"Cunningham, Elaine - Forgotten Realms - Starlight And Shadows Trilogy 02 - Tangled Webs" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cunningham Elaine)

"What of it? I do not fear Waterdeep!" growled Suljack. "Nor do I," Rethnor retorted. "But need I remind you, Cousin, that Waterdeep forced an end to our last war with Ruathym? Although we were close to conquest, we lost all!" "There is honor in honest battle," persisted Suljack. "There is no honor in a stupid refusal to learn from the past!" Rethnor thundered, past patience with his fellow Captain. His cold gaze settled upon Suljack, daring him to make the challenge personal. The other man turned away, subsiding into sullen silence.

"I hate the decadent southern cowards as much as any of you," put in Baram, the oldest member of their group and the most conciliatory. "But I hate still more the thought of becoming like them. We are warriors, Rethnor.

Subtlety is not our keenest weapon, and I would not like to see it become the one most often wielded."

"It is but one weapon among many," Rethnor said. "Our fleets, our warriors-their time will come. We cannot conquer Ruathym or rule the seas without them. When the moment is right, we will strike."

"And how are we to know when this strange fruit is ripe?" asked Taerl.

"I will tell you," Rethnor said simply. "I have placed spies in the seas surrounding Ruathym and on the island itself."

"They are worthy of trust?" put in Kurth, a dour and suspicious man with a temper as black as his beard.

"I have ensured their loyalty."

A moment's silence fell over the group. Rethnors voice was so cold, his face so hard, that the other men could not help but wonder what price he'd exacted, what grim methods he'd employed.

At length the First High Captain cleared his throat and agreed, with a curt nod, to Rethnors plan. "We will prepare for this attack and await your word. Suljack and Kurth, you will see to converting merchant ships for battle. Baram, begin to muster warriors in preparation for the invasion." He turned to Rethnor. "All other details we leave to you. You are the only one among us who enjoys intrigue as much as battle."

The distaste in Taerl's voice was not lost on Rethnor. "One weapon among many;" he repeated, placing one hand on the grip ofhis oft-used broadsword. "My blade is thirsty; the wait will be no longer than it must."

Truth rang clear in Rethnors words, and the wolfish grin on his face spoke plainly of his lust for battle. The other men nodded their approval and their relief. Rethnor might have strange new notions, but he was a Northman first and foremost.



* * * * *



Shakti Hunzrin moved through the corridors of House Hunzrin, ignoring the guards and servants that glided through the dark halls. Like most of Menzoberranzan's drow, they were as silent and delicate as shadows that had magically found substance. Shakti, however, was solid, with a tread that tested the stone floor and a girth that almost equaled that of a human.

Her talents, too, were different from those of most drow. Shakti was a canny manager, and at no time in the city's history were such skills needed as badly as now. In the aftermath of war, the chaos that was Menzoberranzan teetered on the edge of catastrophe. Food supplies had dwindled; trade had fallen off. Most noble families kept mushroom groves within the walls of their compoundssafe from the threat of poisoning by a rival clan-but the common folk went hungry more often than not. Shakti had addressed that problem, working hard to restore the rothe herd and revive the neglected fields. She also made sure it was known whose doing this was. The common folk ofMenzoberranzan didn't care which eight backsides warmed the thrones of the Ruling Council. They did care that their young ones were fed, that there was a market for their crafts. Slowly, steadily, Shakti was building a power base of a different kind, one that dealt in the everyday needs of most of the city's drow.

Yet she was not blind to the fact that power currently resided in the hands of the matriarchy, and that nearly every priestess in Menzoberranzan was consumed with the ambition to rise to the head of her clan and to improve the rank and station of her house. It was no accident that Shakti's older sister, the heir to House Hunzrin, had fallen ill with a rare wasting disease.

Shakti intended to play the game, but she would not lose sight of her larger goals, her broader vistas.

The young priestess entered her private room, taking care to lock the door and ward it against prying eyes. When her haven was secure she sighed with relief, then raised her hands to massage her aching temples. Shakti often had headaches-the result of straining her eyes to make sense of the blur that was her world. Nearsighted from birth, she had gone to great lengths to keep her affliction secret. The constant struggle to keep from squinting gave her a pop-eyed, frantic appearance. Clerical spells might have improved her vision, but no drow dared admit to physical defect.

Yet when her blurred gaze fell upon her most prized possessions-the snake-headed whip that proclaimed her rank as high priestess ofLloth and a scrying bowl that had been the gift ofVhaeraun, the drow god ofthievery-a bold thought occurred to her. If the gods were willing to grant such gifts as she already possessed, why couldn't she petition them directly for healing? What better symbol could there be for her farsighted ambition?

For it was Shakti's goal to restore the drow to their original vision of glory. According to the Directives of Lloth, the drow must first dominate the Underdark and from there expand to eradicate the lesser races of elves. The drow god Vhaeraun encouraged the dark elves to establish a presence on the surface immediately. As a dual priestess of Lloth and Vhaeraun, Shakti saw life through a broader perspective than most of the city's drow imagined possible. Why shouldn't her eyesight keep pace with her vision? Action followed quickly upon thought. Shakti fell prostrate to the floor, earnestly petitioning the drow goddess and god.

In quick response came a white-hot blaze of pain as healing magic flowed into the priestess-far too much ofit. Even in this, the rival deities competed.

Shakti's body contorted, her head reared up as the waves of power coursed through her. Shrieking in agony, the priestess clutched at the nearest object-the gilt base of her mirror. Her reflected eyes stared back at her, wide and frantic and fiery red.

In some corner of Shakti's mind that the pain could not reach, a bubble of childlike wonder began to form. Reflected in the mirror was a room outlined in detail such as the young drow had never seen, had never imagined possible. The titles on the books lining her shelves, the intricate detail on the carved gargoyles that decorated the mantel, the sheen of dust on the study desk-I really must have the house servant flogged for such neglect, she noted absently-were all sharply, gloriously visible. Lloth and Vhaeraun had granted her request.