"02 - Tantras - Richard Awlinson 1.0.palmdoc.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Avatar Trilogy)

"Oh, perish the thought!" Lhaeo whispered and turned away with mock indignation.

Midnight grabbed Lhaeo by the shoulder and spun him around. The scribe's expression was serious, almost hard, as he gazed into the mage's eyes. "Why?" she said. "The townspeople would kill you if they found out."

Lhaeo stood up straight, and his voice deepened slightly."I could not allow you to be injured. I could not condone such a travesty of justice, milady." The scribe took Midnight's hand and kissed it. "Elminster trusted you to help him at the temple. You must be worthy of that trust."

Cyric looked up sharply. "Midnight, I might just leave you here with him to face Mourngrym if you don't hurry!"

"He's right," Lhaeo said softly. "You must go."

Midnight climbed into the boat. Lhaeo helped Cyric release the boat from its remaining moorings, and the scribe pushed the craft away from the dock. Then Lhaeo stood on the pier and waved once before disappearing into the darkness.

Cyric manned the oars at the center of the boat, his back turned to Midnight. As he rowed, the thief was forced to stare into the vacant eyes of the scarred cleric, who always seemed to avoid Cyric's angry stares. Utilizing the hand-over-hand method of rowing he had been taught during his years of traveling, Cyric started the boat moving, but, much to his surprise, not very quickly.

"What's going on here?" the thief cursed as he looked into the water. "Are we caught on something?" As he dropped his hand into the cold water of the Ashaba, Cyric realized what was wrong. The current was traveling in the wrong direction, forcing him to paddle against the flow of the river, even though they were moving downstream, away from Shadowdale.

Cyric cursed and slapped an oar against the water. A small wave sloshed into the boat, soaking Adon and Midnight. The mage cried out in surprise, but the cleric just sat there, letting his wet tunic hang on his slouched shoulders.

Cyric looked at Adon and cursed again. "This lump is only so much ballast," he sneered and flicked water into Adon's eyes. "All he'll be good for on this trip is making the rowing harder."

The hawk-nosed thief started to row again, and Midnight used a cloak to dab some of the water from Adon's face. "I know you can hear me, Adon," the mage whispered. "I still care. I won't let you get hurt."

When Adon failed to respond, Midnight frowned and wiped more water away from the cleric's face. She didn't notice the salty tears mixed with the cold drops from the Ashaba.



* * * * *



Kelemvor had stood in the windy courtyard much of the night. Sleep had been out of the question. Besides, the fighter had not been alone. Guards had been stationed to watch over the courtyard of Midnight and Adon's executions, and a small crowd of rowdy gawkers had decided to keep an all-night vigil. Watching the dalesmen laugh and make disgusting jokes about the event scheduled to occur at first light made Kelemvor sick at heart. The festive atmosphere that pervaded the killing grounds was horribly out of place.

The fires of Kelemvor's anger were fanned into a blaze of rage as workmen arrived at the courtyard and began to assemble a complex stage for the executions. The spectators had evidently been taken into prime consideration in the design of the stage. It was composed of two circular platforms that moved like opposing gears, constructed to display the victims for all who cared to see them. Columns jutted from the center of the platforms, with crude, metal hooks where wrists and ankles would be bound. There was a circular opening, not unlike the knot of a tree, midway down each column. Kelemvor realized with a shiver that the executioner's spikes would be driven through the holes, and into the bodies of the condemned-his former allies. It would be a slow, horrible death.

Kelemvor wasn't sure what he planned to do when the time for the execution actually arrived. He felt that he had to atone somehow for his failure to help Midnight at the trial. Still, the evidence given against Midnight and Adon at the trial had been so conclusive that the fighter was not even convinced that his friends were really innocent. It certainly was possible that Midnight had lost control of the powerful magic she wielded and accidentally caused Elminster's death. Kelemvor simply couldn't decide.

The first hint of dawn played across the horizon as a band of reddish gray light appeared in the distance. Kelemvor found himself standing beside a pair of guardsmen who struggled to hold back their yawns.

Suddenly a series of alarm gongs sounded from the Twisted Tower, and the guards shook themselves to battle readiness in a matter of seconds.

"The prisoners!" someone shouted from the tower. "They've escaped!"

"Kelemvor, come on!" one of the guards, an obese young man, shouted as he headed for the Twisted Tower. "We need every man we can get!"

The dalesmen still think of me as one of them, Kelemvor realized as he followed the guards to the main entrance of the tower and was admitted without a second glance, even though the irate villagers were held back. The door leading to the dungeon stood open, and Kelemvor and the overweight guard raced to the landing. From there, they saw a congregation of dalesmen in the cavernous chamber. Forcing his way through the crowd, Kelemvor stopped abruptly as he saw the solemn faces of Lord Mourngrym and Thurbal.

The reason for their distress sat propped upon a small stool at the head of the corridor leading to the holding cells. Kelemvor studied the wide-eyed expression of total bliss that graced the dead man's features, then looked down to see the hilt of the man's short sword protruding from his neck. The blade had been driven through the man with such force that the tip had pierced the mortar of the wall behind him, pinning the dead guard in place.

"Who killed him?" Kelemvor growled. His words broke the silence on the landing, and everyone turned to him.