"David Eddings - The Legacy Of The Drow II - Starless Night" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eddings David)

disadvantage. Drizzt had come to see the mask as a lie, however useful it might be, and he simply could
not bring him to do it again, whatever the potential gain.
Or could he? Drizzt wondered then if he could refuse the gift. If the mask could aid his cause, a cause that
would likely affect those he was leaving behind then could he in good conscience refuse to wear it?
No, he decided at length, the mask was not that valuable to his cause. Three decades out of the city was a
long time, and he was not so remarkable in appearance, not so notorious, certainly, that he would be
recognized. He held out his upraised hand, denying the gift, and Regis, after one more unsuccessful try,
shrugged his little
shoulders, and put the mask away.
Drizzt left without another word. Many hours remained before dawn, torches burned low in the upper levels
of Mithril Hall, and few dwarves stirred. It seemed perfectly quiet, perfectly peaceful.
The dark elfтАЩs slender fingers, lightly touching, making not a sound, traced the grain of a wooden door. He
had no desire to disturb the person within, though he doubted that her sleep was very restful.
Every night, Drizzt wanted to go to her and comfort her, and yet he had not, for he knew that his words
would do little to soothe Catti-brieтАЩs grief. Like so many other nights when he had stood by
this door, a watchful, helpless guardian, the ranger ended up padding down the stone corridor, filtering
through the shadows of low dancing torches, his toe heel step making not a whisper of
sound.
With only a short pause at another door, the door of his dearest dwarven friend, Drizzt soon crossed out of
the living areas. He came into the formal gathering places, where the king of Mithril Hall entertained visiting
emissaries.
A couple of dwarves, DagnaтАЩs troops probably, were about in here, but they heard and saw nothing of the
drowтАЩs silent passing.
Drizzt paused again as he came to the entrance of the Hall of Dumathoin, wherein the dwarves of Clan
Battlehammer kept their most precious items. He knew that he should continue, get out of the place before
the clan began to stir, but he could not ignore the
emotions pulling at his heartstrings. He hadnтАЩt come to this hallowed hall in the two weeks since his drow kin
had been driven away, but he knew that he would never forgive himself if he didnтАЩt
take at least one look.
The mighty warhammer, Aegis fang, rested on a pillar at the center of the adorned hall, the place of highest
honor. It seemed fitting, for to DrizztтАЩs violet eyes, Aegis fang far outshone all the other
artifacts: the shining suits of mail, the great axes and helms of heroes
long dead, the anvil of a legendary smith. Drizzt smiled at the
notion that this warhammer hadnтАЩt even been wielded by a dwarf. It had been the weapon of Wulfgar,
DrizztтАЩs friend, who had willingly given his life so that the others of the tight band might survive.
Drizzt stared long and hard at the mighty weapon, at the gleaming mithril head, unscratched despite the
many vicious battles the hammer had seen and showing the perfectly etched sigils of the
dwarven god Dumathoin. The drowтАЩs gaze drifted down the item, settling on the dried blood on its dark
adamantite handle. Bruenor, so stubborn, hadnтАЩt allowed that blood to be cleaned away.
Memories of Wulfgar, of fighting beside the tall and strong, golden haired and golden skinned man flooded
through the drow, weakening his knees and his resolve. In his mind, Drizzt looked again into WulfgarтАЩs clear
eyes, the icy blue of the northern sky and always filled with an excited sparkle. Wulfgar had been just a boy,
his spirit undaunted by the harsh realitics of a brutal world.
Just a boy, but one who had willingly sacrificed everything, a song on his lips, for those he called his friends.
тАЬFarewell, тАЭ Drizzt whispered, and he was gone, running this time, though no more loudly than he had
walked before. In a few seconds, he crossed onto a balcony and down a flight of stairs, into a
widened high chamber. He crossed under the watchful eyes of Mithril HallтАЩs eight kings, their likenesses cut
into the stone wall.
The last of the busts, that of King Bruenor Battlehammer, was the most striking. Bruenor тАШs visage was stern,
a grim look intensified by a deep scar running from his forehead to his jawbone, and with his