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

In tense silence as the Riders eyed them, they watched the road to the east. "Well?" Kuthe demanded. "Have you seen enough?"
"Wait until they come out," Jhessail said, her eyes on the road. "It'd be our death to ride down that firing tunnel, the gods know. Let them come out. If I'm right, they'll be the Zhents we're expecting . . . with orders to ride right on and take Mistledale. They probably killed those merchants just to stop them from warning us."
Kuthe nodded as the killers of the merchants rode into view: a band of mounted crossbowmen, clad in armor as dark as that of the Riders, streaming out of the road mouth and fanning across the fields of Treesedge. Around the two sorceresses, men swore at the sight of that armor.
"Zhent blackhelms, all right," Kuthe said, "and riding hard to encircle us ... sixty of them, or more. What
31
ED GREENWOOD
now, Lady?"
"Keep silence for a breath or two," Jhessai) told him softly, "while we do what we have to. Let no man here ride forward until I give the word. When our first spell goes off, your horses may move by themselves; be ready to hold them back!"
"Whose place is it to give orders?" a Rider demanded gruffly.
Jhessail turned on him eyes that were dark and cold, and said, "It will mean death to ride forward. Disobey my suggestion freely, but leave word for your widow first."
More than one dry chuckle answered her from the men around, and Kuthe growled, "Right. We wait. Work your magic. Shields up!"
Crossbow quarrels were already hissing their way, though the range was impossibly long. Ignoring them, Jhessail spread her arms again and began the incantation, Illistyl chanting in unison.
Abruptly the air in front of the Riders was full of shadowy, moving forms—images that suddenly grew dark and solid; the gleaming black armored backs of Riders on horseback, charging away with lances lowered. More than one mount under the real Riders surged forward to join them, and had to be reined in, hard. The ground shook under the thunder of phantom hooves, and dust rose in a cloud as thirty dark horsemen raced away east.
"Gods," the Rider who'd challenged Jhessail whispered, watching the illusory Riders charge away into battle. "They certainly look real."
"Aye, but how can ghost Riders kill any Zhents?" Kuthe demanded as Merith Strongbow came up beside him, an arrow ready, and nodded in silent greeting.
"That's the next spell," the elf told him with quiet confidence. "I've seen this trick before." He thrust both bow and arrow into the startled Rider's hands. "Here— hold this."
ALL SHADOWS FLED
As Kuthe gaped at him, he raised his own hands and joined in the gestures of the next spell, murmuring something the Rider couldn't quite hear.
Then he plucked bow and arrow back from the officer's hands and stared east, watching as the dust cloud behind the false Riders became a thick, swirling mass of yellow and green—and the two forces crashed together.
With startled speed, the Zhents plunged through the phantom Riders—into the thick of the yellow-green cloud. And men who rode into that cloud did not come out again.
"I hate doing that to horses," Illistyl said, her voice as thin and cold as a knife.
Merith's eyes, however, were on those who'd ridden wide. "Jhess!" he snapped urgently. As his wife peered past Kuthe, Merith drew his bowstring back to his chin, angled the ready arrow up into the sky, and loosed.
Kuthe had never been so close to a spell being cast before. He stiffened and swallowed as one slim and shapely arm brushed his breastplate in an arcane gesture, and a clear, musical voice spoke two distinct words.
She turned her head and winked at him. Kuthe blinked at her—and when he looked again at the sky, the arrow had already split into a dozen shafts, plummeting down on the hard-riding Zhents in a deadly rain.
All but two of the invaders fell in that volley. Kuthe glared at the surviving Zhents and snapped, "Orold— take them!" Six of the Riders spurred away without a word, waving their lances as they followed Orold into battle.
"It feels . . . unfair, killing men like that," Jhessail said quietly.
Kuthe stared at her, and then at the fading yellow cloud where only a few horses still choked and rolled.
"Lass, lass," one of the older Riders replied through his snow-white mustache, "there're still near seven
ED GREENWOOD
thousand of them, if our scouts be right. When we face alt of'em, sweeping down on our homes, d'you think they'll turn their mounts back if we yell 'unfair' then? Aye?"
Another Rider spoke then. "I can even things just a trifle more."
Jhessail turned her head to see who'd spoken; the voice had sounded surprisingly old. The Rider guiding his mount toward her wore worn armor that had been recently burnished at the joints to quell creeping rust. The armor was of an older, bulkier design than what Kuthe wore, though most of it matched the ebon gloss of the other Riders' harnesses. The Rider doffed his helm—and Jhessail stared into the lined face of a very old man.
"Lead us if you will, Baergil," Kuthe said quietly.
"Nay, lad," the old Rider told him. "My commanding days are done. I know daily just how good I was—I order my cabbages about in the garden, and they heed me not a whit."
"Ho, Baergil," Merith said with a smile, and the old man matched it as his cloudy blue eyes met the elf's steady gaze. "I remember you."
"And I you, Sir Elf," Baergil replied. "Though it's been thirty years gone since then."
"Baergil led the Riders that many summers ago," Kuthe told Jhessail, "when I was but a lad. Then he turned to the worship of Tempus, Lord of Battles, and left our ranks."
"They're all dead," Illistyl told them bleakly; she had never stopped watching the Zhents die. "I guess we'll not need your spells, priest of the war god."
Baergil smiled. "Nay, lass; their deaths're what I was waiting for. There's a spell that raises the fallen. . . ."
"To do—what?" Jhessail asked quietly.
"In the hours before dawn," Baergil said, "if they ride as hard as 111 bid them, sixty skeletal reavers will ride into Essembra, striking at anyone with drawn weapons
34
ALL SHADOWS FLED
— or who hurls spells at them. Those who offer them peace they'll leave be, but Zhents being Zhents . . ."
There was a roar of hard laughter. "Do it!" Illistyl told him delightedly, and the warrior priest nodded, watching Orold and his men return.
Then he turned back to them. "That should buy us the time we need," Baergil said with a certain satisfaction, "to make Galath's Roost ready to properly welcome Zhent butchers." The Riders around him laughed again — a chorus of low, quiet sounds that held no humor.
Jhessail shivered despite herself, and caught Illistyl's eye. The two of them shared a comforting look as the priest turned away.
As Merith moved up beside his wife and stretched out a long arm to embrace her, Jhessail felt a pat on her knee — and looked up to see Kuthe wheeling away from her.
"Well done, Knight," he said gruffly. "See you at the Roost!" He urged his mount into a canter, and all around Riders spurred their horses after him, heading for the distant trail into the trees that would take them to the Roost ... to turn the ruined keep into a deathtrap for Zhentilar blackhelms.
Merith and Jhessail's arms were around each other, and their kiss went on until Illistyl looked up at the sky and remarked brightly, "Beautiful weather we're having, isn't it?"