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

"He wasn't," the cleric sighed. "But everyone who didn't leave town before the battle was armed."

Rhaymon carefully placed the flat scrap of wood that held his wax tablet on the wagon, along with his stylus. The tablet held a list of the dead who had been identified, which Rhaymon composed in rough shorthand. Later he would transfer the list to parchment. That would normally be done in his room at the Temple of Lathander, but the temple had been destroyed in the battle. The cleric frowned as he thought of the ruined temple.

"Let's get at it," Forester snapped. "I don't want to be out here when darkness comes."

Rhaymon grabbed the rotund corpse by the feet and helped the fighter toss it onto the wagon. As the cleric picked up his tablet and stylus again, a howl echoed through the woods. Rhaymon looked around nervously, but Forester chuckled softly and wiped his hands on his tunic.

"It's only a scavenger . . . some big cat or a wolf drawn by the smell of blood." Forester shook his head and turned to the next body. When he saw that it was a young Zhentish soldier dressed in the black armor of the Zhentilar, elite army of Zhentil Keep, the fighter cursed. He dragged the body to the side of the road, where it would remain until the men collecting the corpses of the Zhentish picked it up. But as Forester turned back toward the cleric, the Zhentilar moaned softly.

"Damn!" Forester hissed. "He's still alive." He moved to the unconscious Zhentish soldier, took out his dagger, and slit the young man's throat. "There's another who won't get away."

Rhaymon nodded in agreement and motioned for another dalesman to come and move the wagon a little farther up the road. Forester sat on the back of the wagon as it lurched into motion, and the cleric walked wearily behind, checking and rechecking his list. Before they had gone more than a few yards, though, they heard a shriek from the area they had just cleared. Rhaymon turned in time to see a ghostly image of the Zhentish soldier Forester had just killed rise above its corpse.

"You'll pay for what you've done!" the ghost cried, staring grimly at the man who had murdered him. "All the Dales will pay!"

Forester lost his balance on the wagon and tumbled into the road. Rhaymon tried to help the fighter to his feet, but before either of the dalesmen could flee, the ghost floated to their side. Forester looked up into the pale, angry eyes of the dead soldier and uttered a silent prayer.

Rhaymon, however, was not so quiet about it. "Begone!" the cleric shouted, holding his holy symbol-a rosy pink wooden disk-out toward the undead creature. "Lord Lathander, Morninglord, God of Spring and Renewal, help me to banish this undead creature to the Realm of the Dead!"

The ghost merely laughed, and Forester felt dizzy when he realized that he could see through the undead soldier to the charred ground and burned trees at the side of the road. He considered reaching for his dagger, hut he knew that it would be of little use against a spirit.

The ghost smiled broadly. "Come, come, Lathanderite. The gods are here in Faerun, not in the Planes. Lord Myrkul doesn't inhabit the Realm of the Dead now, so you shouldn't expect me to run off to an empty hell. Besides, since I don't see your god nearby, why do you expect your prayer to be answered?"

A small crowd of dalesmen had gathered around Forester, Rhaymon, and the ghost. Some had their weapons drawn, but most simply stood, watching the spectacle as they would a play at a fair. One man, a lean, hawk-nosed thief in a dark cloak, moved through the crowd to stand at Forester's side.

"So what are you going to do to us?" Cyric asked the ghost, spreading his arms wide. "No one fears a live Zhentish soldier here. A dead one is even less of a threat."

Forester looked up at Cyric. The dark-haired thief had been the fighter's commander during the Battle of Shadowdale. Cyric was a brilliant leader and had rallied the dalesmen against a huge force of Zhentish cavalry-a force led by the powerful Zhentish wizard, Fzoul Chembryl. Though Forester considered Cyric a great man and a champion of the dale, there were many who thought him suspect because of his friendship with the cleric and magic-user accused of Elminster's murder.

Rhaymon, who still held his holy symbol in front of him, and Forester, who still sat unceremoniously upon the ground, his hand near his dagger, felt a burst of cold air rush from the ghost as it moved toward Cyric. The crow's-feet around the thief's eyes deepened and multiplied as his eyes narrowed to slits. The ghost spread its arms wide to embrace Cyric as it moved toward him.

Cyric laughed as the ghost passed right through him.

"You're not a real undead creature," Cyric said through an evil grin. "You're just another product of the chaos in the Realms." The thief turned and started to stroll away.

The Zhentish soldier screamed once more, longer and louder than he had when he first emerged from his corpse, but no one paid any attention. Most of the dalesmen returned to their duties. A few headed back toward town. Rhaymon helped Forester up, and as soon as he was on his feet, the fighter ran down the road after Cyric. The apparition of the Zhentilar simply faded from view, whimpering and moaning as it disappeared.

"How . . . how did you know?" Forester gasped between panted breaths.

Cyric stopped for a moment and turned back to face the fighter. "Did you see anyone running away? Do you feel any older?"

A look of complete confusion crossed Forester's face. "Older? Of course not. Do I look older?"

"No. That's how I knew it wasn't an actual ghost. A real ghost, created when a truly evil man dies, is so frightening that those who look upon it age ten years in an instant. Ghosts radiate fear, too." Cyric shook his head when he saw that the fighter still didn't understand.

"Since you didn't look any older than you did when we were defending the bridge, and since none of the other dalesmen were running away, I figured it couldn't be real."

Forester still looked confused, but he nodded his head as if he understood completely. Cyric scowled. These dalesmen are idiots, he thought. "Look," the thief said at last, "I don't have time to give you a treatise about the undead. I need to find Kelemvor. I was told he came this way about two hours ago."