"Realms of the Underdark 2.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anthologies)

hand wrested the blade from the dead creature, the other lashed out with the
whip. Supple leather coiled around a fleeing kobold's neck, stopping it in its
tracks. The thing clutched at its throat, fingers scrabbling in vain. . Zak gave
the whip an expert tug, snapping the creature's neck.
Excitement surged in his chest. Zaknafein had been alive for nearly four hundred
years, and he had spent almost all of those years mastering the art of battle.
This was his calling. This was what he had been born to do.
Zak spun and danced easily through the writhing throng of kobplds, falling now
into the trancelike rhythm of the fray. When killing things of evil, he felt a
clarity he did not know at other times. Unlike anything else in the tangled and
devious world of the dark elves, this made sense to him. In Menzoberranzan, all
life revolved around station. Each of the noble houses in the city was caught in
a never-ending game of intrigue, alliance, and treachery. All of it served one
goal: to win the favor of the dark goddess Lloth. Those who gained the blessing
of the Spider Queen knew great power and prosperity, while those who earned her
displeasure found only destruction and death. To Zak, climbing Lloth's Ladder
was a pointless exercise. No family stayed in Lloth's favor forever. Each was
doomed to fall eventually. He wanted no part of that meaningless game. The
machinations, the deceits, the shadowed plots: all were beyond him. But
this-another kobold died screaming under the swing of his blade-this he
understood. Zak blinked.
The small cavern had fallen silent, save for the piteous whining of a single
kobold that cowered before him. All the rest of the evil creatures were dead.
Veins thrumming with exhilaration, Zak raised his adamantite sword to finish
what he had begun.
That was when he saw it. It dangled from a silvery thread not five paces away
and watched him with eyes like black, many-faceted jewels. A spider.
The sword halted in its descent. Zak stared at the arachnid. It was only an
ordinary rock spider, no larger than the palm of his hand. But all spiders were
sacred to Lloth. And all were her servants. The metallic taste of disgust spread
across his tongue. He had slain the kobolds for himself, to quell his own needs.
But the act served Lloth as well, did it not? The kobolds were the enemy of the
drow, of her children. Their deaths could only please her.
His lips pulled back, transforming his grin into an expression of loathing. He
turned away from the last kobold, and the creature squealed in surprise,
thinking it had somehow escaped its worst nightmare. Without even looking, Zak
thrust the blade backward, silencing the creature, ending its false hope. But
there was no pleasure in the act. Not now. He glared at the spider, fingered the
handle of his whip, and knew he could crush it with a single flick. But even he
dared not harm one of Lloth's messengers. He let his hand fall from the weapon.
A gloom settled over him, even darker and more stifling than the oppressive air
of the Underdark. After reluctantly harvesting the expected trophies, he started
back toward the city of the drow.
By the time he reached the edge of the vast underground cavern that housed
Menzoberranzan, his gloom had deepened into despair. Sitting astride the broad
back of his lizard mount, he gazed over the dwelling of the dark elves-his home,
and yet not his home. Long ago, the legends told, the dark elves had lived in
the overworld. They had dwelt along with their fair sylvan kindred, with no
comforting roof of stone above them but only a vast emptiness called sky. As out
of place as Zak felt among his people, the thought of living on the surface