"C. S. Friedman - Coldfire 1 - Black Sun Rising" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friedman C. S)

“Shouldn’t we-”
 “It’s too late to help. Stay here.” She grasped his arm tightly, as if afraid he
would leave despite her warning. “The siren went off in plenty of time. He had
his warning. That’s why we run the damn thing. But there’s always some poor
fool who tries to tap into the earth-fae when it begins to surge . . .”
She didn’t finish.
“And they die? Like that?”
“They fry. Without exception. No human being can channel that kind of
energy. Not even an adept. He must have wagered that the quake would be
small, that he could control a small bit of what it released and dodge the rest. Or
maybe he was drunk, and impaired in judgment. Or just stupid.” She shook her
head. “I don’t understand. Only an idiot would bet his life against an earthquake.
No one ever wins that game - no one. Why do they insist on trying? What can
they possibly gain?” Something in his manner made her look up at him suddenly,
and she asked, “You were warned about that in the west. Weren’t you?”
“In general terms.” His stomach tightened as his mind replayed that terrible
scream. “We were warned. But not quite so . . . graphically.”
He was about to say something more when she squeezed his arm. “It’s
starting. Watch.”
She pointed across the plaza, to a tailor’s shop that faced them. Sunken into
the lintel of its arched doorway was a sizable ward, made up of intricate
knotwork patterns etched into a bronze plate. The whole of it was glowing now,
with a cold blue light that silhouetted its edge like the corona of an eclipsed sun.
Even as he watched the display it increased in intensity, until cold blue fire
burned the pattern of its warding sigil into his eyes and his brain.
“Quake wards,” she told him. “They’re dormant until the fae intensifies . . .
then they tap into it, use it to reinforce the buildings they guard. But if it’s a big
one, there’s more than they can handle. What you’re seeing is the excess energy
bleeding off into the visible spectrum.”
On every building surrounding the plaza, similar wards were now firing.
Awed, he watched as tendrils of silver fire shot across doorways, about windows,
over walls, until the man-made structures were wholly enveloped in a shivering
web of cold silver flame. And though the force of the earthquake was enough to
make brickwork tremble, no buildings toppled. No windows shattered. Furniture
crashed to the floor within one shop, glass shattered noisily inside another, but
the buildings themselves - reinforced with that delicate, burning web - weathered
the seismic storm.
“You’ve warded the whole city?” he whispered. Stunned by the scale of it.
She hesitated. “Mostly. Not all of it’s as well done as this. Sorcerers vary, as
does their skill . . . and some people simply can’t afford the protection.” As if in
illustration, a roar of falling brick sounded to the south of them. Dust and a cloud
of silver-blue sparks mushroomed thickly over the rooftops. Damien could feel
the ground tremble beneath his feet, could see brick- and stone-work shiver all
about him as the force of the earthquake fought to bring the man-made
structures down - and the Workings of man fought to keep it all intact. The smell
of ozone filled the air, and a sharp undercurrent: sulfur? The smell of battle,
between Nature and man’s will.
Our ancestors had nothing like this. Nothing! Venerate them we might, but in
this one arena we have surpassed them. All the objective science on Earth could
never have managed this . . .