"R A Salvatore - Icewind Dale Trilogy 1 - Crystal Shard, The" - читать интересную книгу автора (Salvatore R. A)

But he wasn't overly dismayed. His own blackened nail was the strongest
effect he had ever gotten from that particular spell.



2

On the Banks of Maer Dualdon

Regis the halfling, the only one of his kind for hundreds of miles in
any direction, locked his fingers behind his head and leaned back against
the mossy blanket of the tree trunk. Regis was short, even by the standards
of his diminutive race, with the fluff of his curly brown locks barely
cresting the three-foot mark, but his belly was amply thickened by his love
of a good meal, or several, as the opportunities presented themselves.
The crooked stick that served as his fishing pole rose up above him,
clenched between two of his furry toes, and hung out over the quiet lake,
mirrored perfectly in the glassy surface of Maer Dualdon. Gentle ripples
rolled down the image as the red-painted wooden bobber began to dance
slightly. The line had floated in toward shore and hung limply in the
water, so Regis couldn't feel the fish nibbling at the bait. In seconds,
the hook was cleaned with no catch to show for it, but the halfling didn't
know, and it would be hours before he'd even bother to check. Not that he'd
have cared, anyway.
This trip was for leisure, not work. With winter coming on, Regis
figured that this might well be his last excursion of the year to the lake;
he didn't go in for winter fishing, like some of the fanatically greedy
humans of Ten-Towns. Besides, the halfling already had enough ivory stocked
up from other people's catches to keep him busy for all seven months of
snow. He was truly a credit to his less-than-ambitious race, carving out a
bit of civilization in a land where none existed, hundreds of miles from
the most remote settlement that could rightly be called a city. Other
halflings never came this far north, even during the summer months,
preferring the comfort of the southern climes. Regis, too, would have
gladly packed up his belongings and returned to the south, except for a
little problem he had with a certain guildmaster of a prominent thieves'
guild.
A four-inch block of the "white gold" lay beside the reclining halfling,
along with several delicate carving instruments. The beginnings of a
horse's muzzle marred the squareness of the block. Regis had meant to work
on the piece while he was fishing.
Regis meant to do a lot of things.
"Too fine a day," he had rationalized, an excuse that never seemed to
grow stale for him. This time, though, unlike so many others, it truly bore
credibility. It seemed as though the weather demons that bent this harsh
land to their iron will had taken a holiday, or perhaps they were just
gathering their strength for a brutal winter. The result was an autumn day
fitting for the civilized lands to the south. A rare day indeed for the
land that had come to be called Icewind Dale, a name well-earned by the
eastern breezes that always seemed to blow in, bringing with them the