"Troy Denning - Forgotten Realms - The Cormyr Saga 02 - Beyond the High Road" - читать интересную книгу автора (Denning Troy)

body. Emperel lay down beside the entrance and peered into the darkness. The interior was as black as
night. He could hear a muffled sound that might have been a man's snoring, and the musty air carried an
undertone of rancid sweat.
Emperel scanned the massacre once again. Seeing nothing but flies and corpses, he withdrew a black
weathercloak from his saddlebags and slipped it over his armor, closing the throat clasp to ready the cape's
protective enchantments. As a confidential agent of King Azoun IV, he had access to all of the standard
magic in the Royal Armory, and today he was glad for it. He clamped a pair of steel bracers on his wrists,
slipped an amethyst ring onto his finger, traded his steel sword for a magic dagger, then dropped to his belly
in front of the dank hole. The snoring became an erratic rumble, and the smell of sour sweat grew rife.
Emperel inhaled one last breath of fresh air, then crawled into the darkness, moving slowly and silently.
The hole was musty, cramped, and lined with broken root stubs as thick as his wrist. Though there was little
room to fight-or retreat, Emperel gave no thought to trying to outwait his quarry. Before beheading the
tavern keeper, the murderer had been boasting about how he would ruin King Azoun, and such traitors
received no respite from Emperel Ruousk. They received only justice, as quick and sure as an Agent of the
Realm possessed of all the magic and might implied by that title could deal it out.
A few feet into the tunnel, the darkness grew so thick Emperel could no longer see the dagger in front
of his nose. He paused and whispered, "King's sight."
The amethyst on his ring twinkled faintly, then Emperel began to perceive the passage walls in hues of
blue and crimson. The warmth of his body made his flesh glow red, while the dagger in his hand shone
silver with magic. A dozen feet ahead, the tunnel opened into a small, oblong chamber surrounded by
dangling amber strands-the tips of shallow roots. Strangely, there was no sign of a taproot, an absence that
did much to explain the fir's twisted form.
As Emperel neared the entrance to the little chamber, he saw the murderer lying on his back, glowing
crimson against the violet pallor of a stone floor. If not for the crust of gore covering him from head to foot,
Emperel would have sworn it was the wrong man. The man's eyes were closed in blissful sleep, his lips
bowed in an angelic smile and his arms folded peacefully across his chest. He looked too emaciated to have
slaughtered a whole company of dragoneers. His arms were as slender as spears, his shoulders gaunt and
knobby, his cheeks hollow, his eyes sunken.
Suddenly, Emperel understood everything-where the man had found the strength to run so far, how he
had slain an entire company of dragoneers, why he had defiled their bodies so wickedly. Sweat began to
pour down Emperel's brow, and he considered returning to Halfhap for help-but what good would that do?
The vampire had already shown that he could destroy superior numbers, and Emperel had the advantage
now.
He continued forward to the end of the tunnel, the smell of his own perspiration overpowering the fetor
of the musty lair. Though his stomach was queasy with fear, he reminded himself that safety was just a
gesture away. All he need do was slip a hand into his weathercloak's escape pocket, and he would be
standing beside his horse, outside in the brilliant sunlight where no vampire could follow. He crawled silently
into the chamber and pulled his legs in after him.
As Emperel stood, something soft and wispy crackled in his ears. His heart skipped a beat, and he found
himself biting his tongue, not quite sure whether he had let out a cry. He glanced down and found the
murderer as motionless as before, hands folded across his haggard chest, mouth upturned in that angelic
smile. Trying not to think of what dreams could make a vampire happy, Emperel raised a hand and felt a
curtain of gossamer filament clinging to his face. It was stiff and sticky, like the web of a black widow
spider.
Emperel experienced the sudden sensation of hundreds of little legs crawling down his tunic. Hoping the
feeling was all in his mind, he stooped to get his head out of the web, then removed a gauntlet from his belt
and slipped the steel glove onto his right hand. When presented palm outward, the glove became the holy
symbol of his god, Torm the True, and it would keep any vampire at bay. Next, he drew his hand axe from
its belt loop and, using the enchanted dagger, began to whittle the wooden butt into a sharp stake.
Though it seemed to Emperel that the sound of his breathing filled the chamber with a bellowslike rasp,