"Cook,.Rick.-.Wizardry.01.-.Wizard.Bane" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cook Rick)

Wiz ran a long, thin hand through his shock of dark hair. "Don't you see? This cretinous barfbag uses sizeof to return the size of the array."
"So how else do you get the size?"
"Right. But C doesn't have an array data type. When you call an array you're actually passing a pointer to the array. That works fine from the main program, but sometimes this thing uses sizeof from a subroutine. And guess what it gets then?"
Jerry clapped a meaty hand to his forehead. "The size of the pointer! Of course."
"Right," Wiz said smugly. "No matter how big the array, the damn code returns a value of two."
"Jeez," Jerry shook his head as he shifted his chair back to his desk. "How long will it take to fix it?"
Wiz drained his drink before answering. "Couple of hours, I guess. I'll have to run a bunch of tests to make sure nothing else is wrong." He stood up and stretched. "But first I'm going to get another Coke-if the damn machine isn't empty again. You want one?"
"Nah," Jerry said, typing rapidly and not looking up. "I'm probably gonna knock off in a few minutes."
"Okay," said Wiz and sauntered out the office door.
Save for the clicking of Jerry's keyboard and the hiss of the air conditioner the corridor was quiet. Wiz glanced at his watch and realized it was nearly five A.M. Not that it mattered much. Programmers set their own hours at ZetaSoft and that was one of the reasons Will Zumwalt was still with the company.
The drink machine was next to a side door and Wiz decided to step out for a breath of dawn air. He loved this time of day when everything was cool and quiet and even the air was still, waiting. As long as I don't have to get up at this hour! he thought as he pushed the door open.

The magical lines of force gathered and curled about the old wizard. They twisted and warped, clawing at the very fabric of the Universe and bending it to a new shape. Far to the South, across the Freshened Sea, a point of light appeared in the watery depths of an enormous copper bowl.
"A hit," proclaimed the watcher, a lean shaven-skull man in a brown robe.
"What is it?" asked Xind, Master of the Sea of Scrying. He descended heavily from his dais and waddled across the torch-lit chamber hewn of blackest basalt to peer over the acolyte's shoulder.
Looking deep into the murky water his eyes traced the map of the World in the lines cut deep into the bowl's bottom. There was indeed a spark there. Magic where no magic ought to be. Around the edge of the bowl the other three acolytes shifted nervously but kept their eyes fixed to their own sectors.
"I do not know, Master, but it's strong and growing stronger. It looks like a major spell."
Xind, sorcerer of the Third Circle as the Dark League counted such things, passed a fat hand over the water as if wiping away a smear. "Hmm, yes. Wait, there's something . . . By the heavens and hells! There are no wards. That's a great wizard without protection!" His head snapped up. "Let the word be passed quickly!" The gray-robed apprentice crouched at the foot of the dais jumped up and ran to do his bidding.
Xind stared back into the Sea of Scrying and his round, fat face creased into a particularly unattractive smile.
"Fool," he muttered to the spark in the bottom of the bowl.

The haze in the clearing turned from wispy gray to opaque white to rosy pink. It contracted and coalesced until it took the form of a dark red door with a silver knob, floating a yard off the meadow. The grass bent away from it in all directions as if pressed down by an invisible ball. Moira concentrated on her chanting and pushed harder with all the magic she possessed.
As if in slow motion the door opened and a man came through. He stepped out as if he expected solid ground and slowly toppled through when he found air. His eyes widened and his mouth formed a soundless O. Then everything was moving at normal speed and the man extended his arms.

Wiz took two steps and fell three feet onto grass in what should have been a level walk. He caught himself with his arms and then collapsed with his nose in the green grass, weak, sick and disoriented. The light was different, he was facing the wrong way and he was so dizzy he couldn't hold his head up. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on keeping his stomach in its proper place. The grass tickled his nose and the blades poked at his tightly shut eyes, but he ignored them.

Patrius made a flicking gesture at the man and then returned to the business of completing the spell. Moira, absorbed in her chant, barely noticed the small drop of dark fluid fly from the Wizard's fingertips and strike the new arrival on the temple. It splattered, spread and sank into the flesh and hair, leaving no sign of its passing.

In the great, high, vaulted chantry of the Dark League, four black-robed wizards huddled about a glowing crystal. They murmured and moved like a flock of uneasy crows, all the while peering into the depths of the stone. Around them forces twisted and gathered.

The attack came with a rush of magic, dark and sour. Moira cried out in terror and gestured frantically but she was thrust aside ruthlessly as the bolt lanced into the clearing and struck Patrius full-on.
A crackling blue nimbus burst out around the old wizard. He raised his arms over his head as if to shield himself, but his clothes and beard burst into flame. In an instant he was a ghastly flaming scarecrow capering about the clearing and shrieking in mortal agony. He toppled over and the screams turned to a puling whimper. His flesh blackened and charred.
Finally there was nothing but a smouldering husk with knees and arms flexed up against the body. He was so badly burned that there wasn't even a smell in the air.
Moira cowered sobbing on the ground, the blazing after-image burning in her sight even through her eyelids. Wiz had gone flat on his face when the bolt hit.

All right, Wiz told himself. Time to get up. On three. One, two . . . He realized he wasn't going to make it, so he settled for rolling over on his back.
"Lord?" a small voice asked tentatively.
Wiz opened his eyes. Standing over him was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her waist-length hair was the color of burnished copper. Her skin was pale and creamy under a dusting of freckles. Her eyes were deep sea green. She was wearing a long skirt of forest green in some rough-woven material and a white peasant blouse with a scoop neck. Wiz stared.
"Are you hurt, Lord?" the vision said in a lilting, musical voice. As she bent down to help Wiz up he was treated to an ample display of cleavage.
"N-n-n-no," Wiz managed to stammer, dizzy from the transformation and awed by her loveliness. He looked into her face. "You're beautiful," he said softly.
Moira saw the look in his eyes and swore under her breath. Fortuna! An infatuation spell! Patrius had bound this unknown wizard to her with an infatuation spell. Gently she helped the alien wizard to his feet and wondered if she should curtsey.
"How are you called, Lord?" Moira asked respectfully.
"Ah, Wiz. I'm Wiz Zumwalt, that is. Who are you?"
"I am called Moira, Lord, a hedge witch of this place." She ignored the discourtesy of his question. She reddened under his fixed gaze and wondered what to do next. She had already sent an urgent call for one of the Mighty to attend them, but even by the Wizard's Way that would take time. Wizards did not like to be bothered by idle chatter, but this one stared so.
"Lord, are you of the Mighty in your home?" she asked to make conversation.
"Say what?"
"Forgive me, Lord. The Mighty are the wizards of the first rank in our land."
"Wizards?" Between the transition and Moira, Wiz's brain wasn't working and he had never been much good at small talk with beautiful women.
"Magicians. Sorcerers," Moira said a little desperately. Wiz looked blank and a dreadful thought grew in the back of Moira's mind. "Forgive me Lord, but you are a wizard, are you not?"
"Huh. No, I'm not a wizard," Wiz said numbly, shaking his head to clear it.