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

pain shot up his arm. Emperel cried out and brought his sword hand up, slamming the pommel into his
attacker's head.
The killer went sprawling, ripping the weathercloak off Emperel's shoulders and pulling the magic ring
off his finger-no, not off.
In the murderer's hand was something thin and bloody, with the white nub of a knucklebone protruding
from the red stump. Emperel's ring was still attached, illuminating the killer's head in brilliant blue-white. Its
face was mantislike and skeletal, with ovoid eyes as red as embers and an impossibly slender chin. Even in
the light, the creature's complexion remained shadowy and dark-but not so dark Emperel failed to recognize
something familiar in its arrow-shaped nose and upturned lip. He brought his sword around, placing the tip
between himself and the man-thing.
"Do I ... I know you!"
The murderer's eyes narrowed to red slits and it hissed, "Not for long."
Emperel heaved his aching body to its feet and advanced a single step, bringing his sword to a high
guard. The killer smirked and retreated the same distance, closing one fist around the stolen ring. A sigh of
satisfaction slipped from its lips, and the amethyst's light began to flow into its hand, filling the tiny chamber
with eerie fingers of light.
Emperel felt a chill between his shoulder blades. The murderer was absorbing the ring's magic-just as it
had absorbed the magic bolts from his bracers and drained the magic from his dagger. The chamber began
to dim rapidly. Realizing he would soon be trapped in total darkness without his weathercloak or any other
means of escape, Emperel glanced at the exit passage. The murderer stepped over to block the tunnel
mouth.
Perfect. Emperel sprang forward to attack, allowing himself a confident smile as the last light faded
from the ring. His sword had no magic at all, and when the blade hit home, the murderer groaned and fell
into the darkness. Emperel spun on his heel, bringing his sword down in a vicious backhand slash. Sparks
flew as his blade clanged off the stone floor. He pivoted away, blindly weaving his weapon in a defensive
pattern. A gentle thud sounded beside him, so soft he barely heard it over the whisper of his flying blade.
He spun toward the noise, bringing his sword around in a hissing arc. The blade bit into the corner of the
tunnel entrance, sending a spray of dirt and pebbles clattering down onto the stone floor.
A low moan sounded deep within the tunnel, followed by the scrape of leather on dirt. Emperel flung
himself into the passage, blindly whipping his sword to and fro. He struck nothing but dirt and roots.
A moment later, his horse screamed, and the murderer was gone.

1
They sat swaying in unison, the four of them quietly watching each other as Princess Tanalasta's small
carriage bounced across the High Heath toward Worg Pass. The shades were drawn tight against blowing
dust, and the interior of the coach was dim, dry, and warm.
The Warden of the Eastern Marches sat at an angle across from Tanalasta, square and upright in his
polished field armor, his steely eyes focused curiously on the wiry priest at her side. The priest,
Harvestmaster Owden Foley of Monastery Huthduth, rested well back in the shadows, his slender head
turned slightly to smirk at a portly mage whose moon-spangled silks touted him as one of Cormyr's more
powerful war wizards. The mage, Merula the Marvelous, perched at the edge of his seat, bejeweled hands
folded atop the silver pommel of his walking cane. He was staring at Tanalasta with a busby-browed glare
that could only be described as rather too intense. Tanalasta sat studying the Warden of the Eastern
Marches, a gangly, horse-faced man who was still somehow handsome in his scarlet cape and purple sash
of office. She was thinking that a princess could marry worse than Dauneth Marliir.
Tanalasta did not love Dauneth, of course, but she liked him, and princesses could rarely marry for love.
Even if he was five years her junior, Dauneth was loyal, brave, and good-looking enough for a noble, and
that should have been enough. A year ago it would have been, but now she needed more. With her
thirty-sixth year approaching and all of Cormyr waiting for her to produce an heir, suddenly she had to have
bells and butterflies. Suddenly, she had to be in love.