"Denning, Troy - Forgotten Realms - Daughter of the Drow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Denning Troy)

Yet now, with their city in turmoil and their most basic assumptions suspect, there were a few drow who dared whisper the name of Vhaeraun, and who dreamed of a life free of Menzoberranzan's limitations. These drow Nisstyre was quietly seeking out. Some were like this tortured elf, whose hatred of matriarchal rule was so bitter that he
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would willingly endure anything to see it end. But most drow required more: something that could eradicate bitter memories and offer opportunities for power and status far beyond anything they now enjoyed.
In time, Nisstyre vowed, he would find what was needed to sway the drow of Menzoberranzan to his cause. After all, the Dragon's Hoard was famous for procuring anything, without regard for the cost.
Menzoberranzan was not the only land struggling with conflict and war. Far away, in a rugged land of hills and forests in the fareastern reaches of Faerun, the people of Rashemen knew their own time of turmoil. MagicЧthe force that ruled and protected their landЧhad recently gone treacherously awry. Ancient gods and long-dead heroes had walked the land, and a nation of dreamers had been tormented by strange nightmares and waking frenzies. Most dangerous of all, the mystic defenses crafted by the magic of the ruling Witches had faltered, and the eyes of many enemies turned once again upon Rashemen.
Of all Rashemen's warriors, perhaps none had felt this disruption so much as Fyodor. He was a young man, a pleasant fellow who had shown a steady hand at the sword-smith's forge and a steady nerve in battle. He was a hard worker, but by all reports a bit of a dreamer even by Rashemi standards. Fyodor was as quick with a song or a story as any traveling bard, and his deep, resonant bass voice often rang out over the sound of a clanging hammer as he worked. Like most of his people, he appreciated the simple joys of life and he accepted its hardships with resigned calm. His gentle nature and ready smile seemed ill-matched with his fearsome reputation; Rashemen was renowned for the might and fury of her berserker warriors, among whom Fyodor was a champion.
Rashemen's famed warriors used a little-known magic ritual to bring on their battle rages. By some quirk of fate, a stray bit of this magic broke free and lodged itself in young Fyodor. He had become a natural berserker, able to enter an incredible battle frenzy at will. At first his new
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skill had been hailed as a godsend, and when the Tuigan horde swept in from the eastern steppes Fyodor stood beside his berserker brothers and fought with unmatched ferocity.
All would have been well, but for another lingering memory of the time of twisted magic. Fyodor, the dreamer, continued to be haunted by the nightmares that had plagued so many Rashemi during the Time of Troubles. He told no one of this, for many of his peopleЧsimple peasants for the most partЧhad deeply ingrained superstitions about dreams and saw in every ale-induced night vision detailed meanings, portents of doom. Fyodor believed he knew what dreams were, and what they were not.
Tonight, however, he was not so sure. He'd emerged from a nightmare to find himself sitting bolt upright on his pallet, his heart racing and his body drenched with cold sweat. Fyodor tried without success to return to sleep, for he would face the Tuigan again tomorrow and would need all his strength. He had fought today and fought wellЧor so he had been told. His comrades had tipped their flasks to him and boasted of the number of barbarians who had fallen to Fyodor*s black sword. Fyodor himself did not remember much of the battle. He remembered less each time he fought, and that disturbed him. Perhaps that was why this nightmare haunted him so.
la it, he had found himself in a deep forest, where he'd apparently wandered in the confused aftermath of a berserker frenzy. His arms, face, and body had been covered with stinging scratches. He had a vague memory of a playful tussle with his half-wild snowcat companion. In his dream, it slowly dawned on Fyodor that the game must have awakened his battle frenzy. He could not remember the outcome of battle, but his sword was wet to the hilt with blood still warm.
Awake, Fyodor knew the dream, although disturbing, was no prophecy of a battle to come. He had indeed tamed a snowcat once, but that had been many years ago, and they had parted in peace when the wild thing had returned to its nature. But the dream haunted him, for in it he read his deepest fear: would the time come when the battle rage gripped him entirely? Would he, in a mad frenzy, destroy not
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Daughter of the Drow
only his enemies, but those he loved?
Again and again Fyodor saw the light of life fading from the cat's golden eyes. Try as he might, he could not banish the image, or thrust away the fear that this might somehow come to pass.
And as he awaited the light of dawn, Fyodor felt the heavy weight of fate upon his young shoulders, and wondered if perhaps the dream held prophecy, after all.
Shakti Hunzrin slumped deeper into the prow of the small boat and glared at the two young males laboring at the oars. They were her brothers, page princes whose names she only occasionally remembered. The three drow siblings were bound for the Isle of Rothe, a mossy islet in the heart of Donigarten Lake. House Hunzrin was in charge of most of the city's farming, including the herd of rothe maintained on the island, and Shakti's family responsibilities had Х increased fourfold in the tumultuous aftermath of war.
Yet the dark elf s mood was grim as she eyed her brothers, unblooded youths armed with only knives and pitchforks. Traveling with such a scant escort was not only dangerous, but insulting. And Shakti Hunzrin was ever alert for any insult, however slight.
The boat thudded solidly into the stone dock, jarring Shakti's thoughts back to the matter at hand. She rose to her feet, slapping aside the hands of her unworthy escorts and climbing out of the boat unaided. Donigarten might be off the traveled path for most drow, but here Shakti was at home and in command. She stood for a moment on the narrow dock, head thrown back, to admire the miniature
fortress above.
The overseer's quarters loomed some hundred feet overhead, carved out of the solid stone that rose in a sheer wall from the water. Shakti's boat had docked at the island's only good landing site: a tiny cove unmarred by the sharp and rending rocks that surrounded the rest of the island. The only way off the island was through the stone fortress, and the only way down to the dock was a narrow stairway carved into the rock wall. The water around the island was
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deep and cold, utterly black except for an occasional faint, luminescent glow from the creatures that lived in the still depths. From time to time, someone tried to swim these waters. So far, no one had survived the attempt.
Shakti ignored the stairs and levitated smoothly upward to the fortress door. Not only did this small flight grant her a more impressive entrance, but it also had a practical purpose. The proud drow, with their love of beauty, did not allow imperfect children to survive and had little patience for those who developed physical defects later in life. Shakti was extremely nearsighted and took great pains to conceal this fact. She did not trust her footing on the treacherous stairs, and was not certain which would be worse, the actual tumble down the steep incline, or having to explain why she had missed a step.
The overseer, a female from some lesser branch of the Hunzrin family tree, bowed deeply when Shakti walked into the vast center room. Shakti was somewhat mollified by this show of respect, and pleased to note that her brothers fell into guard position at either side of the entrance, as if she were already a respected matron.
She laid aside her own weaponЧa three-tined pitchfork with a slender, rune-carved handleЧand walked over to the far window. The scene beyond was not encouraging. Moss and lichen fields had been dangerously overgrazed, and the irrigation system was clogged and neglected. Rothe wandered aimlessly about, cropping here and there at the meager fodder. Their usually thick, long coats were ragged and histerless. Shakti noted with dismay there would be little wool at shearing time. Even more distressing was the utter darkness that enshrouded the pasture.
"How many born so far this season?" Shakti snapped as she shrugged out of herpiwafwi. One of her brothers leaped forward to take the glittering cloak.
"Eleven," the overseer said in a (pirn tone. "Two of those stillborn."
The priestess nodded; the answer was not unexpected. The rothe were magical creatures who called to prospective mates with faint, blinking lights. At this season, the rothe's courting rituals should have set the island aglow. The neglected animals were too weak and listless to attend to
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such matters.
But what else could she have expected? Most of the ores and goblins who tended the rothe herds had been taken as battle fodder, without regard for the logical consequences. These were things the ruling priestesses did not heed, expecting meat and cheese to appear at their tables as if by magic. In their vaunting pride, they did not understand some things required not only magic, but management.
This Shakti understood, and this she could provide. She seated herself behind a vast table and reached for the ledger that kept the breeding records. A sharp, pleasurable feeling of anticipation sped her fingers as she leafed through the pages. Keeping this ledger had been her responsibility before she'd been sent off to the Academy, and no one in the city knew more about breeding rothe than she did. Perhaps no one else shared her enthusiasm for the subject, but the drow certainly enjoyed the fine meat, cheeses, and wool her expertise produced!
One glance at the current page dampened both her pride and her enthusiasm. In her years of absence, the records had been written in a small, faint hand. Shakti swore, squinting her eyes into slits in an attempt to read the careless writing. Her mood did not improve as she read.
While she had been exiled to Arach-Tinilith, studying for the priestesshood and kowtowing to the Academy's mistresses, the herd had been sadly neglected. The rothe were highly specialized for life on the island, and carefully supervised breeding was essential.
Muttering curses, Shakti leafed to the back of the book, where the records of the slave stock were kept. These were considerably less detailed; in Shakti's opinion, the goblins could do whatever they liked provided their efforts produced enough new slaves. But according to the records, the birth rate among the usually fecund goblins was also dangerously low. This Shakti could not afford. House Hunzrin could acquire more slaves by purchase or capture, but such things took time and money.
"How many goblins remain?" Shakti asked tiredly as she massaged her aching temples.
"About forty," responded the overseer.
Shakti's head jerked up as if pulled by a string. "That's
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all? Herders or breeders?"
"About half and half, but all of the goblins have been herding. To help keep order, the slaves have all been moved into the main hut."
That was more bad news, for it meant the goblins lacked both the time and the privacy needed to procreate. Not that goblins required much of either, Shakti noted with distaste as she turned back to the ledger. Once again, she cursed the fate that had taken her away from the work she loved. At least the war had accomplished one thing: the rules that kept students sequestered at the Academy had been relaxed, for many of the young fighters, wizards, and priestesses were needed at home. The students had unprecedented freedom to come and go, and permission to leave was not difficult to obtain from the distracted masters and matrons.