"Mary Kirchoff, Douglas Niles. Flint, the King ("Dragonlance Preludes II" #2) (angl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

Should he speak out? The hammer continued pounding.
Immersed in his task, the dwarf did not see the grotesque
figure moving through the shadowy doorway. For a mo-
ment the fire flared, outlining a black, misshapen figure
shorter even than the dwarven smith.
This dark one shuffled forward, and again the blaze rose,
revealing a hump of flesh that twisted the stunted body half
sideways. Still the smith hammered, eyes focused on the
wheel, unaware of the one who slowly limped toward him
from behind.
The hunchbacked figure raised a hand to his chest and
wrapped his blunt fingers around a small object that hung
suspended from his neck by a chain.
Blue light glowed between those fingers as the amulet
sparked to life. His other hand gestured toward the smith.
Softly, the blue light spread outward, advancing slowly like
an oily, penetrating mist. It reached forward in uneven tend-
rils, closer and closer to the smith.
For the first time, the hammer faltered slightly in its blow.
Reflexively, the dwarf raised it again, ready to strike. Sud-
denly his face distorted in a grimace of unimaginable agony,
and his body convulsed with a violent spasm. For a moment
his movement ceased, as if he had been frozen in a grip of ex-
cruciating pain.
The hammer remained poised above him as his body stiff-
ened, wracked within the blue glow that outlined him. The
gentle, almost beautiful cocoon belied the supernatural grip
of its power. Only the dwarf's eyes moved, growing wider
and more desperate with the slowly increasing, inevitably
fatal pressure of dark sorcery.
Abruptly the light vanished, and the hunchback shuffled
backward, melting into the darkness.
The dwarven smith's hammer finally slid from his gloved
hand with a loud clang to the anvil. Slowly, the corpse top-
pled forward, the stocky body splaying across the anvil and
the nearly straightened wheel. It slipped silently to the cold
ground.


Chapter 1

Autumn Winds

Watching dead leaves swirl into his windowss, Flint
Fireforge threw back his mug and swallowed the last of his
draught. A satisfied belch ruffled his thick mustache. For
cheap ale, it wasn't half bad, he concluded. But it was gone.
He held the empty bottle - his last - up to the light of the
fire. The dwarf stroked his salt-and-pepper beard out of