"Duncan, Dave - A Man Of His Word 02 - Faery Lands Forlorn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duncan Dave)

Faery Lands ForlornFaery Lands Forlorn
Book 2 of A Man Of His Word
By Dave Duncan
ISBN: 0-345-36629-8


ONE
Behind the veil

1
Eastward from the bare crags of the Agoniste Mountains, the land fell off in
scabby ridges and gullies, sere and drab. Rare oases like green wounds pitted
the valleys, but otherwise that desolate country was fit only for antelope and
wild goats, watched over by buzzards drifting in the thin blue sky. Below the
hills, a roasted desert stretched away to meet the surf of the Spring Sea.
In the main, the ironbound coast of Zark was as deadly and inhospitable as the
interior. Yet, at long intervals where some trick of the landscape caught the
nourishing sea wind or cool springs gushed from the rocks, life erupted in
abundance. There the soil yielded crops of uncountable variety. The people dwelt
there, on islands encircled half by ocean and half by desert. Whereas in other
lands the earth spread its generosity widely, in Zark it hoarded all its
goodness into these few green enclaves, like rich emeralds knotted on a string.
Richest of them all was Arakkaran, a narrow land blessed with twisting valleys
of deep soil and legendary fertility. Its wide bay was the finest harbor on the
continent. Many trade routes met in its markets, depositing wealth there in
heaps to be fondled by the soft-fingered merchants: dates and pomegranates,
rubies and olives, costly vials of perfume, intricate rugs, and the silver fish
of the sea. From distant lands came gold and spices, elvish arts and dwarvish
crafts, pearls and silks, and merfolk pottery unequaled in all Pandemia.
The city itself was beautiful and ancient. It was noted for its cruelty, and for
fine racing camels. It boasted of a history written in blood. Near the close of
A-Gun's Campaign, the young Draqu ak'Dranu had turned back the Imperial legions
at Arakkaran, and there they won their revenge nine centuries later under Omerki
the Merciless. During the Widow War, the city had withstood a siege of a
thousand and one days.
From the loud and overscented bustle of the markets, it climbed by slope and
precipice, in a tapestry of nacreous stone and flowering greenery. Trees had
wedged in every unused crevice, hanging welcome shadow over steep alleyways and
winding stairs. On the crest of the hill, celebrated in many ancient stories,
the Palace of Palms was a marvel of domes and spires and towers, graced with
lush parks and exotic gardens, as widespread in itself as many a respected town.
Throughout recorded history, a sultan of Arakkaran had ruled in that palace.
There had been many sultans; their names and deeds were uncountable as the
shells of the beaches. Some had held sway over half of Zark, while others had
barely controlled the docks. A few were celebrated for justice and wisdom; many
had been despots of a savagery to make the Gods recoil. No single family had
ever dominated for long, no dynasty prevailed; old age had rarely troubled them.
Whatever he had been-warrior or statesman, tyrant or scholar, poet or giver of
laws-every sultan of Arakkaran had invariably been renowned for his ferocity and
for the number and beauty of his women.