"01 - Daughter of the Drow - Elaine Cunningham 1.0.palmdoc.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Starlight And Shadows)

Underdark, and Menzoberranzan was facing a new and frightening level of chaos,
most drow saw no other option. All the surface world offered was defeat,
disgrace, and the searing horror that was the sun.
With a deep sigh, the merchant let the curtain fall and turned away to observe a
spectacle of a very different nature. A drow male, a commoner of middle years
and unremarkable appearance, sat bound with chains to a heavy stone chair.
Around him crackled a sphere of faint greenish light, and over him loomed a
black-clad drow male who stood, chanting, with eyes closed and hands
outstretched. Clerical magic flowed from each of the dark elf'sfingers, sizzling
like dark lightning into the chained drow. The prisoner writhed in anguish as
his tormentor—a priest of Vhaeraun, patron of thieves—plundered his memories and
stole his secrets.
Finally the priest nodded, satisfied. The globe of light dissipated with a faint
pop, and the prisoner sagged against his chains, moaning softly in a mixture of
pain and relief.
Strange treatment, perhaps, for a trusted informer, but Nisstyre had little
choice. The price of misplaced trust was high. In Menzoberranzan, anyone
suspected of worshiping any god but Lloth was summarily put to death. Those who
followed other gods, or none at all, were wise to keep their opinions to
themselves.
Yet now, with their city in turmoil and their most basic assumptions suspect,
there were a few drow who dared whisper the name of Vhaeraun, and who dreamed of
a life free of Menzoberranzan's limitations. These drow Nisstyre was quietly
seeking out. Some were like this tortured elf, whose hatred of matriarchal rule
was so bitter that he would willingly endure anything to see it end. But most
drow required more: something that could eradicate bitter memories and offer
opportunities for power and status far beyond anything they now enjoyed.
In time, Nisstyre vowed, he would find what was needed to sway the drow of
Menzoberranzan to his cause. After all, the Dragon's Hoard was famous for
procuring anything, without regard for the cost.
Menzoberranzan was not the only land struggling with conflict and war. Far away,
in a rugged land of hills and forests in the fareastern reaches of Faerun, the
people of Rashemen knew their own time of turmoil. Magic—the force that ruled
and protected their land—had recently gone treacherously awry. Ancient gods and
long-dead heroes had walked the land, and a nation of dreamers had been
tormented by strange nightmares and waking frenzies. Most dangerous of all, the
mystic defenses crafted by the magic of the ruling Witches had faltered, and the
eyes of many enemies turned once again upon Rashemen.
Of all Rashemen's warriors, perhaps none had felt this disruption so much as
Fyodor. He was a young man, a pleasant fellow who had shown a steady hand at the
sword-smith's forge and a steady nerve in battle. He was a hard worker, but by
all reports a bit of a dreamer even by Rashemi standards. Fyodor was as quick
with a song or a story as any traveling bard, and his deep, resonant bass voice
often rang out over the sound of a clanging hammer as he worked. Like most of
his people, he appreciated the simple joys of life and he accepted its hardships
with resigned calm. His gentle nature and ready smile seemed ill-matched with
his fearsome reputation; Rashemen was renowned for the might and fury of her
berserker warriors, among whom Fyodor was a champion.
Rashemen's famed warriors used a little-known magic ritual to bring on their
battle rages. By some quirk of fate, a stray bit of this magic broke free and