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

"He killed himself," a red-haired guard said as he nervously rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. "When I came to relieve him, there was this mark on his neck. I asked him what had happened to him, and he rattled off some story about a man that was big, about Forester's size, with red hair like mine, and an odd accent."

The guard stopped rocking for a moment and turned to Mourngrym. The dalelord nodded, and the guard continued his story. "He said this man came down the back stair-way and took the prisoners to see Lord Mourngrym." The redheaded guard paused for a second, then started rocking again. "When he finished telling me that, he took out his sword, smiled, and rammed it through his own throat, right where the mark was! That's just how it happened. I swear!"

The dalesmen remained silent but became aware that the prisoners were shouting from their cells. One voice was louder than the rest.

"I saw it!" a filthy, dark-haired mercenary shouted. "I saw it all!"

Mourngrym turned away from the dead man and walked to the cell of the prisoner.

"Cover him," Thurbal said, gesturing with his dragon's-head walking stick, and followed his liege to the cell. Kelemvor was close behind.

"What did you see?" Mourngrym said.

"Not so fast!" the prisoner snapped, his hands dangling from the bars. "What's in it for me?"

Mourngrym grabbed the prisoner's hand and yanked it sharply. The prisoner cried out as his face slammed against the rusted iron bars. Mourngrym's sword left its sheath with a blinding motion and stopped, poised just over the man's wrist.

"You get to keep your hand," Mourngrym snarled as another guard grabbed the prisoner's other hand before he could gouge Mourngrym's face. "Speak quickly, or I'll take you apart, starting with this hand!"

The prisoner stared into the blood-red face of the ruler of Shadowdale and quickly told all that he had witnessed the previous night.

"Cyric," Kelemvor said, hanging his head. "It must have been Cyric!"

There was a hoarse shout from the top of the stairs. "More bodies up here! Forester is dead!"

"Come with me," Mourngrym said to Kelemvor, and they hurried up the narrow stairway, crossed the hallway, and entered the audience chamber, where the trial had been held. A short, bald guardsman stood in the middle of the room, his sword drawn as if he expected trouble at any second. The guard's pudgy hands trembled as he led the dalelord and the fighter up a few narrow stairs to the rear of the small stage. Curtains bearing Mourngrym's coat of arms hung against the back wall. There was a small stain at the bottom of the red curtain. Forester's body had been left in the space directly behind Mourngrym's throne.

"Calliope, the maid, noticed the stain," the bald guard mumbled softly.

The dalelord shook with anger. "Search the tower." Mourngrym said, wringing his hands. "I want to know who else is ... missing."

Within the hour, Cyric's movements had been mapped out, and the missing boat was discovered. Mourngrym was suspicious of the guardsman at the bridge. The bodies of Se-

gert and Marcreg had been discovered near his post. The guard was led away to the dungeon for interrogation.

"Does this look like the work of your friend?" Mourngrym said as he crouched over Segert's body. He exposed the wound on the corpse's neck for emphasis.

"He was not a friend," Kelemvor said as he surveyed the corpse's wounds. "And, yes, it looks like Cyric's work."

There were shouts from the kitchen, and Kelemvor accompanied the dalelord back into the tower, to the kitchen. They found the cook pointing at the stairs that led to the storage room. The body of the young guard-in-training had been placed on a hook and dangled beside a number of butchered slabs of meat. Smears of chocolate and cherry still covered the lad's ashen face.

"Come with me," Mourngrym said, but Kelemvor remained standing at the door, staring at the young man's corpse. The dalelord gently put his hand on the fighter's shoulder and turned him away from the body. "We need to talk," Mourngrym said softly as he led Kelemvor to his private audience chamber.

The two men climbed a set of stairs. At the first landing, the dalelord unlocked a large oaken door and ushered Kelemvor into the room. Mourngrym's audience chamber was small but comfortable, with a few pieces of dark wooden furniture scattered about the room and brightly colored tapestries on the walls. A single, small opening admitted the weak morning sunlight from outside the tower.

The dalelord collapsed into a chair and started to wring his hands. "I need someone to find them, Kelemvor. Someone who is loyal to the causes of the Dales-freedom, justice, honor-and someone who knows how to find the butchers who did this to my men." Mourngrym stopped speaking, but he continued to wring his hands.

Kelemvor was too distraught to answer. Midnight, Cyric, and Adon had played him for a fool all along. That was the only thing that could explain their leaving the dale without him. Perhaps they were murderers after all.