"Jim Farris - Mage 2 - Raven of Yorindar" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farris Jim)

Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One About the Author
 One.

"...and then, in the year 1675 NCC, or one thousand, six hundred and seventy-five years after the
end of the Great War of Devastation by the New Common Calendar we use today, the Ancient
One again entered the realm of man. As one might expect from a creature of darkness and death,
the Ancient One chose to make their appearance by striding out of the blasted wastelands of
Hyperborea, and standing before the Great Wall. From there, the Ancient One did take the
prisoners of the War of the Twins, withered and frail old men who had served decades in prison,
and spirited them away to within the blasted desolation of Hyperborea, where the final penalty for
their hideous crimes awaited. It is said their deaths were painless... Though, once one realizes just
what these men had done, and just who was their executioner... A cold, inhuman creature who
has seen endless aeons pass before those night-black eyes... And when one thinks of the accursed,
barren, beast-ridden lands those miserable wretches were spirited away into... Well, that their
deaths were painless seems somewhat unlikely."

- Lord Caladis, The Eddasine Chronicles, 1817 NCC

The Great Wall loomed before me, a vast expanse of stone ninety cubits high and thirty cubits thick,
stretching as far as the eye could see east and west. On the other side of the wall, there was a green
scrubland, and the crystal-clear, babbling waters of the Wailing River. On my side of the wall, there was
nothing but the bleak, barren, blasted desolation of the Great Southern Dead Zone - league after league
of bare earth, blasted rock, and blowing dust.

I knew what the guards at the wall had to be thinking. 'Who or what is that black-robed, hooded woman
coming towards us out of the wastelands? Is it a ghost? Is it a witch? What is it?' I know if I was in their
shoes, I'd probably be wondering the same things. But I'd be wrong from the start. I, the person
approaching them, was neither ghost, nor witch - nor even woman, if the truth were known. I was
something these guards probably would never understand, even if I took the time to explain it to them. I
was a Hyperborean battle-mage, risen from the Void and inhabiting the body of this half-elf female they
saw slowly walking towards them out of the bleakness of the Hyperborean wastes. I was a great man,
once. Sixteen centuries ago, I had respect, honor, and wealth. Now, I had nothing - not even my
manhood. And here I was, about to perform the duty for King Darian, my friend, that was to a
Hyperborean the lowest possible work that could still be called honest, a task that to a Hyperborean was
only a small step above shoveling manure. Executioner.

I rolled my shoulders back, shaking off my maudlin thoughts. There was still the chance that this may
work out for the best. The deaths of these men would be used for the rebirth of my people, a race and
civilization cut short in the full of their bloom, over a millennia and a half before. My culture, my
civilization might rise again from the ashes like a phoenix, to face a brave new world. Though my task
today might be a low one, it behooved me to put my best face on it. I remembered King Darrak's
executioner - I'd seen him perform his duties several times in the public square of Wilanda-city. He
always held his head up beneath his hood. He did his duties with professionalism and pride, however low
and base they may have been. I would not skulk about and act ashamed before these guards. Despite
this body, I was still a Hyperborean male. I had my pride.