHADOWS FLED
the stone that lets you occupy this body is implanted here." He touched the inside of her left arm, just above the elbow. Sylune probed cautiously, and thought she felt the magic stone deep within, alongside the bone.
"Mystra bless you and keep you, Old Mage," she breathed, "wherever she is."
"What about prayers for me?" Torm asked teasingly, fingers busy undoing the black silk choker he'd put around her throat earlier.
"You'll be needing more than I feel capable of giving," she replied with a chuckle. Then the Witch of Shadow-dale reached out, caught hold of his chin, and kissed him firmly, darting her tongue into his mouth.
When she released him, Torm was smiling a little dazedly. "What was that for?" he asked in pleased tones.
She put her arms around him, smelly undersuit and all. "Torm, you rogue," she said feelingly, "do you know how long it's been since I've held someone? Kissed anyone? Tasted anything? Even your mouth is preferable to nothing at all!"
"Hey!" Torm said in aggrieved tones. "What's wrong with the taste of my mouth?"
"Nothing," she said tartly, spinning away from him, "except that it's the only taste you've got." She sat down on a chair. "Now, about that neck rub."
"If my taste is so bad," Torm said, delving hurriedly into a wardrobe, "how is it that you're in my bedchamber, out of a dozen more in this place? Hey?"