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

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the earth itself, but her spirit resided primarily in pools such as thisЧclear, unspoiled water blessed with the benign enchantment of the goddess Earthmother.
This had been her most sacred well, but now the might of Bhaal, coupled with the deadly skills of his servant, the cleric Hobarth, had desecrated and polluted the water so that it no longer resembled its former state. Indeed, now it was a festering sore upon the land, spreading decay like a cancer through the rocks and clay and sand of the earth.
The former soul of the goddess now gave Bhaal a window into the world of man, and he liked what he saw. Slowly the god of murder moved toward the Darkwell.
He knew exactly what to do.
The stag stumbled weakly against a rotten trunk. Its bedraggled flanks heaved with the effort of breathing. Its sweeping antlers swayed toward the ground, and the creature's dry, swollen tongue fell limply from its jaws. Unsteadily the huge deer lumbered away from the dead tree, past many more, through the dead forest.
Blinking in confusion and despair, the animal sought some sign of the Myrloch Vale it had known all its life. The broad valley of sun, the brilliant leaves of autumn, vast meadows of flowers swaying easily in the fresh breeze ... all these things were gone.
The stag's ribs showed clearly through its torn pelt, for it had not eaten in many days. Vet this was not the greatest of the animal's needs.
The stag had to find water. It sensed that it could live no more than a few hours without it. The swollen tongue flopped loosely, and the wide eyes were obscured by an unnatural glaze.
A feeble breath of wind stirred the dead wood, and with it came the smell of water. Not clean water, to be sureЧthe scent was well mixed with those of rot and decayЧbut it was the scent of water nonetheless. With renewed vigor, the stag trotted toward the promising sign.
Soon the great deer came upon a black pond. The stag
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ignored the unnatural stillness of the water. It paid scant notice to the twenty stone statues arrayed around the perimeter of the pool, except to ascertain that the humanlike figures were indeed stone and not flesh. Even had they been living huntsmen, however, it is doubtful the deer could have turned from that compelling pond.
Bhaal watched the stag approach, willing it closer and closer. The god remembered his flash of pleasure upon the death of the eagle, and Bhaal relished the thought of the much larger body that approached.
The swollen tongue reached for the black surface. At the last moment, the stag sensed the wrongness of the water. It tried to pull back, to raise its broad antlers away from this awful thing. But it was too late.
The neck bent, pulled by a force far greater than the stag's own muscles, and its muzzle struck the surface of the Darkwell. A crackling blaze of blue light illuminated the stag's body, casting an intense glow across the pond for an instant.
Then the deer was gone. As with the eagle, its body had caused no ripple to mar the inky surface of the well. Only the skull remained, resting on the muddy bottom in several inches of water. Its empty eye sockets stared skyward, while overhead spread the massive rack of antlers like a ghastly tombstone.
Robyn of Gwynneth lay in the hold of the lunging ship and prayed for a word from her goddess. The wooden timbers around her seemed to thrum softly with the power of her prayer, but that was all she sensed. She felt lonely and afraid, fearing for the Earthmother more than for herself.
In the darkness of the hold, she felt the touch of her spiritual mother, but it was faint and frail. She sensed a growing void between herself and her goddess, but she was at a loss to close it. "Mother, hold me, help me!" she whispered, but the unfeeling planks of the hull gave no comfort, and there was no reply. The source of her faith and her power was on the verge of extinction, and the druid could do little to help.
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Strangely, even as the presence of the Earthmother faded, Hobyn felt her own earthmagic growing in potency. Within the confinement of the long sea voyage, her body grew stronger daily. Her muscles were hard and wiry. Her mind was sharp and alert, to the point that she could hardly sleep. And she could feel the power growing within her.
But when she prayed, or on those rare nights when she slept deeply enough to dream, there was no word, barely the faintest image, to suggest that the mother was near.
Robyn knew of no other druid still walking free upon any of the Moonshaes. The most powerful of her order all stood frozen, locked in stone at the moment they had lost their most crucial battle. Only Robyn had escaped, and she felt pitifully inadequate for the tasks arrayed before her.
But she had no choice except to try.
The fat cleric wiped a hand through his greasy hair, anxious now to reach his destination. For several days, he had explored the surrounding lands of Myrloch Vale, but his journey was nearly complete.
The entirety of Myrloch Vale was now known to him. The vast valley, in the center of the island of Gwynneth, had long been a bastion of the goddess who had watched over these isles. Now, however, it had become a land of death, a monumental wasteland in testament to the awesome power of the cleric's god.
And he had ventured to northern Gwynneth, beyond the vale and into the lands of the northmen along the fir coast. These invaders had claimed the land from the native Ffolk, establishing a number of villages and even one good-sized town, but had nothing resembling a separate state there. Bhaal had wondered about these humans, and so the cleric had investigated.
The southern land of Gwynneth, occupying nearly half the isle, was the kingdom of Corwell, of the people known as the Ffolk. This land the cleric had not visited, but that mattered little, for Corwell was already well known to the minions of Bhaal.
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Now Hobarth, cleric of Bhaal, returned to the Darkwell with good news for his foul master. Decay spread rapidly across the vale. Everywhere he went, Hobarth found death and rot, as whole forests died and placid lakes shriveled into festering swamps.
The area around the well was particularly barren. The corpses of the many zombies he had raised from death were gone now, as Hobarth had ordered them into the well. Their presence, in fact, had been a prime source of the pollution that had so effectively corrupted the Moonwell. And the decay seemed to be spreading rapidly. Bhaal, Hobarth knew, would be pleased.
As he neared the Darkwell, he sensed a difference around him. It was not a difference in the land, or even the air, but a subtle presence on a deeper level. Something was here that had not been here when he left.
He saw the well before him, its slick black surface barely reflecting the white outlines of the statues. The Darkwell had, since its creation a month before, been a center of power for his god.
But now Hobarth sensed something mightier, more dynamic than the gate connecting his god's world to his own. In a flash of understanding, he understood, and as he understood he dropped to his knees.
Bhaal was here!
Hobarth shivered, a strange mixture of ecstasy and fear. He knelt, closed his eyes, and prayed with all his heart.
"O mighty Bhaal, Reveler in Blood, master of my destiny ..." The cleric moaned his prayer softly, wondering at the presence of his god. Was Bhaal angry? Was he pleased? What was the purpose of this visitation?
Approach the well.
Hobarth froze for a moment as the god's command grasped his heart. He felt cold fingers engulf his soul, only to let it free again after a glimpse of something awesome and terrible. Numb, he stood and stepped slowly toward the Darkwell.
The Great Druid.
Hobarth understood the command instantly and stopped
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beside the Great DruidЧor rather, the statue that had been Genna Moonsinger, the mistress of Myrtoch Vale and Great Druid of the isles. Now she stood frozen as a white stone sculpture, lifelike in every detail. Many times had Hobarth stood before her and cursed her defiant expression.
He saw the challenge still lurking in her eyes, and in the firm set of her jaw. Her wrinkled skin and tightly wrapped hair might have given her a grandmotherly look, but instead she looked more like a warrior.
The Heart.
This command brought a glimmer of defiance, for just a brief moment, to the cleric. Hobarth kept the Heart of Kazgoroth in a pouch at his side, and he was most reluctant to remove it for anyone or anything. The stone was black, shaped more like a lump of coal than a heart, but it was a talisman of great evil. In the cleric's hands, the Heart of Kazgoroth had brought death and decay to the formerly pastoral vale.
But Hobarth overcame his reluctance instantly and hastened to obey the word of his god. He removed the stone from its pouch and held it out before him. It seemed to absorb the rays of the sun, already dimmed by the pale haze. In its own shadow, the cleric reached forward to touch the heart against the cold stone of the statue.
Bhaal must be very near, Hobarth thought, for it seemed to the cleric that the god leered over his shoulder. Hobarth acted as if by instinct, performing a ritual he had never seen, yet one that he knew without question or doubt. He sensed that Bhaal was pleased, and his god's pleasure was a thrill unlike any the cleric had ever known.