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

"If you sneer at them and rush into battle with them heedless of what might befall," Ahorga told him, taking flight with a sudden, powerful wingbeat that almost tumbled them from the tree, "that's exactly what may happen." He circled around them. "Go softly, and make surprise your best weapon."
"Will we see you again?" Yinthrim asked.
"If you stay alive, almost certainly," the senior Shadowmaster said. "Remember, an ambush is your best tactic, and against Elminster, it's your only tactic."
"Well practice ambushes, then," Yinthrim promised grimly. "The Realms around here, I think, are suddenly going to become much more dangerous."
"Now that sounds like a son of Malaug speaking," Ahorga said approvingly. Without a farewell, he flew off southwest.
Atari watched him go, and then said in a small voice, "Are mortal mages really that dangerous?"
"No," Yinthrim assured him. "He was just telling us that overconfidence is."
"Words to live by? Hmmph," Atari said, and turned one wing into a tentacle long enough to make a rude
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gesture into the southwest. Yinthrim chuckled and flew from the branch.
"Where are you going?" Atari asked in sudden alarm.
"I'm going to practice ambushing something—anything," his fellow Malaugrym replied. "I'm hungry,"
* * * *
Verdant farms stretched away on both sides of the road, which ran like a sword blade down the length of Mistledale. Along the backs of those prosperous steadings stood the unbroken green wall of the encircling Elven Court woods. On this bright morning Mistledale was a beautiful place to ride, with a good mount moving strongly beneath the saddle—even if the rider rode in the midst of a solid ring of ebon-armored warriors, who took care to keep their armored forms between her and any possible attack.
For the third time, Jhessail Silvertree lost sight of everything but moving black-armored bulks and a forest of lances. She studied the small circle of blue sky visible above her—all she could see of the world around—sighed, and decided she'd had about enough. From the mutter-ings behind her, she could tell that her apprentice, Illistyl, whose tongue was apt to be sharper than that of almost anyone else, was clinging to her temper with grim talons. Jhessail smiled tightly, thanked Torm for his work in outfitting her with riding breeches—though her lack of armor was why the Riders were treating her this way—and swung her legs suddenly up underneath her.
She heard a startled, wordless exclamation from a Rider on her right as she spread her hands for balance and stood up on her saddle. She had time for a good look around before the Riders on either side of her were extending their lances around her like the bars of an upturned portcullis and crying out:
"Lady, get down!"
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"Catch hold of my lance!"
"Careful, Lady!"
She folded her arms across her breast and waited for them to fall silent—and soon enough, uncertainly, they did. "Thank you for your kind concern, Gentlesirs," she said as the horses slowed to a rather jarring trot, "but both Illistyl and I find it rather hard to do any scouting or become familiar with the land around us—land you gallants already know well, but which we've seen only once or twice in passing—through a solid wall of plate armor."
"That's just it," the leader of the patrol rumbled, his deep voice sounding almost scandalized. "You wear no armor! What if a Zhent arrow came from the trees? How could we shield you better than we have been?"
"Kuthe," Jhessail said soothingly, " 'tis not your diligence or skills I reproach, but my lack of any good way to see around or through all of you. I'm saving my one 'long eyes' spell for any spying we need do in the forest. I know the risks of riding to war; I've done it before, remember."
"But to expose yourself needlessly," Kuthe growled, "is foolish, Lady."
"To a vigilant guard of his homeland, yes," Jhessail said, still standing on her saddle, "but I am an adventuress. One who plays with spells. An explorer of baatezu-haunted Myth Drannor. Wedded to an elf, remember? I've done far more crazed things in my life than riding out without armor, I assure you."
"But the little lass—* Kuthe said, gesturing helplessly.
"Call me that again, ironhead," Illistyl advised him sharply, "and you'll be chasing your teeth around the inside of that great helm of yours."
There were guffaws from the Riders, but one of them cut through the chorus of mirth. "Lone rider behind!"
Heads snapped around, and Jhessail turned, smiled, and announced, "It's Lord Merith. The reinforcements Elminster promised us must have arrived."
"Reinforcements?" Kuthe rumbled, looking up at her.
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"We've heard nothing of this . . . How many, Lady?"
"Four," she told him sweetly, and there were more guffaws. Illistyl was sure she heard an angry snort as Kuthe's helm swung away from them, but a moment later Jhessail snapped, "Ahead—at Treesedge! Lookr
The eastern end of Mistledale, where the flanking arms of the forest met to form a narrow green tunnel around the road to the Standing Stone, had always been called Treesedge. The spot was marked by a covered well and the crumbling rampart of a tiny keep— well known to Riders on patrol who'd sheltered from downpours under its remnants. It was a beautiful spot to spend a night, but a bit lonely to be a grave site.
It seemed likely, however, that men were going to be buried there now. Crossbow quarrels were humming down the road from the east, raking the rear of a hard-riding band of merchants on lathered, stumbling horses fleeing west into Mistledale.
The strength of the merchant band was dwindling steadily. The bolts found easy targets. As Jhessail watched, a fat merchant threw up his hands with a strangled wail and pitched from his saddle, choking on the quarrel that stood out of his throat. On the other side of the road, a horse's head flopped and swung—and a breath later both horse and rider crashed and rolled in the dust, collapsing into the long silence of death.
Jhessail dropped into her saddle again a scant moment before the Riders spurred ahead into a grim, silent gallop, knowing they'd not be in time. Far behind them, Merith stood up on his own saddle, saw that strife lay ahead, and reached for his bow.
Lances leveled, the Riders of Mistledale swept east. "Get out of the road!" Kuthe snarled at merchants who could not hear. "Clear the way!"
"Kuthe! Halt your men!" Jhessail shouted. "Nowr
The great helm turned her way, the face within dark with anger. "You have some sort of plan?"
"Yes," Jhessail cried, leaning close to him as their
ALL SHADOWS FLED
mounts thundered along side by side. "Just stop them!"
Kuthe gave her a long, slow look—and then reached for the horn at his belt.
After the horn rang out around them, the patrol became a confused mass of dust, rearing horses, and cursing men. Lances rang and rattled off armored shoulders, and Jhessail had to duck hastily to avoid being inadvertently unhorsed.
"Well, mage?" Kuthe demanded when he could be heard. His eyes were on the last merchants, dying up ahead . . . and at something moving on the tree-lined road beyond them. Their slayers.
The leader of the Rider patrol shot her a look. "Well?"
JhessaiFs mouth was a thin, white-lipped line as she told him shortly, "Back away . . . Give us room side by side."
Kuthe waved one great gauntlet in heavy silence; Illistyl was already guiding her mount forward. Jhessail whispered to her, and they raised their arms together, spread as if in supplication to the sky overhead—and waited.