"01 - Canticle - R A Salvatore 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cleric Quintet)

Barjin had become a priest and headed an army to fulfill his evil master's desire to conquer the whole of the northland. The plans had fallen through, though, when an order of paladins-Druzil hissed aloud when he read that cursed word-arose in Damara and organized an army of its own. Barjin's master and most of his cohorts had been thrown down, but Barjin had barely escaped with his life and a portion of the evil army's accumulated wealth.

Barjin had fled south, alone but for a few lackeys. Since his proclaimed "god" had been dispatched, his clerical powers had greatly diminished. Druzil spent a while musing over this revelation; nowhere did Barjin mention his claimed meeting with Talona's avatar.

The journal went on to tell of Barjin's joining the triumvirate at Castle Trinity-again with no mention of the avatar. Druzil snickered aloud at Barjin's opportunism. Even a year ago, coming in as a pitiful refugee, Barjin had duped Castle Trinity's leaders, had used their fanaticism against them.

After only a month in the castle, Barjin had ascended to the third rank in the priestly hierarchy, and after only a few more weeks, Barjin had taken over undisputed command as Talona's chief representative. And yet, Druzil realized as he flipped quickly through the pages, Barjin thought not enough about his goddess to give her more than a few passing references in his journal.

Aballister was correct: Barjin was a hypocrite, a fact that hardly seemed to matter. Again Druzil snickered aloud at the irony, at the pure chaos.

Druzil knew the rest of Barjin's story well enough; he had been present long before Barjin ever arrived. The journal, sadly, did not offer any further revelations, but the imp was not disappointed when he dosed the book; there were too many other items to be investigated.

Barjin's new vestments, a conical cap and expensive purple robes embroidered in red with the new insignia of the triumvirate, hung beside the bed. An offspring of Talona's symbol, the three teardrops inside a triangle's points, this one sported a trident, its three prongs tipped by teardrop-shaped bottles, much like the one carrying the chaos curse. Barjin had designed it personally, and only Ragnor had offered any resistance.

"So you do plan to spread the word of your god," Druzil muttered a few moments later when he discovered Barjin's bedroll, folded tent, and stuffed backpack under the bed. He reached for the items, then jumped back suddenly, sensing a presence in that pile. He felt the beginnings of a telepathic communication, but not from Aballister. Eagerly, the imp reached under the bed and pulled the items out, recognizing the telepathic source immediately as Barjin's magical mace.

"Screaming Maiden," Druzil said, echoing the item's telepathic declaration and examining the crafted item. Its obsidian head was that of a pretty young girl, strangely innocuous and appealing. Druzil saw through the grotesque facade. He knew this was not a weapon of the material plane, but one that had been forged in the Abyss, or in the Nine Hells, or in Tarterus, or in one of the other lower planes. It was sentient, obviously, and hungry. More than anything else, Druzil could feel its hunger, its blood-lust. He watched in joyful amazement as the mace enhanced that point, its obsidian head twisting into a leering visage, a fanged maw opening wide.

Druzil clapped his padded hands together and smiled wickedly. His respect for Barjin continued to mount, for any mortal capable of wielding such a weapon must be powerful indeed. Rumors around the fortress expressed disdain that Barjin did not favor the poisoned dagger, the usual weapon of Talona's clerics, but, seeing this mace up close and sensing its terrible power, Druzil agreed with the priest's choice.

Inside the rolled tent Druzil found a brazier and tripod nearly as intricate and rune-covered as Aballister's. "You are a sorcerer, too, Barjin," the imp whispered, wondering what future events that might imply. Already Druzil imagined what his life might be like if he had stepped through the brazier to Barjin's call instead of Aballister's.

The thick backpack held other wondrous items. Druzil found a deep, gem-encrusted bowl of beaten platinum, no doubt worth a king's fortune. Druzil placed it carefully on the floor and reached back into the pack, as exuberant as a hungry ore shoving its arm down a rat hole.

He pulled out a solid and heavy object, fist-sized and wrapped in black doth. Whatever was inside dearly emanated magical energies, and Druzil took care to lift only one comer of the doth to peek in. He beheld a huge black sapphire, recognized it as a necromancer's stone, and quickly rewrapped it in the shielding cloth. If exposed, such a stone could send out a call to the dead, summoning ghosts or ghouls, or any other netherworld monsters in the area.

Of similar magical properties was the small ceramic flask that Druzil inspected next. He unstoppered it and sniffed, sneezing as some ashes came into his ample nose.

"Ashes?" the imp whispered curiously, peering in. Under the black cloth, the necromancer's stone pulsed, and Druzil understood. "Long dead spirit," he muttered, quickly dosing the flask.

Nothing else showed to be of any particular interest, so Druzil carefully rewrapped and replaced everything as he had found it. He hopped up on the comfortable bed, secure with his invisibility, and relaxed, pondering all that he had learned. This Barjin was a diversified human-priest, wizard, general, dabbling in sorcery, necromancy, and who could guess what else.

"Yes, a very resourceful human," Druzil decided. He felt better about Barjin's involvement in the chaos curse. He checked in telepathically with Aballister for just a moment, to make certain that the meeting was in full swing, then congratulated himself on his cunning and folded his plump hands behind his head.

Soon he was fast asleep.



* * * * *



"We have only the one suitable bottle," said Aballister, representing the wizards. "The ever-smoking devices are difficult to create, requiring rare gems and metals, and we all know how costly it was to brew even a small amount of the elixir." He felt Barjin's stare boring into him at the reference to the cost.

"Do not speak of the Most Fatal Horror as an elixir," the clerical leader commanded. "Once it may have been just a magical potion, but now it is much more."

"Tuanta Quiro Miancay," chanted the other two priests, scarred and ugly men with blotchy tattoos covering nearly every inch of their exposed skin.

Aballister returned Barjin's glare. He wanted to scream at Barjin's hypocrisy, to shake the other clerics into action against him, but Aballister wisely checked his outburst. He knew that any accusations against Barjin would produce the opposite results and that he would become the target of the faithful. Druzil's estimation of Barjin had been correct, Aballister had to admit. The priest had indeed consolidated his power.