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

lodged itself in young Fyodor. He had become a natural berserker, able to enter
an incredible battle frenzy at will. At first his new skill had been hailed as a
godsend, and when the Tuigan horde swept in from the eastern steppes Fyodor
stood beside his berserker brothers and fought with unmatched ferocity.
All would have been well, but for another lingering memory of the time of
twisted magic. Fyodor, the dreamer, continued to be haunted by the nightmares
that had plagued so many Rashemi during the Time of Troubles. He told no one of
this, for many of his people—simple peasants for the most part—had deeply
ingrained superstitions about dreams and saw in every ale-induced night vision
detailed meanings, portents of doom. Fyodor believed he knew what dreams were,
and what they were not.
Tonight, however, he was not so sure. He'd emerged from a nightmare to find
himself sitting bolt upright on his pallet, his heart racing and his body
drenched with cold sweat. Fyodor tried without success to return to sleep, for
he would face the Tuigan again tomorrow and would need all his strength. He had
fought today and fought well—or so he had been told. His comrades had tipped
their flasks to him and boasted of the number of barbarians who had fallen to
Fyodor*s black sword. Fyodor himself did not remember much of the battle. He
remembered less each time he fought, and that disturbed him. Perhaps that was
why this nightmare haunted him so.
la it, he had found himself in a deep forest, where he'd apparently wandered in
the confused aftermath of a berserker frenzy. His arms, face, and body had been
covered with stinging scratches. He had a vague memory of a playful tussle with
his half-wild snowcat companion. In his dream, it slowly dawned on Fyodor that
the game must have awakened his battle frenzy. He could not remember the outcome
of battle, but his sword was wet to the hilt with blood still warm.
Awake, Fyodor knew the dream, although disturbing, was no prophecy of a battle
to come. He had indeed tamed a snowcat once, but that had been many years ago,
and they had parted in peace when the wild thing had returned to its nature. But
the dream haunted him, for in it he read his deepest fear: would the time come
when the battle rage gripped him entirely? Would he, in a mad frenzy, destroy
not only his enemies, but those he loved?
Again and again Fyodor saw the light of life fading from the cat's golden eyes.
Try as he might, he could not banish the image, or thrust away the fear that
this might somehow come to pass.
And as he awaited the light of dawn, Fyodor felt the heavy weight of fate upon
his young shoulders, and wondered if perhaps the dream held prophecy, after all.
Shakti Hunzrin slumped deeper into the prow of the small boat and glared at the
two young males laboring at the oars. They were her brothers, page princes whose
names she only occasionally remembered. The three drow siblings were bound for
the Isle of Rothe, a mossy islet in the heart of Donigarten Lake. House Hunzrin
was in charge of most of the city's farming, including the herd of rothe
maintained on the island, and Shakti's family responsibilities had • increased
fourfold in the tumultuous aftermath of war.
Yet the dark elf'smood was grim as she eyed her brothers, unblooded youths armed
with only knives and pitchforks. Traveling with such a scant escort was not only
dangerous, but insulting. And Shakti Hunzrin was ever alert for any insult,
however slight.
The boat thudded solidly into the stone dock, jarring Shakti's thoughts back to
the matter at hand. She rose to her feet, slapping aside the hands of her