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

The man felt the soft protection of magic, invisibility created by the woman and now cloaking them. In another minute, the knights charged off into the night, and the man and woman heard the screams of men caught by lance or mace or hoof.
"Red is a poor color for a banner," he decided absently, looking at the bloody spots on the tattered cloth. "It will have to be something else."
The woman took the man's arm and began to lead him away, though there was no way to tell which way to go. The battlefield surrounded them, fire and smoke and the clamor of battle in all directions as far as they could see and hear.
"Disaster," he realized. "The alliance is finished. The war is lost."
"But you. Captain Cordell, you will live to fight again. And I will fight beside you."
He nodded vaguely. How did this woman know his name? The question seemed quite unimportant, the confidence of her assertion instead focusing his attention and his agreement.
More and more shadowy forms appeared, fleeing in all directions, followed by the great waves of horsemen and their riders, so eager to slay and keep on slaying.
But always the riders passed the two figures without seeing them. Once a great leering beast, twice the height of a
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man, sniffed suspiciously and turned toward them. The troll chomped its wicked fangs and crept closer.
The woman raised her hand and pointed, speaking a sharp, alien sound. A tiny globule of flame appeared, flickering from her fingertip and flying toward the troll. The monster blinked stupidly, and then the fireball erupted, engulfing the creature in a blossoming sphere of incredible heat and flame. It screeched piteously, falling to the ground and writhing in its death throes, as the woman once again urged the wounded captain into the night.
"Gold," he said, stopping suddenly. The battle had by now fallen behind them.
"What?" She, too, stopped, facing him. Her hood fell back, and he saw her snowy-white hair, her pale, almost bloodless skin. The tip of one ear protruded from her hair, and he saw its point, the characteristic mark of an elf. He was not surprised.
"Gold," he explained. "That will be the color of my banner. Gold."
Erixitl scampered up the steep trail, taking little note of the sheer drop to her left, nor of the bushy slope looming above to the right. Instead, her wide brown eyes held fast to the winding footpath. Her long hair trailed behind her, a black plume floating easily in the air, decorated with feathers of red and green.
Around her rolled a tumult of green hills, mostly covered with the same tangled brush that bordered the footpath. Occasional terraces, supporting narrow and winding fields of mayz, circled some of the lower slopes.
The brown-skinned girl darted around a sharp switchback, still climbing. Her bare feet pounded the earth in a more measured cadence now as the strain of the ascent began to tell. Still, her round face glowed with some secret happiness, and as a small, whitewashed building came into view, she broke into a sprint.
"Father! Father!" Her voice, despite the wind swirling through the yard, carried strongly. In seconds, a dark-
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skinned man appeared in the open door of the building.
"What is it, Erixitl? Is something wrong?" The man's dark eye's squinted along the mountainside to see if his daughter was being pursued.
"Oh, no, nothing is wrong!" The girl stumbled to the cottage and gasped for breath. The flush of exhaustion and excitement showed clearly, even through her dark, coppery skin. "Payatli, it's wonderful! Oh, please, Father, you must let meЧyou have to let meЧ"
A scowl came over the man's features, and the girl stopped in midsentence. He looked wearily into his daughter's eyes. Why did she not drop her gaze as was proper for a girl? This stubborn pride disconcerted her father almost as much as it annoyed the priests of Zaltec, whom Erix insisted upon studying every time her father took her down the mountain to the village of Palul.
Yet those same eyes were so undeniably beautiful, so keen and observant, that sometimes the father wondered if she did not share them with others as a gift for those blessed with her gaze. A gift from Qotal himself, shedding beauty on those he had left behind. Perhaps this was why the priests found her gaze unsettling. The worshipers of Zaltec could never enjoy such beauty.
Erixitl studied her father and noted the cloth of fine cotton in his hands. One corner of the cloth promised a look at the finished magic, for this small patch glowed with a brilliant profusion of colorsЧreds, greens, blues, violets, and many more hues, all bursting with a supernatural iridescence far brighter than any paint or dye could impart. As she looked at her father's work of plums, or feathermagic, Erix could anticipate his next words.
"Payatli, eh? You don't call me 'Most Honored Patriarch' unless you wish to get out of your chores! Is that it?"
"Please, Payatli!" Erix almost dropped to her knees, but some inner reserve of pride held her on her feet, meeting her father's steadily darkening gaze. "Terrazyl is going to CordotI with her brothers and her father to trade for salt! May I go with them? Look at the sky, Father! Today, for certain, I could see the temples and pyramids of Nexal! Please,
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Father! You promised I could see the city this year!"
The featherworker grimaced as if in pain, and then he sighed. "Indeed I did. But your brother is attending his class at our own templeЧnot as grand as the Temple of Zaltec in Nexal, to be sure, but an important duty. . . ."
Erix felt growing disappointment. Her knees trembled and her lower lip quivered, but she did not show her dismay. She had forgotten that her brother would not be here today. In truth, his apprenticeship was a high honor, for should he progress to the priesthood, he would hold great status in the village. Though her father was one of the few who preferred instead the gentle worship of Qotal, the Plumed One, he did not discourage his son's ambition toward the priesthood of Zaltec.
She knew that her request was hopeless, even as her father finished the explanation.
"Someone must tend the snares, and that must be your task today. You would not leave the birds to suffer longer than necessary, would you? Or allow the feathers to suffer damage?"
Erix knew the debate was over, but her emotions pushed forth words in a reckless torrent, a torrent she regretted even as it flowed.
"But you promised, Father! Three times we've gone to CordotI, and each time the haze or the rain comes so that I cannot see the city! This is my tenth summerrand I must see Nexal!" Finally she bit her tongue and stood still, awaiting the expected blow.
But no blow fell. Instead, her father replied softly, his voice regretful. "And so you will, my daughter. Now, desist in this unseemly pleading."
"Very well." Somehow she kept her voice from trembling. She turned and started for the twisting path leading past the house and sharply up the mountainside.
"Wait!" the featherworker called to his daughter, perhaps in guilt. Or, perhaps, because a frightening premonition showed him the life path awaiting this proud, strong girl. He pulled her to him in a firm hug.
"Soon, Erixitl, I will take you myself. On the sunniest, the
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clearest of days! We will see the great pyramid, all the temples around the grand square, and the lakes themselvesЧa turquoise blue that will bring tears to your eyes!"
"And the Temple of Zaltec? Will we see that?"
The man's face clouded briefly at the thought of that bloodstained altar, but he masked his feelings. "Yes, my daughter, even the Temple of Zaltec. We shall see all of Nexal from the mountainside of Cordotl."
Erix sniffled quietly, feeling a little better. She returned her father's hug, and then turned toward the narrow path. "I will see to the snares."
"Erixitl." She turned in surprise as her father called again. He took something from his pouch. "I have been waiting to give you this. Perhaps this is a good time."
She stepped forward and saw that it was a small token, made from tufts of golden and emerald downfeathers around a smooth turquoise stone. The stone rested in a small ring of jade and dangled from a leather thong. The blue and green stones gleamed, but it was the feathers that gave the pendant its true beauty. Soft and fragile, they seemed to hold the token motionless, weightless, as if it floated easily in the air. Erix scarcely dared to breathe, it was so entrancingly beautiful.
"It carries the memory of our ancestors and an earlier time of greatness," explained the featherworker. "Gold and green are the sacred colors of Qotal. The turquoise shows you his eye, watchful and benign, the color of the sky."
"Thank you, Father! It's beautiful!" Erix's heart thrilled at the delicate workmanship, the brilliant colors. She did not understand his words about the god, Qotal, for to Erix, gods were gods. But she sensed a beauty and peace within the token that differed significantly from the colorful but violent rituals of Zaltec.
"I will cherish it forever!" She embraced her father impulsively, and his own arms held her tightly for several moments.