"John DeChancie - Castle 08 - Bride of the Castle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dechancie John)

Don't even think of it.
The thought came unbidden into his mind, and he soon realized it was a voice.
That's right. This place is forbidden to you. Begone! He stiffened, then slowly exhaled.
"Your warning only entices me."
Be twice warned, then. You will enter in the flesh, but leave in the spirit.
"A spirit is what I assume you are."
Brilliant deduction. Now, go.
He spit on his hands and grasped the haft of the hammer. Something bothered him about this. It wasn't a
proper door for a tomb, not the usual thing. The ancient Zinites built sturdy tombs employing layers of
protective measures, some physical, others magical, and he hadn't encountered any unpleasant magic so
far-besides the curse, that is.
From the shadows behind him came the scrape of stone on stone. He froze for a moment, hammer
poised to strike. Then he whirled, dropping the hammer, and drew his sword.
The lid to the upright sarcophagus fell forward and slammed to the floor.
The sarcophagus was empty.
Rance sighed and lowered the hammer.
Gave you a scare, did it?
"Your humor eludes me. Just who are you, by the way?"
I am the august monarch for whom this many-times-violated tomb was built. And I think it was damned
clever.
Rance gave a crooked smile. "No doubt you have the right."
So you think that door is easy prey, do you?
"Something tells me it is not."
It will yield like dry kindling. Try it!
He turned and regarded the barrier. He read the curse again.
There came a chuckle. Makes you think twice, and then some, doesn't it?
"It does, yes. But it makes me think that something of value lies within."
Laughter. It stands to reason! Who would waste such potent power on baubles or some marble bust or
another? Some effigy of a long forgotten potentate-one, say, of your humble host.
"Perhaps you would. Where are your mortal remains?"
Gone to dust ages ago. Stripped of every jewel and trampled underfoot by tomb robbers. My bones
splintered! My countenance smashed-! . . . I beg your forgiveness. Indulge me.
"By all means, go on."
Suffice it to say my elements have long been commingled with those of the universe. But let's get to
business. Why not have a crack at that door?
Rance eyed the empty coffin askance. "You seem strangely eager."
Then you're afraid. The curse deters you, as it did all the others. I fear it is my lot to wait for someone
with suflicient mettle.
"Hold on, I haven't yet made my decision."
The voice took time to size him up. No, not you.
"Eh? Why not?"
You're an odd-looking sort. Dark-complected, longfaced. And a long nose, too. It emphasizes a weak
chin, a sure sign of pusillanimity.
Rance smiled. "Your taunts won't goad me. But I will take a crack at your door. The truth is I'm
desperately in need of booty."
Splendid! Finally someone with suffcient courage. You have my profound admiration and deepest
sympathy.
Rance halted a motion to lift the hammer. "How's that?"
The curse, man, the curse! Have its implications somehow eluded you?
"No, but in my own particular case, my fortunes could not go more awry."