"Denning, Troy - Forgotten Realms - MoonShae 3 - Darkwell" - читать интересную книгу автора (Denning Troy)

Again the waters of the Darkwell churned upward and away, and the cleric stared dumbfounded as the next creature came slinking from the muck and the slime. It rose from the water with a heart-numbing growl, its yellow eyes flashing hatred. Its black coat glistened, and its wicked eyes held Hobarth enthralled as the monster crept toward him.
Shantu, king of my children.
The beast resembled a huge black panther, nearly the size of a horse. Its coat, dripping with the oily liquid, glistened with a hellish sheen. The gaping mouth displayed fangs as long as daggers, and it crouched menacingly, as if it would leap upon Hobarth himself.
But this was no ordinary panther, even allowing for its size. From each of the black shoulders sprouted a long tentacle, covered all over with moist cups, like the limbs of an octopus. At (he end of each tentacle curved a sharp, bony hook, ready to rip into flesh like a giant claw.
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Shantu growled again, and Hobarth felt the bile rise in his throat. Then the creature slinked past him, and he noticed something curiousЧthough the animal dripped steadily from the waters of the well, the ground beneath it did not grow wet. Indeed, the astounded cleric noticed, the ground was wet several paces to the side of the beast!
As the creature moved away from the well, it made no tracks in the muddy groundЧat least not beneath it. Instead, Hobarth saw tracks appear off to one side, though the creature looked and sounded as if it was directly before him. With awe, he witnessed the power of his god's creation. Here was a creature that seemed to be in one place, yet was actually somewhere else nearby.
Thus is (he displacer beast born, to take his place before
you. "Glory to Bhaat and His magnificent children," murmured
the cleric.
They, together with my legions from the sea and you, my servant, shall spread death across this isle. When you are finished, when my will has been done, there will be not a single living creature upon this land that is not beholden to me. This island shall become a monument to death!
The flock of perytons swirled overhead, strangely silent. The owlbear, Thorax, lumbered away from the well, clacking its huge beak awkwardly in the air. And the great, catlike displacer beast prowled the shore of the pond, as if waiting for a command that was not long in coming.
And now, my children, go forth and hunt. Journey far, and slay the enemies of Bhaal!
The homecoming was all the young king could have desired. Pontswain had indeed carried word of his coronation to the Ffolk of Corwell, and they turned out to meet the Defiant in huge numbers. Hours earlier, lookouts had spotted the vessels heading toward the harbor. Despite confusion and suspicion raised by the appearance of the longship, it was an eager crowd that moved toward the waterfront.
The throng grew steadily until, by the time they docked,
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most of the town awaited them. As the Defiant pulled alongside the pier, the Ffolk erupted in a spontaneous cheer. The king felt a warm glow of gratitude and a rush of pleasure to again see his home.
Among the well-wishers greeting them at the dock, Tristan recognized Tavish of Llewellyn, the bard of the harp who had plucked him from the sea after his boat sank on the journey to Callidyrr. He had not seen her since his arrest at the hands of the former High King's personal guards.
The rotund minstrel flashed him a beaming smile as he stepped ashore. She embraced him in a crushing hug, and he was surprised to see tears on her cheeks. "I came here to get help, to rescue you," she explained, wiping her eyes, "but it seems you've handled things pretty well on your own."
Tristan heard the rumbling of the crowd to his left, and saw many of the Ffolk surge toward the dock as the long-ship pulled alongside. "Raiders!" "Murderers!" "Thieves!" and other invectives emerged from the angry men, and the king forced his way through the crowd to stand before the longship. He looked straight into the faces of the angry farmers and sailors before him, and slowly they backed away.
"Hold, you men! And listen well! These men of the north are here as my guests. We have fought together and bested a monstrous foe! They will feast with us, and join our celebrationЧand no harm will come to them while they are in Corwell!"
A burly farmer grumbled his discontent, and Tristan fixed him with an icy gaze until the man looked uncomfortably at the ground. One by one, the members of the mob grew silent, their anger replaced by expressions of confusion or doubt.
"I am your king, the High King of the Ffolk." Tristan spoke softly, and as he had hoped, the mob grew silent to hear his words. "This day marks a new beginning for us, for the Ffolk of all the isles. Let this be the sign of a new reign, as the northmen come to our town and join us at our table!"
"Wise words! Hail to the king!" someone cried out.
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Tristan looked around in surprise, and saw the beaming face of Friar Nolan, the cleric of the new gods who had worked long and hard trying to convert the Ffolk of Cor-well. Though his success had been limited, he was widely regarded as a man of great wisdom, and his healing magic had benefited many a resident of Corwell.
"Hail to the king!" cried another man, and soon the crowd took up the chant. Several Ffolk even came forward to help lash the longship to the dock. The pudgy friar, his bald pate bobbing through the group, pushed his way to Tristan's side.
"Splendid words, sire! You embark upon a wise course. The gods will surely smile upon you!"
"Some of them, anyway," the young king replied with a grin. "And thank you for your own wordsЧmost timely remarks, good friar!"
"Welcome home, sire! "cried another young man, pushing to his side. Tristan recognized him as Randolph, the young but very capable captain of the guard, whom he had left in charge of the castle upon his departure.
Before the king could respond, however, he was swept away, lifted to the shoulders of his countrymen and carried on a triumphant march to Caer Corwell itself. They carried Robyn beside him, and his spirits brightened further as he saw her smiling above the tumult. Though she had been moody and depressed the last few days of the voyage, he hoped that their arrival at homeЧand the fact that they planned to strike out for Myrloch Vale in the morning-would improve her spirits.
But first there would be a feast. It would be a celebration of the new king, his homecoming, and his success in the campaign on Callidyrr.
Tristan regained his feet in the castle courtyard and led Robyn and Randolph into the Great Hall of the keep, where they finally left the crowd behind. "Where's Pontswain?" he asked. "We must talk before the feast."
"I'll send a guardsman to find him. Lord Pontswain's tending to the last business of the food and drink. We trust you will be pleased, sire."
SO
DARKWELL
"No doubt. Now tell me, how fares life in Corwell?"
"We have missed you, but fare well. The Ffolk have been fairly bursting with pride since news of your coronation, sire. Great effort has been expended preparing for your homecoming!"
"And what news?"
"The only excitement was the presence of a band of outlaws, raiding cantrevs Dynnatt and Koart. We caught and hanged them. They seemed to be northmen who did not flee with their brethren last year."
Randolph went on to describe the state of the kingdom, from the poor harvest and meager catches of fish to the great successes of the huntsmen in the highlands. "The food reserves for winter are adequate. It seems that a great deal of wildlife has fled south from Myrloch Vale. Hunting has never been better."
"And what news of the vale?" asked Robyn.
"Puzzling, that. Shepherds say their sheep will not venture near it. The huntsmen who have climbed along the high ridge to look into the vale report vast desolation. Trees have died, and even the lake itself has lost its gleam. It is disturbing news indeed, sire, but the blight does not seem to have reached Corwell."
"Welcome home, my king!" Lord Pontswain burst into the hall, bowing deeply. He was a handsome man, clean-shaven, with a broad mane of elegantly curled brown hair that was the envy of many a maid. "I trust your voyage was comfortable."
"Indeed. Please be seated." Pontswain had been Tristan's chief rival for the throne of Corwell before the High Kingship had made that rivalry moot. Now he seemed to devote all of his energies to the welfare of his king. The transition had been so sudden, and so dramatic, that Tristan still didn't quite trust him.
"I will have to leave the kingdom in the capable hands of you both for a little while longer," he explained. "Tomorrow morning Robyn and I journey to Myrloch Vale. This devastation is caused by an evil cleric of great power, and we shall confront and destroy him."
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"As you wish, sire." Randolph asked several more questions about the governance of the realm, while Pontswain sat quietly, a distant look upon his features. Shortly the two men departed, and Robyn and Tristan were left alone in the Great Hall.