"Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon - Mage Wars 01 - The Black Gryphon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

The Black Gryphon
Mage Wars 01
Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon
copyright 1994




version 2.0 compared to original, spell checked. completed January 31, 2004




Dedicated to Mel. White, Coyote Woman
A legend in the hearts
of all who know her.




One
Silence.
Cold wind played against Skandranon's nares—a wind as frigid as the hearts of the killers below.
Their hearts pumped blood unlike any other creature's; thick black blood, warmed when their
commanders willed it—only when they flew, only when they hunted, only when they killed.
Their blood was cold, and yet it ran warmer than their masters'. This much Skandranon Rashkae
knew; he had fought their masters since he was a fledgling himself. They were cruel and cunning, these
makaar, and yet the worst aspects of these manufactured horrors paled before the cruelty of their
creators.
Silence. Stay still. Quiet.
Skandranon remained motionless, crouched, feathers compressed tight to his body. He was silent to
more than hearing; that silence was but one of the powers that had made his master and friend so
powerful, although it was the power that had given him his name—Urtho, the Mage of Silence. Urtho's
champions had invisibility against magical sight—to mind-scanning, to detection spells, to magical scrying.
The enemies of his monarchy had spent much of their resources on foiling that edge—to no avail, it
seemed—and now concentrated on more direct methods of destroying Urtho's hold on the verdant
central-land's riches.
Skan kept his wings folded, the leading edge of each wing tucked under the soft black feathers at
the sides of his chest. It was important to be quiet and keep his head down, even this far from the
encampment. The journey here had been one of long soars and kiting, and although he was in his best
physical shape ever, flight muscles protested even yet. Better now to rest and watch. The chill wind
rippled against his coat of feathers. This day had turned out unseasonably cold, which hadn't helped him
any—except that it kept the makaar willing to make only the most necessary flights.
He watched them sleeping restlessly, twitching in their dreaming. Did they know how transient, how
fleeting, they were? How their creators built them, bred them, refined them, letting the bad stock die out
by assigning them to the border? Did they know their masters designed them with short lives so the
generations would cycle quicker, to reveal the defects more conveniently?
They were, despite their horrifying appearances and deadly claws, quite pitiful. They'd never know
the caress of a caring lover—they would only know the heat of imposed breeding. They knew their lot
was the searing pain of a torture-weapon if they failed. They never lay in the sun with a friend, or dashed