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

"One more ingredient," whispered the anxious imp, sharing none of Percival master's doubts. "Add the yote, then we may release the smoke."

"It is not to be imbibed?" Aballister asked.

Druzil paled noticeably. "No, master, not that," he rasped. "The consequences are too grave. Too grave!"

Aballister spent a long moment studying the imp. In the two years Druzil had been beside him, he could not recall ever seeing the imp so badly shaken. The wizard walked across the room to a cabinet and produced a second bottle, smaller than the plain one holding the potion, but intricately decorated with countless magical runes. When Aballister pulled off the stopper, a steady stream of smoke issued forth.

"It is ever-smoking," the wizard explained. "A minor item of magical ..."

"I know," Druzil interrupted. "And I have already come to know that the flask will mate correctly with our potion."

Aballister started to ask how Druzil could possibly know that, how Druzil could even know about his ever-smoking bottle, but he held his questions, remembering that the mischievous imp had contacts on other planes that could answer many things.

"Could you create more of those?" Druzil asked, indicating the wondrous bottle.

Aballister gritted his teeth at yet another added expense, and his expression alone answered the question.

"The chaos curse is best served in mist, and with its magical properties, the bottle will continue to spew it forth for many years, though its range will be limited," Druzil explained. "Another container will be necessary if we mean to spread the intoxicant properly."

"Intoxicant?" Aballister balked, on the verge of rage. Druzil gave a quick flap of his leathery wings, putting him farther across the room from Aballister-not that distance mattered much where the powerful wizard was concerned.

"Intoxicant?" Aballister said again. "My dear, dear Druzil, do you mean to tell me that we have spent a fortune in gold, that I have groveled before Barjin and those utterly wretched priests, just to mix a batch of elvish wine?"

"Bene tellemara," came the imp's exasperated reply. "You still do not understand what we have created? Elvish wine?"

"Dwarvish mead, then?" Aballister snarled sarcastically. He took up his staff and advanced a threatening step.

"You do not understand what will happen when it is loosed," Druzil barked derisively.

"Do tell me."

Druzil snapped his wings over his face, then back behind him again, a movement that plainly revealed his frustration. "It will invade the hearts of our targets," the imp explained, "and exaggerate their desires. Simple impulses will become god-given commands. None will be affected in quite the same way, nor will the effects remain consistent to any one victim. Purely chaotic! Those affected will ..."

Aballister raised a hand to stop him, needing no further explanation.

"I have given you power beyond your greatest hopes!" the imp growled forcefully. "Have you forgotten Talona's promise?"

"The avatar only suggested that I summon you," Aballister countered, "and only hinted that you might possess something of value."

"You cannot begin to understand the potency of the chaos curse," Druzil replied smugly. "All the races of the region will be yours to control when their own inner controls have been destroyed. Chaos is a beautiful thing, mortal master, a force of destruction and conquest, the ultimate disease, the Most Fatal Horror. Orchestrating chaos brings power to he who remains beyond its crippling grip!"

Aballister leaned on his staff and looked away. He had to believe Druzil, and yet he feared to believe. He had given so much to this unknown recipe.

"You must learn," the imp said, seeing that Aballister was not impressed. "If we are to succeed, then you must believe." He folded his leathery wings over his head for a moment, burying himself in thought. "That young fighter, the arrogant one?" he asked suddenly.

"Haverly," Aballister answered.

"He thinks himself Ragnor's better," Druzil said, a wicked, toothy smile spreading over his face. "He desires Ragnor's death so that he might assume captainship of the fighters."