"Moon, Elizabeth - Deed Of Paksenarrion - 02 - Divided Allegiance V1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moon Elizabeth)

Paks shivered as she remembered die assault on Sibili. "I was knocked out," she said. "I didn't see it."
"Well, you've heard of the Webmistress—"
"Of course. But what—"
"Liart—die Master of Torments—and diat odier, they're both fairly low in the court of evil. Between the least of the gods and die common evils of the world, there are still beings—they have more power than any human or elf, but not nearly so much as a god."
Paks was suddenly curious. "What about the heroes and saints like Gird and Pargun?"
"Who knows? They were humans once; I don't know what, if anything, they are now. But that creature, Paks, is more powerful than any elf, and yet is far below the gods. Our gods—the gods of elves."
The corridor they traveled curved slightly to the left. Paks glanced back and saw that the kitchen entrance was now out of sight. Ahead was a doorway blocked by a dosed door, this one of carved wood. As they neared it, Paks noticed that the dust on the floor was not nearly so deep; their footsteps began to ring on the stone and echo off the stone walls. She wondered what had moved the dust. Macenion, when she pointed it out, looked around and shook his head.
"I don't know. Draft under that door, possibly—"
"Underground?" Paks remembered that she didn't know much about underground construction, and put that thought aside. She moved as quietly as possible toward the door.
In the cool white light of the corridor, its rich red and black grain and intricate carving seemed warm and alive. She reached out to touch it gently. It felt a slightly warm under her hand. "That's odd. It's—"
The door heaved under her hand; Paks jumped backward just in time to avoid a blow as it swung wide. Facing them were several armed humans in rough leather and woolen clothes; the leader grinned.
"'Ere's our bonus, lads!" he said. "The ears off these'll give us something to show the lord—"
Paks had her sword in motion before he finished; his boast ended in a howl of pain. She took a hard blow on her shield, and dodged a thrust meant for her throat. Behind her, she heard Macenion draw, then the ring of his blade on one of the others. The noise brought two more fighters skidding around the corner ahead to throw themselves into the fight. Paks and Macenion fought almost silently; they had no need for words. Paks pressed ahead, finding the attackers to be good but not exceptional fighters. She had the reach of most of them, and she was as strong as any. Macenion yelped suddenly, breaking her concentration; as she glanced for him, a hard blow caught her in the side. She grunted, grateful for the chain shirt she wore, and pushed off from the wall to skewer her opponent. Macenion's arm was bleeding, but he fought on. Paks shifted her ground to give him some respite. She took a glancing blow on her helmet that gashed her forehead as it passed. She could feel the blood trickling down toward her eye. Macenion lunged forward, flipping the sword away from one of their attackers; Paks downed the man with a blow to the face. They advanced again; the other attackers seemed less eager. Finally only two were still fighting. The others, dead or wounded too badly to fight, lay scattered on the corridor floor. Paks expected them to break away and flee, but they didn't; instead, they fought doggedly on, until she and Macenion managed to kill them.
Chapter Five
Paks leaned against the wall breathing heavily. Her side ached, and she could feel a trickle of blood running down die side of her face. Her shield had broken; she pufled the straps free and dropped the pieces. Macenion had ripped a length of cloth from his tunic, and was wrapping the wound on his arm. As he moved, she caught a gnmpse of the bright mail under his outer clothing.
"If I a known you wore mail," she said finally, "I wouldn't have worried so much. I was sure you were being skewered."
Macenion glanced up. "I nearly was. By Orphin, you're a good fighter in trouble. I wouldn't have made it alone, even with mail." He looked at her more closely. "You're bleedings-is it bad?"
"I don't think so. Just a cut on the head, and they always bleed—a mess." Paks swiped at her face with her free hand, and found the cut itself, a shallow gash near the edge of her helmet.
Here—" Macenion sheathed his sword and came over. "Let me clean that out." Paks looked at title bodies on the floor as he wiped out the cut with something from a jar in his pack. It burned, but the bleeding stopped. The bodies did not move, this time. When Macenion finished, she pushed herself off the wall, grunting at the pain in her side, and wiped her sword clean on the dirty cloak of the nearest enemy. She wished they could stop and rest, but she distrusted the flavor of the air down here.
"I suppose we ought to keep going," she said, half hoping that Macenion would insist on rest and food.
'Definitely. Whatever sent these guards will know, soon enough, that we've passed them. If we're to have any surprise at all, well have to go on. Why? Are you hurt?"
"No." Pales sighed. "Bruised, but no more. I wish we were out of here."
"As do I." Macenion gave a short laugh. "I begin to think that my elven relatives have more wit than I gave them credit for—they may have been right to tell me that I would find more trouble here than treasure."
But along with her fear and loathing of the underground maze in which they were wandering, Paks felt a pull of excitement and interest. With each encounter they were pressed more closely, but so far they had won, penetrating deeper and deeper into their enemy's lair. In a corner of her mind, Paks saw herself telling this tale to Vik and Arne in an inn somewhere. She checked her sword for damage, finding none, and turned to Macenion. He nodded his readiness, and she set off carefully, sword ready.
They passed an open door into an empty room on their right, and another like it a few feet down on the left. Ahead of them, the corridor turned again. Paks looked at Macenion and he shrugged. She flattened against the wall and edged forward to the turn. She could hear nothing. She widened her nostrils, hoping for a clue to what lay ahead. Her own smell, and Macenion's, overwhelmed her nose. Finally, with a mental shrug, she peeked around the corner. An empty corridor, its dusty floor scuffed and disturbed. Four doorways that she could see in the one quick look she allowed herseE A crossing corridor a short run ahead.
"Do you have any of your feelings about any of this?" asked Macenion when she described what she'd seen.
"No. Not really. The whole things feels bad, but nothing in particular."
"Nor can I detect anything. I wish our friend who wants our help would give us some guidance."
Paks felt around in her mind to see if anything stirred. Nothing but a feint desire to get moving. She sighed. "Let's go, then."
The doors that opened off the corridor were all of wood; all bore the scars of some sort of fire. One was burned half through, and they could see into a small room with stone shelves built into the walls. At the cross corridor, Paks took one corner and Macenion the other. To the right, her way, the corridor ended in a blank stone wall perhaps fifty paces away. To the left, it opened after perhaps thirty paces into a chamber whose size they could not guess. Macenion cocked his head that way, and Paks began to edge along the wall of the cross corridor toward the chamber door. Macenion stayed where he was.
As she neared the opening, Paks felt a wave of confidence. Surely they were going the right direction. Macenion was being too cautious, as usual. She hesitated only a moment before putting her head around to see what the chamber was like.
Here, for the first time, was something not desolate and ruined. The floor had been laid of colored blocks of stone, pale green and gold, and was swept clean of dust so that the pattern was clearly visible. At the far end of the chamber, a great ring of candles seemed to hover in midair. After a moment, Paks realized that they were attached to a metal framework suspended from a chain that ran to a ringbolt in the high ceiling. Candlelight warmed the cool white light of the corridors to a friendlier hue. In that warm glow, on a brilliantly colored carpet, stood a tall figure robed in midnight blue. Its face was subtly like Macenion "s, and yet different; Paks knew at once that she stood in the presence of an elf, and someone of high rank. Along the for wall of the chamber were several motionless figures: humans, for the most part, clad in rough garments of gray and brown like poor servants. Paks looked at the elf's face. Its bones showed clearly under the skin, yet there was no hint of age or decay. Hie eyes were a clear pale green. She felt no fear, though she was fully aware of the elf'spower, so much greater than Macenion's. The elf'swide mouth curved in a smile.
"Welcome, fair warrior. Was your companion too frightened to come so far with you?"
Paks shook her head, uncertain how to answer. She had the vague thought that no elves should be here. But perhaps this was the person they had come to help? She could not seem to think clearly. The elf was not frightened of her, and did not seem angry—and elves were, if uncanny, at least not evil. As she thought this, she realized that she was walking forward, moving out into the chamber. "Excellent," the elf continued. 'I shall be glad to receive you both into my service." He gestured to the line of servants. "You see how few I have, and you have just killed some of my best fighters. It is only fair that you take their place."
Paks found her voice at last. "But, sir, I have a deed to perform, before 1 can take service with another." She tried to stand still; her feet crept forward despite her efforts. She knew she should be afraid but she could feel nothing. "Oh?" The silvery elven voice was amused. "And what is that?"
Paks found it difficult to say, or even think. A confusion of images filled her mind: die Halveric's face as he handed her a sealed packet, the Duke's parting words, the images of victory and glory that had come in the dream of the night before. She had advanced to the edge of the carpet. This close to the elf, she noticed a distinct, slightly unpleasant odor. Even as her nose wrinkled in distaste, the odor changed, becoming spicy and attractive. She drew a deep breath.
"Now—" the elf began, but at that moment, Macenion cried out from the for end of the chamber. "Pales! What are you—"
Only for a moment those green eyes shifted from Paks; then the elf chuckled. "Well, so your companion finally gathered his courage. Stand near me, fair warrior, and show him your allegiance." And Paks stepped onto the soft carpet and stood silent beside the elf, unable to move or speak. She could just see Macenion from the corner of her eye. The elf went on. "You think yourself a mage, I understand—you have scarcely the powers to match me, crossbred runt."
Macenion reddened at this reference to his human ancestry. "You don't know what I might have—" he began.
"If you had any abilities I need worry about, you'd not have let yourself walk into this trap. You sensed nothing, at the last turn—you said so."
Macenion glared, and slid his hand stealthily under his cloak.
The elf nodded. "Go ahead—try your little spells if you wish. It won't do any good. Nor will that wand. But try it, if you like—" He laughed. "Do you not even wish to know who it is that you face, little mage? Are you in the habit of loosing spells on chance-met strangers?
"We are not chance-met, I fear," said Macenion. He came forward a short distance, then stopped. "And if I cannot put a name to you, still I have a good idea what you are."
"What and not who? What erudition! And what makes you think I cannot charm you to obedience, as I did your—delightful—companion, here?"
Macenion smiled in his turn. "Charm a mage? You well know what that would get you. If you would use me as a mage, you need my mind unclouded—"
"But not unbroken, little one. Remember that."
Macenion bowed, as arrogantly as Paks had ever seen him. "Yet a pebble," he said, "may be harder to break than a pine, though insignificant beside it."
"Are you to quote dwarvish proverbs to me?" The elf sounded slightly less amused than before. Paks, listening to all this, could scarcely pay attention to it; her mind seemed to float at a slight distance.
Macenion bowed again, even more elaborately; as he rose, he made a complicated movement of his right hand, and said a few strange words loudly. Paks heard the hiss of breath indrawn beside her as the elf gasped. Before he could move, she felt a wave of nausea and fear. She whirled, sword at ready, before she even knew she could move. Where she had seen elven beauty, she now saw the ruin of it, and the stench stung her nose,
"Paks!" shouted Macenion. He was cut off by a great shout from the elf. A blast of energy poured down the chamber. Paks thrust at the elf, but her sword met another in his hand.