"03 - Waterdeep - Richard Awlinson 1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Avatar Trilogy)

"All our mounts would be lame and we would have lost the Cormyrians anyway." Dalzhel realized he was still holding his swordhilt and released it. "At least now we have fresh horses."
The thief sighed. His lieutenant was right. Horses were not men. One could not force them to walk upon crippled legs. "If Darkhold captures her—"
"Darkhold won't get her," Dalzhel stated calmly. "Most of their raiding parties are farther south than we are. I've positioned sentries near the three groups that might intercept the patrol."
Cyric's eyes widened in alarm. "How do you know one of your sentries won't betray us?"
Dalzhel shrugged. "We must run that risk. When Midnight and her company leave the Cormyrians and turn south, there's no other way to be sure we'll be the first to sight her."
A thought occurred to Cyric and he laid a hand on Dalzhel's shoulder. "Darkhold's gangs are working in the southern towns?" he asked.
"All ten that we know of, milord."
"We can assume Bane took most of the patrols out of Yellow Snake Pass to attack Shadowdale and Tantras, can't we?" the thief asked, staring into space.
"Aye," Dalzhel replied, frowning. He did not see the point his commander was working toward. "That would make sense."
Cyric grinned. He had originally assumed Midnight and her company would stick close to Cormyrian protection and follow Dragonjaw Road south to Proskur. It had been a reasonable assumption, for Darkhold's grip on the western Tun Plain was secure. Once in Proskur, Midnight's company could easily join a caravan traveling to Waterdeep.
But the Cormyrian patrol had ridden due west, and the thief had been forced to change his thinking. Cyric had decided the soldiers were escorting Midnight across the desolate sections of the northern Tun Plain. Once they had crossed the plain, the patrol would turn hack and Midnight would drop south. The thief had assumed Midnight and her companions would cross the Far Hills south of Darkhold, trying to reach the walled town of Hluthvar.
But Cyric suspected he had heen wrong. "What if Midnight isn't riding for Hluthvar?"
"Where else could she go?" Dalzhel demanded, rubbing his chin.
"Yellow Snake Pass lies due west of High Horn," Cyric said, looking northwest.
"Not a beggar passes through there without Darkhold's permission," Dalzhel objected. "Your friends would never try it!"
"They would," the thief replied. "We're not the only ones who might suspect the pass is empty."
Dalzhel's eyes widened in shock. "I'll tell the men to break camp. We can leave in an hour!"
Seven mornings after leaving High Horn, the Cormyrian patrol awoke at the base of Yellow Snake Pass. Named for a fearsome, yellow dragon that had inhabited it several hundred years ago, the forested pass now seemed calm and safe.
In the sharp morning light. Yellow Snake Pass looked no less impressive than it did at dusk. A wide, deep canyon snaked its way to the Tun Plain from the heart of the Sunset Mountains. Bushy conifers and white-barked poplars covered the valley floor, except where tremendous red bluffs poked smooth-edged rips through the green carpet. These cliffs rose one after the other like a titan's staircase leading toward the range's summit.
Sheer, spike-shaped peaks flanked the valley like rows of sharp teeth, forming canyon walls as steep and as slick as
slate tiles. The peaks were stained deep red, giving the whole valley an eerie feeling of twilight. Every now and again, the silvery ribbon of a mountain stream rushed off a canyon wall, dissipating into a misty spray. The trail twisted its way along the valley floor, climbing slowly toward the distant summit.
Midnight studied the scene with equal parts of awe and fear. Beside the magnificence of Yellow Snake Pass, she felt at once peaceful and insignificant, as if she could lose herself in its reaches. The magic-user knew the beauty of the pass was misleading. Like any mountain trail, it was fraught with potential disasters ranging from mysterious fevers to avalanches.
Had the dangers been only of the natural variety, she would not have been frightened. But Zhentilar dominated Yellow Snake Pass, and Midnight had no doubt that they wanted her and the tablet as badly as anyone did. Fortunately, as she and her friends had hoped, it appeared the Zhentilar had abandoned the pass.
Captain Lunt and Adon approached. Lunt said, "My men and I will be taking our leave now."
f"-- Midnight turned to face the captain. He was a man of forty, his curly black hair lined with gray streaks. "Our thanks for your escort, Captain. You saved us a great deal of time."
Lunt looked up into the mountains. "Even if the Zhentilar have left, there are other hazards in the pass." He paused, then set his jaw as though he had resolved a troublesome conflict. "We'll go with you—orders be damned,"
Midnight looked at Captain Lunt and smiled. "How much do you know of our journey?" she asked.
"Not much. Lord Deverell said Faerun's safety depends upon your success." The Cormyrian officer paused again, then noted, "But I mean what I say about coming along."
"We'd be glad for your company, Captain," Adon said. "But Lord Deverell wanted you to stop here for a reason. A small party will fare better in the mountains."
Lunt's face sank. "Aye, you're right." He turned toward Midnight. "Until swords part, then."
"Until swords part," Midnight responded.
Captain Lunt returned to his men. The Cormvrians left without further ceremony, save that Sneakabout and Radnor exchanged daggers as tokens of friendship. The halfling threw his saddlebags over his pony's back, then mounted. "Shall we be on our way?" he asked. "This path looks like a long one."
"You lead, Sneakabout," Adon ordered, loading his own pony's saddle. "I'll follow, then Midnight and Kelemvor."
Kelemvor groaned. Though the others looked at him expectantly, he said nothing.
Finally, Adon asked, "What's the problem, Kel?"
The warrior looked away, picking up his saddlebags. "It's nothing. I was thinking of the trail dust, that's all."
"I'm sorry," Adon responded, puzzled. It wasn't like Kelemvor to object to a little thing like riding order. "But we need a rear—"
"Adon, why don't you and I switch places?" Midnight interrupted. "I suspect Kelemvor's groaning has less to do with trail dust than trail company."
Adon frowned. "This is ridiculous," he snapped. "You two haven't stopped fighting since Eveningstar."
Midnight ignored him and mounted her pony. "Lead the way, Sneakabout."
The halfling obligingly started up the trail, but Adon was determined to make his point. He mounted his own pony and quickly caught the magic-user. "From Kelemvor, I can understand this. But you, Midnight?"
From the rear of the line, Kelemvor called, "It's Cyric. He's got her so confused—"
Midnight twisted in her saddle. "Me! You're the one who's confused—but that's nothing new," she spat. The statement felt hollow and fiery to her, the way angry words often did.
"Midnight," Adon said, "Kel's right about Cyric. Why can't you see that?" Without waiting for an answer, he twisted around to face the warrior. "But vou're just as much to blame—"
"Who asked you?" Kelemvor roared, dismissing Adon with a wave of his hand.
Sneakabout interrupted the argument to say, "I think I'll scout ahead." When nobody paid any attention to him, the halfling shrugged and urged his pony into a trot.
After a short pause, Adon added, "You're both being stubborn." He was growing more exasperated by the second. "Don't let your spat interfere with our mission."
"Adon, be quiet," Midnight snapped. She spurred her pony ahead.
The cleric ignored her order. "Like it or not, we're in this together—"
"Adon," Kelemvor interjected, "one of your sermons won't solve the problem."