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

The sky seemed to know this already, though the two Knights beside her didn't seem to notice — or care. Illistyl sighed and rode away. In the distance, she saw dead men and horses rising in a stiff ring around the black-armored priest. She shivered, shook her head, and rode after the Riders.
See the Realms and taste true adventure, they'd said. Well, here we go chasing it again — and flashing swords to that!
The Dead and the Liaing Both Ride
Essembra, Battledale, early hours of Flamerule 16
Gostar yawned and backed into another circular walk, keeping his eyes and attention always on the night to the north. As if his shifting had been a signal, his companions did the same. Those who fell asleep on guard duty or were judged careless often swallowed sword blades on the spot, but the long, cold hours made feet ache and limbs stiffen. It was best to keep moving in the last stretch before dawn, when the mists clouded bright armor and played tricks on eye and ear.
Now, for instance. A low rumble—Gostar could feel it in his jaw more than he could hear it—was rising from the ever-shifting mists ahead. A helmed head down the line inclined to listen; the others had heard it, too.
The noise was growing louder, becoming a continuous soft thunder, swirling over and around them with the scudding mists . . . and seeming familiar. He'd heard this sound before. In his saddle, on the rolling plains near Thentia . . .
Then he knew what it was, and ice clawed at his heart and throat.
Gostar shook himself, swallowed, and shouted,
ALL SHADOWS FLED
"Rorst! Run back to rouse the camp!"
"And why'd I risk a flogging to do that, now?" Rorst asked in his usual, careless, I've-seen-it-all tone.
"Can't you hear it?" Gostar waved one gauntleted hand at the mists before them, where the sound had become a continuous choppy thunder. "Those're horses, man—half a hundred or more, at full gallop!"
Helmed heads were looking at him all along the line, now—and in the eyes, their whites flashing in the gloom, Gostar saw the grim realization that he was right. Swords gleamed and sang as they were drawn. Rorst took a few lazily shambling steps away from the line just to show that he didn't take orders from a fellow ranker, and feared nothing besides. Then he broke into a trot.
A line of fast-plunging horses leapt out of the north mists, like arrows seeking targets. Atop them rode black-armored warriors, drawn swords in hand.
Gostar yelled in fear and defiance and raised his own sword, whirling it around his head to get the speed he'd need to cleave armor and unhorse a foe. He sprang deftly aside as a charger galloped right at him, then leaned in to strike his blow. It wasn't until he looked up into eyes that were dead and dark that Gostar knew something was wrong, horribly wrong.
The face above his was Estard's . . . and Estard was up in Mistledale this night, with sixty fellow Zhentilar blades, carving out a claim there for the Sword of the South. Who, then, was this . . . ?
Bright pain burst through Gostar as Estard's sweeping blade cut through the light mail under Gostar's left arm and into the ribs and chest beyond—and the wounded man hung for a long, burning moment on that cruel edge of steel. The world grew dark around him as he flew free, the ground so hard and close and . . . more hooves struck him as he fell, crushing him into the turf, but Gostar felt them not. Nor anything else, ever again.
37
ED GREENWOOD
A raw scream split the night. Swordlord Amglar came awake, its echo ringing painfully between his ears. He'd been dreaming of gentler, softer, and more welcoming sounds, by far.
"What befalls, by the gods?" he growled at the darkness, feeling for his sword hilt. Horses were thundering through the camp, and the clash and ring of arms rose around him, mingled with shouts—voices he knew.
They were under attack by a large mounted force!
Amglar cursed, snatched up sword and shield, and stamped feet into his boots, but wasted no time on clothes. His sword squire was snoring like a contented whale at the far end of the tent, with all their armor racked beyond him. It might as well be a realm away.
Boots secure, Amglar spat a heartfelt curse and ran for the back of the tent, where the din was less. The attack was from the north . . . Hillsfar? Who else could muster enough mounted swords to get through the road guard? Elves never fought from the saddle .. . and even if every farmer in Mistledale could find a horse, scarce more than a handful'd be able to stay on it while swinging a blade!
Then he was out into the night, and war was all around him—Zhent blackhelm fighting Zhent black-helm! Amglar stared around for a moment at running, half-naked men, horses plunging and trotting stiffly among them, stiff black-armored riders—stiff? The swordlord's eyes narrowed.
He ducked back out of the way of a cursing knot of men being dragged behind pikes buried deep in a rider who did not slow or fall from his saddle. The rider clung to the upswept forecantle with one hand while he swung a futile blade back and forth with the other. The horse struggled on under the weight of them all.
Undead. The attackers must be their own men, raised and sent back from Mistledale. Amglar stared around at Essembra, cursed with loud feeling, and started a perilous run toward the red-lantern house the
ALL SHADOWS FLED
mages had taken as their own. He hoped he'd make it there alive . . . and in time.
He was still running hard, dodging blackhelms who should be dead and frantic quarrels from his own terrified men, when Ondeler appeared at the close-curtained balcony of the Bold Banners and stared at the battle below. There was no hint yet of dawn, but the torches in their tripods still blazed, and in the dancing radiance they cast, the Zhentarim wizard could see the street was choked with struggling men.
"Bane's hand!" Ondeler cursed, amazed and fearful. Who could be attacking them here, in the heart of Essembra? Behind him, a lass appeared on the balcony and gasped. He turned and snapped at her, "My robe! Be quick!"
Scared eyes met his for a moment, and she was gone. Ondeler turned back to the street, crouching low behind the balcony rail, and watched the carnage below. Swordlord Amglar, still a distance off, ran toward the red-lantern house, and then Ondeler heard anxious breathing at his shoulder.
"Lord?" the lass whispered.
He reached out without looking, felt the familiar fabric of his robes, grasped it firmly, and said, "Go now and awaken Myarvuk—the mage with the curling black beard, who came in with me. Bid him come here; Ondeler commands. If he seems unwilling, tell him the seven talons await. Haste, now!"
"Lord, I will," she hissed, and was gone.
Ondeler smiled wryly as he felt for what he'd need. Why was it that ladies of the evening obeyed faster and more willingly than any of the Zhents under him? Perhaps he should take all the women of this house with him, to be his swordcaptains and envoys—if he still had any command at all, after this attack.
He gave up groping for the secret pockets and rose into a cautious crouch to put the robe on. Once it was around him, his fingers knew the places where this and
ED GREENWOOD
that were stored, and came up with them.
He rose up to his full height, made the pass that touched the two crumbling substances together, and chanted:
"By dung of bat and sulphur's reek And mystic words I now do speak— Ashtyn ortkruu angcoug laen— Let empty air burst into—flame.*"
As the components dwindled and left his hands empty, one end of the street below obediently erupted in ravening flame, in an explosion that hurled blazing bodies against walls in a gruesome chorus of thuds.
In the flickering aftermath of the fire, Ondeler could see some armored men fighting on despite the flames rising from their bodies. He felt a chill of fear; how—?
Undead. Ah, of course. Most were ashes, but a few were horses and men, bare-boned or burning, still moving, fighting. ...
Through them stumbled a man with a drawn sword, who wore only boots and a furious expression. Sword-lord Amglar had finally reached the red-lantern house. He was heading for the door beneath Ondeler and glaring up at the balcony as he came.
"Crimson curtains, wizard! Are you trying to burn all Essembra down, and us with it?"
"It does seem to work, Swordlord," Ondeler replied with a serenity he did not feel. "Nice uniform, by the way..."
Amglar made a certain rude gesture with his sword, but the wizard sneered and raised his hands as if to cast a spell. The Zhentilar snarled and hastened out of view, in under the railing, heading for the door.
"I am here, Ondeler," Myarvuk said from the chamber behind the balcony where the wizard stood.