"Zelazny, Roger - Amber Short Stories 05 - Blue Horse Dancing Mountains" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

My gaze was attracted by a glow from beyond the nearby summit. I pulled on
my boots and departed the shelter. Outside, I buckled on my sword belt and
fastened my cloak at the neck. I had to investigate. In a place like this,
any activity might represent a threat.

I touched Shask--who indeed felt stony--as I passed, and made my way to
where the trail had been. It was still there, though diminished in width, and
I set foot upon it and climbed upward. The light source for which I was headed
seemed to be moving slightly. Now, faintly, in the distance, I seemed to hear
the sound of rainfall. Perhaps it was coming down on the other side of the
peak.

As I advanced, I became convinced that it was storming not too far
away. I could now hear the moaning of wind within the splashing.

I was suddenly dazzled by a flash from beyond the crest. A sharp report of
thunder kept it company. I halted for only a moment. During that time, amid
the ringing in my ears, I thought that I heard the sound of a cackling laugh.

Trudging ahead, I came at last to the summit. Immediately, the wind
assailed me, bearing a full load of moisture. I drew my cloak closed and
fastened it down the front as I made my way forward.

Several paces then, and I beheld a hollow, below and to my left. It was
eerily illuminated by dancing orbs of ball lightning. There were two figures
within it--one seated on the ground, the other, cross-legged, hanging Upside
down in the air with no apparent means of support, across from him. I chose the
most concealed route I could and headed toward them.

They were lost to my sight much of the way, as the course I had taken
bore me through areas of fairly dense foliage. Abruptly, however, I knew
that I was near when the rain ceased to fall upon me and I no longer felt the
pressures of the wind. It was as if I had entered the still eye of a
hurricane.

Cautiously, I continued my advance, winding up on my belly, peering
amid branches at the two old men. Both regarded the invisible cubes of a
three-dimensional game, pieces hung above a board on the ground between
them, squares of their aerial positions limned faintly in fire. The man
seated upon the ground was a hunchback, and he was smiling, and I knew him. It
was Dworkin Barimen, my legendary ancestor, filled with ages and wisdom and
godlike powers, creator of Amber, the Pattern, the Trumps, and maybe reality
itself as I understood it. Unfortunately, through much of my dealing with him in
recent times, he'd also been more than a little bit nuts.

Merlin had assured me that he was recovered now, but I wondered.
Godlike beings are often noted for some measure of nontraditional
rationality. It just seems to go with the territory. I wouldn't put it past the
old bugger to be using sanity as a pose while in pursuit of some