"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Dus 3 - Sword Of Bheleu" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

The old man lifted his hand from the table and made a gesture with one
long, bony finger; abruptly; the glow was gone. The red stone had turned black
and now resembled obsidian more than ruby.
Garth and Frima both stared at it in silent amazement. The overman had
half-risen; now he sank slowly back into his chair. There was a moment of
silence.
It seemed to Garth that a fog had lifted from his mind. He felt
curiously empty, as if a moment before his skull had been packed with cotton
that had just now vanished, leaving it darkly hollow. His vision seemed
preternaturally clear and pure, as if it had somehow been washed clean of an
obscuring haze of blood and red light. The anger he had felt was gone, wiped
away in an instant, taking with it the irritability and confusion, that had
seemed to color his every thought for the last two weeks.
Perhaps oddest of all was that, though he was still among the same
people as he had been among before, he felt alone for the first time since he
had seen the sword glowing red-hot in the ruined temple.
He knew with crystalline clarity and utter certainty that he was himself
again-and only himself-where he had been something else minutes earlier. He
felt clean, and it was a very good feeling indeed.
He wondered how long it could last. The sword was supposed to be a link
to the god Bheleu; whatever the Forgotten King might be, could he defy a god?
Was it truly the god of destruction who had influenced Garth? If so, how long
would it be before he reasserted his authority? Garth looked apprehensively at
the sword's pommel.
The stone remained dead black. At last, somewhat reassured, Garth said,
"I want to know how you are able to do such things. I apologize for the anger;
as you obviously are aware, the sword has-had-a hold on me, and caused me to
behave irrationally at times. However, it is not the sword, but my own will
that forces me to insist upon an explanation before I give you these things I
stole. What are you? What is it you hope to achieve?"
"You are troubled," the old man said, "because you have been told that I
am the high priest of The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken and you do not want to
aid one who serves Death."
"You do not deny it, then?"
The Forgotten King did not answer.
"You understand, then, why I am reluctant. I know that at least one of
these objects has magical power-I would have said very great power, had I not
seen you deal with it just now. I suspect that some of the others are also
magical, though subtler. I know that you sent me on this errand in the hope of
acquiring items necessary for some great feat you hope to perform, but you
have consistently refused to tell me anything of the nature of this feat. Is
it any surprise that, when I learned your identity, I feared that this purpose
must be dire indeed? The tasks you have set me are hardly comforting; you
asked me to bring you the basilisk from Mormoreth, the deadliest creature I
have ever encountered in fact or legend, and to rob for you the altars of the
dark gods. Everything would seem to indicate that you plan some truly ghastly
act of mass death in the service of your god."
The old man sat silently for a moment, apparently considering this; as
he did, Frima was distracted momentarily. Saram had crossed the room and now
stood beside her.