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

Toth-Set-Ra sat long scowling at the carven box while the heatless blue light from the flame at the door played across his leathery face and reflected from the sunken pits of his eyes. A plague upon all wizards. What could that be? And why would Patrius-may his soul rot!-risk his life to Summon such a one? The Northerners relied on magic fully as much as the League. Magic was as vital to life as air. More vital, he corrected himself. There were spells which allowed a man to live without air.
Might the demon have been mistaken? Toth-Set-Ra cocked his head to one side as he considered the notion. It was not unknown for demons to be wrong. They were, after all, no better than the spells that created them. But this scrying demon had never failed him. Not like this.
A trick by the Northerners? The scowl deepened. The wizard held out his hand to the side, fingers extended, and an amethyst goblet, twin to the one that lay in fragments on the floor, filled with wine from an unseen pitcher and flew to his clawlike grasp. Yes, it was possible the Northerners had staged the incident for the League's benefit, or even spoofed both the demon and the Sea of Scrying.
Toth-Set-Ra took a sip of the magically concocted vintage and shook his head. What possible advantage could the North have gained that was worth the death of their most powerful wizard?
Assuming Patrius was dead, of course. . . . Too many possibilities! He needed more information and quickly. He motioned toward the door and the curtain of fire vanished as suddenly as it had come. He struck a tiny gong and instantly one of his goblin guards was in the doorway.
"Atros, to me," he commanded. "At once!" The guard bowed and vanished in a single movement and Toth-Set-Ra scowled into the bottom of his wine. He would have an answer. If it took every wizard, every spell and every creature at his command, he would have an answer. And quickly!

They raised a mound over Patrius where he lay. Moira set Wiz to finding rocks while she used her silver knife to cut the green sward into turfs. The profanation rendered the knife useless for magical purposes, but she didn't care. She placed the turfs about the charred hulk who had been the greatest and best of wizards. From time to time she stopped to wipe away her tears with the sleeve of her blouse, unmindful of the dirt that it left streaked upon her cheeks. There was no proper shroud to be had, so Moira covered Patrius's face with her apron, tucking it in carefully around the body and murmuring a goodbye before she gently laid the bright green sod over him. The tiny flowers nodding in the grass made a fitting funeral bouquet.
Finally, she and Wiz piled the stones over the turf. They stuck the charred stump of the old wizard's staff upright in the top of the cairn.

"Dread Master?" The bear-like form of Atros blocked the door. Where the League's greatest wizard affected the robe of an anchorite, his subordinate wore a black bearskin, belted with studded leather and pinned with an intricately worked and bejeweled brooch. Toth-Set-Ra's pate was shaven and Atros wore his thick, dark hair to his shoulders, held in place with a golden filet. More, Atros was nearly as large as the hobgoblins and Toth-Set-Ra was tiny.
In spite of the contrast there was no question as to who held power.
"Patrius is dead," Toth-Set-Ra told his lieutenant without preamble. Atros said nothing. His spies had already told him that and he knew Toth-Set-Ra knew it.
"He attempted a Great Summoning, or so I am told, and he brought someone from outside the World. A man."
Atros waited impassively.
"I want that man, Atros. I want him badly. See to it."
"It will take resources . . ." the great bear trailed off.
"You have them. Use them. Search the North. Scour the Capital if you must. But bring me that man!"
Atros bowed. "Thy will, Dread Master." And he was gone, leaving Toth-Set-Ra to brood.
Out in the corridor it was Atros's turn to scowl. The old crow had set him a pretty problem indeed! According to his spies the Sea of Scrying had failed to pick up any trace of the man. That scrying demon Toth-Set-Ra was so proud of must have failed or he would not have been given this mission-or the power to command so much of what his master controlled. Whoever he was, this man from without the World must have a very powerful masking spell to so effectively cloak his magic.
Well, magic wasn't the only way to find someone. That was the old crow's mistake, Atros thought. If he couldn't do it by magic he didn't think he could do it at all. But there were other ways. The Wild Wood was alive with creatures who were either allies, could be bribed to help, who were controlled or who could be enticed into helping. In the lands of Men there were spies, human and non-human. There were the Shadow Warriors. And then there were the massive and mighty magics of the City of Night. Here was power indeed to turn on finding a lone man.
That was the crux of it, he thought to himself as he strode along the dank, unevenly-flagged corridor. All that power, but only until he found this man. Oh, he would find him, never fear. That would be the easy part. And there were other things that could be done with the power he had just been given. Perhaps even concocting a nice little surprise for that scrawny excuse for a sorcerer who sat in the room down the hall.
Atros was intelligent but he was no more subtle than the bear whose name he had taken. It never occurred to him to wonder if perhaps Toth-Set-Ra might have considered that possibility as well.

Moira knelt weeping over Patrius's grave. Wiz stood by feeling clumsy and awkward. She was so beautiful he wanted to take her into his arms and comfort her. But when he put a hand on her shoulder she jerked away. He felt like a fool watching her cry, so he wandered around the edge of the clearing.
"Do not enter the woods," Moira said sharply through her tears. "It is not safe," she sniffed.
"You mean lions and tigers and bears?"
"And other things," Moira said grimly.
"You mean like . . . ULP!"
A huge black man stepped into the clearing directly in front of Wiz. He wore a leopard skin over his shoulders and a leather skirt around his huge middle. Around his neck was a necklace of bone with an eagle's skull as a pendant. In his right hand he carried an intricately carved staff nearly as tall as he was. He grinned and Wiz saw his teeth were filed to needle-sharp points.
He was so black his skin showed highlights of purple and he was the biggest man Wiz had ever seen. It wasn't just that he was more than six-and-a-half feet tall. His frame was huge, with shoulders twice as broad as a normal man's. He had a great black belly, arms thicker than Wiz's legs and legs like tree trunks.
Open-mouthed, Wiz backed away. Then Moira caught sight of him and let out a cry.
"Bal-Simba! Oh, Lord, you came." She ran across the clearing to meet him, checked herself suddenly and dropped him a respectful curtsey. "I mean, merry met, Lord."
The black giant nodded genially. "Merry met, child." He looked over to the freshly-raised mound and his face darkened. "Though I see it is not so merry."
"No, Lord," Moira looked up at him. "Patrius is dead, slain by sorcery."
Bal-Simba closed his eyes and his face contorted. "Evil news indeed."
Moira's eyes filled with tears. "I tried, Lord. I tried, but I could not . . ." She broke down completely. "Oh, Lord, I am so sorry," she sobbed.
Bal-Simba put a meaty arm around her shoulders and held her close. "I know, child. I know. No one will blame you for there was nothing you could have done." Moira cried helplessly into his barrel chest. Wiz stood by, wishing he could help and feeling like a complete jerk.
"Now child," Bal-Simba said as her sobs subsided. "Tell me how this came to pass. We sensed a great disturbance even before you called."
Moira drew away from him and sniffed. "He performed a Great Summoning without wards," she said as she wiped her eyes. "Just as he completed the spell he was struck down."
"What did he Summon?"
"Him," said Moira accusingly.
The black wizard looked down on Wiz in a way that reminded Wiz uncomfortably of a cat watching a mouse.
"How are you called?" Bal-Simba asked.
"I'm Wiz. Wiz Zumwalt." He waved hesitantly. "Hi."
The black giant nodded. "You are a wizard then. Of what rank?"
"Well no, I'm not a wizard," Wiz explained. "Wiz is just a nickname. My real name's William Irving . . ." He stopped as Bal-Simba held up a hand.
"I did not ask for your true name," he said sternly. "Never, ever tell anyone what you are truly named for that places you in the power of all who hear."
"You mean like knowing somebody's password? Ah, right."
"Like that," the wizard agreed. "I tell you again, Wiz. Never reveal your true name."