"01 - Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moonshae)

DARKWALKER
ON MOONSHAE
Douglas Niles
PRELUDE

THE GODDESS AWAKENED slowly from her cold sleep, awareness returning as the chill blanket of the passing season fell away. Turning with imperial grace, she sought the life-giving force of the renewed sun.
Soon she felt its warmth upon the long and gravelly beaches of her coastlines, and upon the stagnant expanses of her low, flat marshes. Slowly, the sun drove winter's blanket from the rolling moors and tilled fields.
The white mantle remained thick and heavy among the forests and glens of the goddess, and the highlands still showed no sign of acknowledging winter's end. This was all as it should be, and the goddess rejoiced in the growing vitality of her body, the earth.
She had grown smaller, of late, but her strength was great. Her lands, though threatened, were in the capable care of her druids, and even the harbingers of the new gods treated her with a certain deference. In the Moonwells - places where her power flowed directly from her spirit to her body - water of high magic lay clear and pristine among thick pines, and in rocky clefts.
Cool seas bathed her lands, cleansing the debris and decay left by the passing of winter. The goddess saw that her children still slept peacefully. They could, she hoped, sleep long years still before she needed to call them.
Through the Moonwells, she saw the clearing skies. No longer did the heavy, iron-gray stormclouds oppress her. The Ffolk were active, preparing for a new season of growth. The druids moved among the trees and mountains of her wild reaches, restoring places where winter had disrupted the Balance.
Yet, as she threw off her blanket, she felt a sudden, stabbing pain, penetrating deep within her. Hot and threatening, the injury seemed ready to spread like a cancer through her self.
One of the Moonwells was the source of the pain. Instead of providing a window into the world, full of cool and healthy power, the well burned like a poisoned wound. Very black, it blocked the light and absorbed her power, instead of nourishing it. As she awakened, the goddess felt fear.
And she knew that, once again, the Beast would stalk the land.







BOOK I


I
EQUINOX

THE FIELDS AROUND Caer Corwell beckoned brightly, as colored tents, proud banners, and gay costumes all competed for the eye of the fairgoer. The Festival of the Spring Equinox signaled the end of winter, and the beginning of a season of new hope and promise. To such an event, the Ffolk would come from throughout the Kingdom of Corwell, and even beyond, to join the celebration.
The deep harbor at the terminus of Corwell Firth bristled with masts. The deep, sturdy coracles of the Ffolk bobbed next to sleek longships of the northmen, and both were dwarfed by the looming decks of Calishite trading galleons.
Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell, forced his way through the crowd eagerly, barely absorbing the sights and sounds all around him. A troop of Calishite jugglers stood among the crowd, each deftly controlling a ring of glittering scimitars. Tristan, impatient, passed around the jugglers without seeing them. He ignored the hawkers of bright silk, though the oily Calishite trader sold colors never before imagined in Corwell. In his haste, he even passed the booths where the skilled armorsmiths of Caer Calidyrr displayed shining steel swords.
"Hello, Tristan!" called one of the farmers, arranging jugs of milk on a table before him.
"Good morning," added a fisherman from the village.
And so it went as he passed through the crowd, receiving polite and friendly greetings from most of the Ffolk. As usual, Tristan felt a brief flash of annoyance, for no one addressed him by his title.
Just once, he would like to hear "Hello, my prince!" or something equally appropriate.
But then he shrugged these thoughts away, just as he shrugged away all serious thought of his rank, and the responsibilities of his name. One day, perhaps, he would give some thought to the duties he would eventually face as king, but today... today he had a mission here at the fair!
His step speeded up, and pretty country maids, in fresh gowns of light linen, smiled coyly at him. The prince felt very dashing, reflexively stroking the new coat of hair upon his chin. His first beard had grown in full and curling, slightly darker in color than his wavy brown hair. His new woolen cloak and leather trousers looked clean and shiny against his black leather boots.
He felt alert and alive, full of spring fever.
Passing from the tents and stalls of the goods merchants, Tristan moved between corrals and pens, ignoring the sheep, the cattle, and even the horses. Finally, he reached an expanse of clustered pens, and here he found his objective.
"Greetings, my liege," piped a cheerful voice, and Tristan smiled at the advancing form of Pawldo, the halfling.
"It's good to see you, my friend," the prince said sincerely, clasping the diminutive man's hand. "I'm glad you made it back from your winter voyages safely."
Pawldo beamed at the greeting, but his eyes held a hint of avarice. The halfling was a stout and sturdy little man, perhaps an inch or two over three feet in height. He wore a weathered leather jacket and old, but well-oiled boots. His gray hair hung over his ears and collar, and his smiling face was clean-shaven and free of wrinkles, though Pawldo was over sixty years old.
Halflings lived on all the Isles of the Moonshaes, mostly as neighbors to human settlements. Although they were one of the original races, along with the dwarves and the Llewyrr elves, to inhabit the islands, they had adapted well to the coming of humans. Now, they profited from business dealings with the Ffolk, and benefited from the protection afforded by nearby castles.
"And how are you, old crook?" asked the prince.
"Very well, and better soon, when I've had a chance to part you from your purse!" responded Pawldo. The halfling, shrewdly eyeing the leather pouch hanging from Tristan's belt, quickly concealed a smile of satisfaction.
Tristan could not suppress a surge of affection for his old companion. Pawldo ostensibly lived in Lowhill, the community of halfling burrows a mere mile from Caer Corwell. The hardy old adventurer, however, spent most of the year traveling about the Moonshae Islands and the rest of the world in pursuit of profit, so the prince saw very little of him. Unlike most halflings, who were content to enjoy the pastoral comforts of their burrows, pantries, and wine cellars, Pawldo lived a life of excitement and travel.
"I've spent the winter scouring the Sword Coast and the Moonshaes, collecting the finest lot of dogs you've ever seen. And I found the one for you, just to the west of here - on the Isle of Moray. You won't be able to resist him!" Again Pawldo smiled, with a slight twist to the corners of his mouth.
"Let's have a look at him," said Tristan, directing his attention to the small pen behind Pawldo.
This year Pawldo was a dealer in hounds, and as usual, his goods were offered in an assortment of styles, for a variety of purses. Even as his eyes passed quickly over the collection of bored dogs lying in the sun, Tristan saw the one magnificent animal, caught his breath, and whistled.
Trying to sound casual, he said, "Not a bad-looking dog."