"Denning, Troy - Forgotten Realms - Black Wizard" - читать интересную книгу автора (Denning Troy)

Sitting by the fire, leaning casualty back in his chair and talking to a pair of men, was an image he had only seen in the vision sent from Bhaal. The prophecy had been so vivid that he could not mistake the identity of the man across the room. It was the Prince of Corwell. His presence here could only mean that Cyndre's assassins had failed.
The inn was not very crowded, so Hobarth had no difficulty finding a table near the prince. He sat with his back to Tristan and quietly ordered a mug of ale from a passing barmaid. Nursing the dark, foamy drink, the cleric strained to hear the conversation occurring five feet away.
"It's settled then," said one man. "We'll sail with the dawn."
"Aye," grunted another, an older man. "If the weather of the past days holds, we'llЧ" The rest of the phrase was drowned out by laughter from the bar as the barmaid slapped an adventurous patron to the uproarious amusement of the man's companions.
"No need for that," he heard the old man saying when the laughter had died down. "The Lucky Ducklings a small boat, and it won't take but a minute to store your gear. You can't miss her, she's berthed at the nearest quay."
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DOUGLAS MILES
"Fergus, can you see to our horses until we return?"
"It will be my pleasure."
"Very well," said the first speaker. "I'm going to catch what sleep I can. See you in the morning."
"Myself, as well," said a third man. Hobarth saw from the corner of his eye that this speaker was swarthy, perhaps a Calishite. He also noticed a great dog climb to its feet and follow the two men up the stairs. Hobarth shuddered, for next to the sea, he hated dogs above all else.
He had been considering following the men to their room and finishing the task of the assassins, but the presence of the dog changed that plan. His magic would probably kill the prince before the flea-bitten creature could react, but the thought of those long fangs lusting for his flesh sent shivers up and down Hobarth's spine.
But a new plan occurred to him even as he discarded the old one. Quickly, Hobarth drained his mug and walked from the inn, back toward the harbor. The Lucky Duckling was easy to find.
"I fear your luck has run out, Duckling" he murmured, chuckling at his private joke. After checking to see that no one was near, he sat upon the edge of the pier and began casting a spell of decay. Within a minute, he was finished, though the boat showed no outward signs of damage.
Still, Hobarth knew as he pushed himself to his feet, the Lucky Duckling would never make it to the neighboring island of Alaron. He would assure the little boat's doom with an additional spell in the morning.
For now, he lumbered back to the inn. He tried to remember what the barmaid had looked like.
"I shape," grunted the man, shuffling forward to reach for the thick hedge. Robyn looked up in surprise, as this was the first intelligible statement the fellow had made in the last four days.
Grateful, she stepped backward. "Help yourself," she offered, leaning against a tree to catch her breath.
"Keep an eye he doesn't take your job," warned Newt. The dragon, blue today instead of orange, was perched on the
BLACK WIZARDS
branches atop the hedge. He watched the humans dourly.
The day had been strenuous, as strenuous as all of the days since the stranger had arrived at the grove. They stood at one of the great curving walls of mistletoe that marked the far limits of Genna's grove, perhaps five hundred yards from the cottage and the Moonwell. The hedges served as bastions against unwarranted intrusion, for their tightly woven branches bristled with sharp thorns. Mistletoe itself was a plant potent in druidic magic, and thus served doubly to protect the domain of its mistress.
But the hedges required constant care during periods of rain, and this had been a wet summer. If not tended by someone, they would choke off all access and egress to the grove. Robyn's hands, beneath her leather gloves, were scratched and torn. Her arms were leaden with weariness, for she had been swinging a sickle all morning in an effort to drive the hedges back into their proper dimensions.
The stranger took the sickle from her, holding it as if he had used the toot all his life. Slowly but smoothly he began to slice at the overgrowth, striking it back with clean cuts.
Robyn was surprised by his apparent skill. For the first time she noticed that he was improving under her care. His bony frame had filled out slightly, and he could stand and walk without shaking. Now, he was even working.
For a minute she thought about running to tell Genna of her success, but quickly decided not to. The Great Druid had been cantankerous for the last few days, complaining of a stiffness in her bones and throbbing headaches. She had spent most of her time in bed, complaining to Robyn whenever the young druid was around.
Consequently, Robyn avoided the cottage as much as possible. This was not difficult, because the tasks she had to do would remain doubled as long as Genna was.
"His work's not too badЧfor a mushroom-head," commented Newt in a stage whisper. He had taken to calling the stranger unflattering names, out of jealousy, Robyn suspected, for now she no longer attended entirely to the little dragon.
"Stop it," she chided. "He seems to be growing much stronger. All he needed was a little shelter and decent food!"
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"Maybe he's strong enough to walk away from here," grumbled Newt. "And it'll be none too soon, I might add!"
"Why don't you go take a bath in the Fens if you can't be a little more polite?"
The stranger paused and turned to see if Robyn was watching. When he met her gaze, his face split into a wide grin, and he nodded enthusiastically before turning back to the task. For several minutes he chopped and trimmed, until the druid noticed that his strike was less sure.
"I'll take over again," she offered, reaching for the sickle. The stranger suddenly whirled, his face twisting into a beastly snarl as his eyes darted wildly about. He appeared to stare right through her. But then he relaxed and smiled, meeting her gaze boldly. He handed the tool over and then stood near as she continued the job.
"Stand back," she warned. "I don't want to hit you."
Obediently, he stepped away, but he still stared at her like an affectionate puppy. She could feel his unwavering gaze following her every motion, and found the sensation distinctly uncomfortable.
"Good! Good!" He cackled cheerfully, watching the hedge take shape.
"Who are you, anyway?" Robyn stopped working and stared at the stranger, she had not troubled about his identity when he was not talking, but now that he spoke, she wanted a name to call him by.
"I..." The man's voice was puzzled and unsure. Suddenly, his eyes widened in fear and he scuttled away from her. He crouched, his body wired with tension, as if he were about to flee.
... Or attack? For a moment she felt very frightened of this stranger. And very vulnerable. With an angry shrug, she tried to ignore the feeling.
Inside, though, she was deeply disturbed by his fear. What could lie in his background that made him so frightened of companionship, of revealing his identity?
He stared at her again as she went back to work. But now his eyes followed her body less like a puppy and more like a hungry wolf. Robyn shivered involuntarily, and she clutched the sickle tightly as she turned to the mistletoe.
948*
BLACK WIZARDS
Hobarth, cleric of Bhaal, stood upon a low hill just outside of Cantrev Kingsbay. He had a clear view of the bay itself and of the wide gray sea stretching to the east. Somewhere out there, he knew, the sun had risen, but a low-lying bank of clouds concealed the dawn from those on shore.
A half-dozen fishing vessels dotted the waters of the bay, moving toward deep water. There, salmon dashed in great numbers between the islands of Gwynneth and Alaron, and these fishermen made a fair living.
But one boat, Hobarth knew, had put to sea not to catch fish, but to deliver Tristan Kendrick dangerously close to Hobarth's and Cyndre's domain. Or at least attempt to deliver, the cleric gloated.
He meditated for a long time, sitting perfectly still with his eyes closed and his body upright. Gradually, he felt the presence of his deity, and Bhaal answered the summons of his faithful follower.
The spell he needed to cast was one of his most potent. It called for the direct might of his god, Bhaal, and allowed the cleric to control the very substances of the world around him. Bhaal eagerly powered the spell, for in fact he watched Hobarth's mission with more than slight interest. Magic flowed through the cleric's body and into the air.
Slowly but mightily he marshalled clouds heavy with water vapor, coaxing them from the highlands and forcing them out to sea. The force of his magic pushed and prodded the air, and gradually a breeze flowed from the shore. The breeze would become a wind and then a storm, if the cleric could maintain his spell.