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

At that moment a drow male clad in the rough clothes of a common laborer burst into the room. He slammed the heavy door behind him and bolted it in place.
The goblins are revolting!" he cried.
The voice was familiar to Shakti; it belonged to a handsome drone who provided her with an occasional dalliance. She recognized the tone: a gratifying mixture of fear and disbelief. The faint, coppery smell of his blood drifted toward her. She was familiar with that, too. But these pleasant memories registered only on the edges of Shakti's thoughts; her concern was with the herd and her nearsighted eyes remained fixed on the page. "Yes, they certainly are," she agreed absently.
The male fell back a step, his jaw slack with astonishment. He well knew that Shakti Hunzrin was capable of a good many things, but humor was simply not among them. Fbr a moment even the shock of the goblin uprising paled. Yet a second look at Shakti's peevish, squinting countenance convinced the drow of his error.
He brushed aside his momentary surprise and strode toward the desk. He thrust his wounded arm close to Shakti's eyes, so the myopic priestess could make out the marks of goblin fangs, the long red scores of their claws.
The goblins are revolting," he repeated. At last, he had her attention. "You've sent a message to the city guard?" Shakti demanded.
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He hesitated, a bit too long. "We have."
"And? What did they say?"
"Donigarten has it own protections," the drow quoted tonelessly.
Shakti let out a burst of bitter laughter. Translated, that meant only that the ruling matrons had more important matters on their minds than the loss of a few goblin slaves and the premature slaughter of some of the rothe. The rest of the city was safe from any unpleasantness that might occur on the island, for the only egress from Donigarten was by boat, and the only boat was secured, docked behind the office. Which meant, of course, the goblins would attack this very room.
Shakti snatched up her magic pitchforkЧthe weapon of choice for the Hunzrin familyЧand acknowledged her fate with a grim nod. It had come to this: the house nobles were forced to do battle with their own slaves.
At once there was a scrabble at the door, the sound of goblins clawing at the stone with their small, taloned fingers. The Hunzrin princes flanked their sister and raised their unblooded weapons. Shakti, however, had no intention of waiting out the little monsters. It never occurred to her she might flee. The rothe herd must be cared for, and that was what she intended to do.
So Shakti leveled her pitchfork at the door. Bracing the weapon against her hip, she covered her eyes with her free hand. The tines of her weapon spat magic. Three lines of white flame streaked toward the door, and the heavy slab of stone exploded outward with a spray of fragments and a thunderous roar.
For several moments all was a confusion of blinding light, cries of pain, and smoke heavy with the smell of charred flesh. Then the surviving goblins rallied and came on. A half dozen of the creatures roiled into the room, brandishing crude weapons fashioned of rothe bone and horn bound together with dried sinew.
Shakti's youngest brother leaped forward, pitchfork leading. He impaled the nearest goblin and flung it over his shoulder like a forkful of straw. The wounded goblin soared, flailing and shrieking, out the back window. There was a long, fading wail as it tumbled toward the luminous crea-
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tures waiting below, then a splash, then silence. Wild grins twisted the Hunzrin brothers' faces, and they fell upon the remaining goblins, pitchforks flashing as they reaped the grim harvest.
Shakti stood back and allowed the boys their fun. When the first rush of goblins had been dealt with, she stepped into the blasted doorway to meet the next attack. A gangling, yellow-skinned female was the first to come. Holding high a bone dagger, the goblin flung itself at the waiting drow. Shakti coolly sidestepped the thrust and jabbed her pitchfork forward, stabbing through her attacker's uplifted arm.
At a word from the young priestess, magical lightning lit the pitchfork's tines and streaked into the goblin's body. With the first jolt, the slave's fierce scowl melted into an almost comical look of surprise. Lank strands of hair rose and writhed about its head like the snakes of a medusa, and the goblin's scrawny body shuddered convulsively. The lightning flowed on and on, and although the goblin shrieked and wailed in anguish, it could not pull free of Shakti's pitchfork. Another goblin grabbed the yellow female's imprisoned wristЧwhether to rescue its companion or to steal its weapon was unclearЧand it, too, was held fast by the lethal energy flow. Two more goblins, trying to edge past the shrieking couple into the room, were caught in the chain of malevolent magic.
With practiced ease, Shakti held her grip on the pitchfork and its magic. A few goblins managed to slip past the barrier of crackling energy and burning flesh. These were promptly skewered by the Hunzrin brothers and flung to the creatures waiting silently below.
Finally no more goblins came. Shakti wrenched her pitchfork from the charred flesh of her first victim. The chain of goblins fell into a smoking pile. The drow walked over their bodies and through the door, her still-glowing weapon held before her like a spear.
A few goblinsЧfar too few!Чremained, cowering and creeping slowly away. Murderous rage rose in Shakti's heart as she surveyed her disgusting foe, and only with difficulty did she refrain from striking again. The goblins were thin, exhausted, in no better shape than the cattle. The drow's practical nature acknowledged that the slaves might have
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seen no option other than to revolt. Yet when Shakti spoke, necessity, not compassion, governed her words.
"It is clear," Shakti began in a cool, measured tone, "there are not enough slaves to tend the herd. But what have you gained by this foolish attack? How much harder will you have to work, now that you have foolishly depleted your numbers? But know this: the rothe herd comes first, and all of you will return to your duties at once. New slaves will be purchased and all successfully bred goblin females will be granted extra food and rest privileges; in the meanwhile you will adhere to a strict schedule of labor." She hefted her pitchfork meaningfully. "Go now."
The surviving goblins turned and fled. The priestess turned to her brothers. Their eyes gleamed with excitement from their first battle. She knew just how to deepen that sparkle.
"The patrol of fighters from Tier Breche should have stopped this little rebellion before it got this far. If any of them are still alive, they've got no right to be. You, Bazherd. Take my pitchfork and lead the hunt."
The young male leaped forward to claim the powerful magic weapon. Shakti's lips firmed in a smile as she handed it over. Any blow against the drow Academy pleased her. She had no quarrel with Tier Breche in general, and usually conceded that the academies did well enough training fighters and wizards. But noble females were sent to the clerical school, and Shakti's resentment of her lot was deep and implacable. Oh, she would become a priestess, for that was the path to power in Menzoberranzan. But if another way presented itself, Shakti Hunzrin would be the first to take it.
At the appointed hour, every wizard in Menzoberranzan worthy of the name slipped away to a private spot to answer an unprecedented summons. One by one, each took a vial bearing the symbol of House Baenre, broke the seal, and watched as mist poured forth and shaped itself into a shimmering doorway. And one by one, the drow wizards stepped through these magic doorways. Each one emerged into the
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same large, lavishly appointed hall, perhaps somewhere in Menzoberranzan, perhaps in some distant plane. All the wizards knew for certain was that this was Gromph Baenre's audience chamber, and they had little choice but to attend. Even House Xorlarrin, famous for its wizardly might, was there in force. Seven Xorlarrin wizards were masters in the Sorcere, the school of magic; all seven sat uneasily on the luxurious chairs provided them.
As the wizards awaited the city's archmage, they eyed their colleagues with wary interest. Some had not seen each other since they'd trained together at Sorcere, for wizards hoarded their magical secrets to serve the power and prestige of their individual houses. Status was all, even among the city's mages. Glittering house insignias were much in evidence, and those whose heritage did not grant such a display settled for enspelled jewelry. Hundreds of gems flickered in the dim light of the hall, their colors reflected in the glittering black folds of the piwafwi cloaks worn by all. Some of the wizards were accompanied by their familiars: giant spiders, deep bats, magically altered beasts, even imps or other creatures of the Abyss. The large room filled up quickly, yet the silence seemed only to deepen, to become more profound, as each wizard entered the magic chamber.
When the last chair had been taken, Gromph Baenre stepped out of nothingness and into the center of the room. As usual, Gromph was garbed in the glorious cloak of the arch-mage, a many-pocketed piwafwi that reputedly held more magical treasures and weapons than most drow wizards saw in a lifetime. Two magical wands were prominently displayed on his belt, and no one doubted many more were hidden about his person. Gromph's most powerful weapons, however, were his beautiful, tapered handsЧso dexterous in weaving spells of deathЧand the brilliant mind that had brought him to the height of wizardly power . .. and doomed him to a life of discontent. In many other cultures, one such as he would be a king. And of all Menzoberranzan's wizards, only Gromph had the power to call such a meeting.
"It is not customary for the wizards of this city to gather in one place," Gromph began, speaking aloud the thoughts of all present. "Each of us serves the interests of his own House, according to the wisdom of his matron mother. This
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is as it should be," he said emphatically. The archmage paused and lifted a single eyebrow, perhaps to spice his assertion with a dash of irony.
"Yet, such alliances are not unknown. The city Sshamath is ruled by a coalition of drow wizards. We of Menzoberranzan could surely do as well if the need arises."
Murmurs, ranging from the excited to the appalled, filled the magical chamber. Gromph held up a hand, a simple gesture that commandedЧand receivedЧinstant silence.
"If the need arises," he repeated sternly. "The Ruling Council will see to the troubles of the city. Our task is to wait and watch."
Again he paused, and all present heard the silent message. The Ruling CouncilЧthe matron mothers of the eight most powerful housesЧwas little more than a memory. Matron Baenre, the most powerful drow in .the city, was no more. Triel, her eldest surviving daughter, would assume the leadership of House Baenre, but she was young and would almost certainly face challengers. Recently, the third-ranked house had been utterly destroyed by creatures of the Abyss, but not before its renegade leader had slain the matron and the heir of the fourth house. Auro'pol Dyrr, the leader of the fifth-ranked house, had fallen during the war. Since orderly succession was a rarity, each of these houses might well be ravaged by internal strife before new matrons finally took power. These matrons would then face challenges on all sides. Seldom in the long history of Menzoberranzan had so many Council seats been open at one time, and at least a dozen houses could be counted on to go to war in an attempt to advance their status. Overall, the struggle to restore the Ruling Council could take yearsЧyears the faltering city could not spare.
"You know the problems Menzoberranzan faces as well as I do," Gromph continued softly. "If the city falls into anarchy, we wizards may well be her best chance of survival. We must stand ready to assume power."
Or to seize it.
These words were also left unspoken, but every drow in the room heard them, and marked them well.
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