"Zelazny, Roger - Creatures Of Light And Darkness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

“Then why have you stopped calling me ‘Master’?”
“The heat of battle raised emotions which overrode my sense of protocol.”
“Then correct the oversight, immediately.”
“Very well, Master.”
“Apologize. Beg my pardon, most humbly.”
Wakim prostrates himself on the floor.
“I beg your pardon, Master. Most humbly.”
“Rise again, and consider yourself pardoned. The contents of your previous stomach have gone the way of all such things. You may go re-refresh yourself now. —Let there be singing and dancing once more! Let there be drinking and laughter in celebration of the name-giving on this, Wakim’s Thousandyear Eve! Let the carcass of Dargoth be gone from my sight!”
And these things are done.
After Wakim finishes his meal, and it seems as if the dancing and the singing of the dead will continue until Time’s well-deserved end, Anubis gestures, first to his left, then to his right, and every other flame folds upon every other pillar, dives within itself, is gone. His mouth opens and the words come down upon Wakim: “Take them back. Fetch me my staff.”
Wakim stands and gives the necessary orders. Then he leads the dead out from the great Hall. As they depart, the tables vanish between the pillars. An impossible breeze tears at the ceiling of smoke. Before that great, gray mat is shredded, however, the other torches have died, and the only illumination within the Hall comes from the two blazing bowls on either side of the throne.
Anubis stares into the darkness, and the captured light-rays reform themselves at his bidding and he sees Dargoth fall once more at the foot of his throne and lie still, and he sees the one he has named Wakim standing with a skull’s grin upon his lips, and for an instant—had it been a trick of the firelight? —a mark upon his brow.
Far, in an enormous room where the light is dim and orange and crowded into corners and the dead lay them down once more upon invisible catafalques above their opened graves, faint, rising, then falling, Wakim hears a sound that is not like any sound he has ever heard before. He stays his hand upon the staff and descends the dais.
“Old man,” he says to one with whom he spoke earlier, one whose hair and whose beard are stained with wine and in whose left wrist a clock has stopped, “old man, hear my words and tell me if you know: What is that sound?”
The unblinking eyes stare upward, past his own, and the lips move: “Master…”
“I am not Master here.”
“… Master, it is but the howling of a dog.”
Wakim returns then to the dais and gives them all back to their graves.
Then the light departs and the staff guides him through the dark along the path that has been ordained.
“I have brought your staff, Master.”
“Arise, and approach.”
“The dead are all returned to their proper places.”
“Very good. —Wakim, you are my man?”
“Yes, Master.”
“To do my bidding, and to serve me in all things?”
“Yes, Master.”
“This is why you are emissary to the Middle Worlds, and beyond.”
“I am to depart the House of the Dead?”
“Yes, I am sending you forth from here on a mission.”
“What sort of mission?”
“The story is long, involved. There are many persons in the Middle Worlds who are very old. You know this?”
“Yes.”
“And there are some who are timeless and deathless.”
“Deathless, Lord?”
“By one means or another, certain individuals have achieved a kind of immortality. Perhaps they follow the currents of life and draw upon their force, and they flee from the waves of death. Perhaps they have adjusted their biochemistry, or they keep their bodies in constant repair, or they have many bodies and exchange them, or steal new ones. Perhaps they wear metal bodies, or no bodies at all. Whatever the means involved, you will hear talk of the Three Hundred Immortals when you enter the Middle Worlds. This is only an approximate figure, for few truly know much about them. There are two hundred eighty-three immortals, to be exact. They cheat on life, on death, as you can see, and their very existence upsets the balance, inspires others to strive to emulate their legends, causes others to think them gods. Some are harmless wanderers, others are not. All are powerful and subtle, all adept at continuing their existence. One is especially noxious, and I am sending you to destroy him.”
“Who may he be, Master?”
“He is called the Prince Who Was A Thousand, and he dwells beyond the Middle Worlds. His kingdom lies beyond the realm of life and death, in a place where it is always twilight. He is difficult to locate, however, for he often departs his own region and trespasses into the Middle Worlds and elsewhere. I desire that he come to an end, as he has opposed both the House of the Dead and the House of Life for many days.”
“What does he look like, the Prince Who Was A Thousand?”
“Anything he wishes.”
“Where shall I find him?”
“I do not know. You must seek him.”
“How shall I know him?”
“By his deeds, by his words. He opposes us in all ways.”
“Surely others must oppose you also…”
“Destroy all you come upon who do so. You shall know the Prince Who Was A Thousand, however, because he shall be the most difficult of all to destroy. He will come closest to destroying you.”
“Suppose he succeeds.”
“Then I shall take me a thousand years more to train another emissary to set upon this task. I do not desire his downfall today or tomorrow. It will doubtless take you centuries even to locate him. Time matters little. An age will pass before he becomes a threat, to Osiris or myself. You will learn of him as you travel, seeking after him. When you find him you will know him.”
“Am I mighty enough to work his undoing?”
“I think you are.”
“I am ready.”