"Denning, Troy - Forgotten Realms - Viperhan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Denning Troy)

Ib Dirk Miles, in memory of the Bighorns
VIPERHAND
Copyright e!990 TSR, Inc. All flights Reserved.
This book is protected under the copyright taws of the United Stales of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorised use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of TSR, Inc.
Distributed lo Ihe book Irade in the United Stales by Random House, Inc., and in Canada by Random House of Canada, Lid.
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FORGOTTEN REALMS, PRODUCIS OF YOUR IMAGINATION. ADA.D, TSR. DRAGONLANCE, and the TSR logo are trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.
First Printing, August, 1990
Printed in Ihe United Stales of America.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 89-51885
987654321
ISBN: 0-88038-907-9
All characters in Ihis book are fictitious. Any resemblance lo actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
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VALLEY OF NEXAL
*-.^.; Grasshopper Spring
SACRED PLAZA OF NEXAL
marketplace
N
1,000 FEET
3. T«mpte of Zattec
4. THnpte and Pyramid of Qotal
5. Nattecona's Palace
6. AxaH's Palace
PRoIogcie
The gods grew complacent in the sameness of their immortal lives, content to accept the worship of mortals and to rule their lordly domains. Eternal imperturbable, they passed the centuries in sublime disregard of the flesh-bound world below.
But occasionally the actions of a god's worshipers brought that deity into conflict with his fellows. Such a collision of godhood inevitably spelled chaos, even complete doom, for the peoples in the divine one's fold.
So it was with Helm the Vigilant, patron god of the Golden Legion. His faithful, the crusading soldiery of that legion, carried his banner forward into new lands—lands of great riches and beauty, but of dark savagery as well. Willingly, eagerly, Helm followed. Now he faced gods from beyond his ken—gods with an apparently unquenchable thirst for human hearts, human blood.
So, too, with Zaltec the Terrible, one of those thirsty lords. The ravenous god of war consumed the hearts offered by his priests with relish. Lordly master of Maztica, he faced the invading forces of Helm with a burning increase in his own hunger. Zaltec needed more hearts, more blood.
And with Qotal, once hailed as preeminent among the gods of Maztica. The Plumed One, however, had long since been banished from the True World by those who thought gods could only be worshiped with the shedding of blood and the taking of lives. Qotal sought to smooth the confluence of peoples and gods, but his power was weak, his presence all but unknown.
And also, below them all, seething with the darkness of her hatred and evil, so it was with another god—a god whose presence and interest the deities of Maztica did not
*Ј>*
DOUGLAS NILES
even suspect. Lolth, the spidery essence of darkness and evil, dwelled far from the others, in the infernal reaches themselves. Queen of the dark elves—the drow—Lolth's hatred now focused against those of her children who no longer held her name in awe.
To Lolth, to them all, the Sand called Maztica was a gaming board, a table upon which lay the pieces of their immortal contest. It required but a thoughtless breath, or the casual flick of a limb, to sweep the board clean.
THE HOUSE OF TEZCA
Halloran felt certain they would die here in this miserable, waterless waste. The sun assaulted them from all sides, searing their skin, parching their dusty mouths, blinding their eyes with an unceasing glare.
His tongue swelling in his throat, Hal looked about, only dimly aware of the infernal surroundings. He and his two companions trudged wearily across the House of Tezca, the great desert named for Maztica's god of the sun. Harsh yellow shards of rock jutted from the sandy ground, and low, windswept ridges marked the horizon on all sides. In the far distance, purple mountains, capped with blinding snowfields, loomed against the skyline, taunting them with their unattainable promise of cool heights and rapid, icy streams.
Long since discarded, Halloran's steel helmet and breastplate were now lashed to the saddlebags of Storm, his once-proud war-horse. The sturdy charger plodded listlessly, sometimes tripping or stumbling. A few more hours without water, Halloran knew, and the steed would collapse.
Reluctantly, blinking against the pain, he looked to the man and the woman who were his companions. They, too, could last but a matter of hours unless they found water.
Poshtli, the Eagle Knight, seemed least affected. The proud warrior led the way, maintaining his steady stride across the rocky, undulating terrain of the desert. For days, Poshtli's strength had guided and propelled them. He had brought them to the desert—for good reasons, Hal understood—but now the torched landscape had become a trap. Burdened by this responsibility, the warrior drove himself mercilessly, leading the way without a backward look.
11
DOUGLAS MILES
Erixitl, the beautiful young woman who had showed him so many wonders of her land, seemed but a distant memory to Hal now. It broke his heart to see her in this wasteland that must soon claim them all.
She looked at him now, her eyelids swollen by sun and dust. Her lips, cracked, sunburned, and bleeding, could no longer smile. She had not spoken since the merciless sun had risen uncounted hours earlier. If even her exuberant spirit had been broken, Halioran knew, their doom must be imminent.