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

"And there, as if the rest of this wretchedness is not enough, the final blow is struck." Friar Nolan's pudgy finger, quivering with indignation, pointed across the aisle.
Tristan suppressed a smile as he understood the reason for the cleric's distress. Friar Nolan's tent, dedicated to the greater glory of the new gods, stood directly across the walkway from the central grove of the druids. The large stone arch draped with mistletoe, which provided entrance to the grove, could not have been more of an affront to the easily affronted cleric.
"An unfortunate placement," commiserated the prince, but already he saw that Robyn was getting away again. "Excuse me, but, you understand," he apologized as he raced on.
Robyn passed through the arch and entered the druids' grove, with Daryth and Tristan right behind.
The grove was quiet, and very dark. Although central to the festival grounds, the grove seemed a world removed from the madness and noise of the revelry.
Robyn moved slowly, almost reverently, into the grove. She paused briefly under the arch, bowing her head and whispering something softly. Then she stepped forward, seeming to glide across the soft grass toward the heart of the grove.
"What is this place?" Daryth asked, instinctively lowering his voice to a whisper.
"This is the Corwell grove - of the druids," the prince explained. "At the center of the grove is a Moonwell - a magical pool of water. The grove itself is sacred - the trees cannot be cut, and no animal entering here may be harmed."
"Your religion sounds like an important part of your lives," remarked the Calishite.
"Perhaps. Robyn spends a lot of time here. She says it calms her. Sometimes she studies with the druids, I guess."
"Oh?" Daryth raised his eyebrows and peered into the shadows before them. "No wonder she appears to know where she's going, while I can't even see my nose in front of me!"
"Follow me," the prince said. He stepped forward confidently, and tripped over a root. Only Daryth's quick grasp of his cloak prevented him from sprawling headlong.
"Can't you be careful?" Robyn's voice was sharp but hushed, as she returned to the men. "Come with me, carefully."
They advanced slowly until their eyes adjusted and they saw that the scene, in fact, was illuminated.
The source of the light, Daryth saw, was a milky pool of water. Surrounding the pool was a ring of tall, broad oak trees. The branches were so thick that they blocked out the light of the full moon.
"Tomorrow, the druids will celebrate the spring equinox here," explained Robyn.
Suddenly, Tristan saw a shadow of movement among the trees around them. Whirling, he saw several hooded shapes emerge into the faint illumination of the Moonwell. The druids were here, he realized, and he wondered why the fact should have surprised him. The figures moved forward with stately grace. Each was concealed, head to toes, in a dark robe.
"Prince of Corwell," spoke the tallest of the robed figures. His voice was rich and deep, but unpracticed, as if he spoke but little. "We have expected you."
"But how..." Tristan began, confused.
"I knew it!" Robyn interjected. "It wasn't accident that I felt compelled to enter the grove. And I brought you here!" she said to Tristan, proud of herself.
Daryth had jerked around at the appearance of the figures, his body shaking. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"These are the druids," explained Robyn calmly. "And please, keep your voice down!"
"And you, my child," said another figure. Tristan was startled to see a pleasantly rounded older woman. Unlike the other druids, her hood was thrown back to reveal a plump, lined face, and a warm smile. She looked kindly at Robyn. "My, how time..." her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat.
The other druids remained silent as she looked the trio over. Then she stepped back, nodding slightly to the druid who had spoken first.
"Know this, Prince of the Ffolk," said the tall man in a serious voice, "the images in the well foretell a summer of peril, and an autumn of tragedy. You will earn the right to rule, in this summer, or the tragedy will be upon your shoulders."
"Why? What peril? What are you -"
"The Moonshaes face a dire threat - a menace that thwarts even the power of the goddess. Whether you are the means to end that threat, or will become an agent of its triumph, we cannot yet see."
The woman interrupted the druid, and Tristan noticed that the man quickly deferred to her.
"Oh, such stuff!" she exclaimed. "Yes, of course it will be unpleasant. You might even get killed. But you might not, too! And, my word, it's time someone drew the Sword of Cymrych Hugh again. Just," she concluded, her voice growing tender, "be very careful, please!"
She turned away, and the prince caught the sparkle of moisture in her eyes. Something in the way she looked at Robyn as she moved away caught his interest. And the girl, he saw, watched the departing druidess with an expression of awe.
Then the male druid caught Tristan's attention again.
"Beware, Prince of Corwell, and care well for your companions. The shadow of a mighty evil falls across your path. You must decide whether to drive it back, with light, or be swallowed by its darkness!" The voice rose with power and urgency, until it finally rang throughout the grove like the thrumming of a heavy drum.
"Wait... " The prince wanted to question the mysterious figure, but suddenly he saw nothing before him but shifting shadows, rippling fantastically in the white aura from the Moonwell.

* * * * *

The Beast, still walking upright in the body of the woman, left the festival throng and moved across the moor, its strength rekindled by its recent feast.
Day or night meant nothing to Kazgoroth. The monster walked always northward as moors gave way to craggy hills. Even the deep snow which still lay among these jagged and stony obstacles proved undaunting. Kazgoroth, with a weight much greater than a woman's, sank through the snow to the ground beneath. Unflinchingly, the female human body plowed a furrow through the deepest drifts.
Finally the monster reached the crest of the low range, and saw the rolling terrain of central Gwynneth spread before it. The crisp spring sunshine glinted off hundreds of rocky peaks, which stretched to the far horizon around a vast, tree-filled bowl. In the center of the bowl, the deep waters of Myrloch also glinted brightly in the sunshine. The flickering ripples of the lake struck pain into the monster's eyes, and it looked away.
Myrloch, Kazgoroth's dim consciousness realized that the lake was still the preserve of the goddess. Central Gwynneth had always been her strongest domain. It was here that the remnants of the Llewyrr fled when they lost their hopeless struggle against the humans for the realms of Moonshae.
The Ffolk believed that the elves called Llewyrr had died out in the Moonshaes; the Beast knew this was not the case. Myrloch Vale hosted populations of dwarves and Firbolgs who preferred to keep their distance from humans. But living also within the secret places of Myrloch Vale were, Kazgoroth knew, communities of Llewyrr. The Beast would avoid these, as their potent magic was one of the few forces upon Gwynneth that gave the monster cause for concern.
The Beast was not yet ready to strike. Shrewd enough to know it needed to acquire more allies, it was on its way to find them. Still in human form, Kazgoroth began the descent into the broad basin. It had no particular business in Myrloch Vale, yet the place stood across its path, and thus the land would bear its passage.
Days of march slowly drained Kazgoroth's strength, and the monster felt a flare of annoyance. The time fast approached when the Beast would need to feast, and so it carried itself with new vigilance, seeking a victim to sate its gnawing hunger.
And soon it found what it sought. Seeing the man alone in the woods, the monster's awakening subconscious suggested a ruse. The female body shrank, twisting eerily into a new shape. Though smaller and more dainty, the body still retained its female roundess and flowing, golden locks.
Flitting lightly through the woods, Kazgoroth moved forward to the kill.

* * * * *

The cool waters pressed heavily against the floor of the sea, far out of range of the sun's warmth. Here, the world knew neither winter nor summer, day nor night. There was only the cool darkness, the eternal darkness that cloaked a region nearly devoid of life.
Yet the goddess's call reached through the pressure of the depths, persistently nudging at the one of her children who slept here. At first, the message was ignored, and the one who was called slept on. Another century or more might pass before the creature stirred.