"Janrae Frank - Dark Brothers of the Light 02 - Bloood Heresy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Frank Janrae)

Zyne sang, standing on the wooden, gambrel roof of a house in the Poor Quarter. She sang softly,
wanting it to carry only a few blocks. Her voice rose and fell, weaving a summons in the eerie notes of a
minor key. It would only affect the males, but there were other ways to bind the females to her in
worship. The sound spoke of promise, of hunger and need, laden with a seiryn's compelling eroticism.
Only Anksha could match her in allure. But Anksha could only take one at a time, while Zyne could take
many.

"Give up your will to me," she sang and the human males answered.

Throughout the Poor Quarter, they put aside their meals; put down their tools and ceased to work;
ceased their rutting; ceased their songs and drinking in the taverns: all things, all tasks, all needs and
desires went forgotten. They emerged from the buildings, gathering below her, their eyes drawn in solemn
worship of their new dark god. Zyne felt intoxicated, inhaling the vibrant energies of their adoration. Zyne
was meant to be served; her god was meant to be worshipped. She was the embodiment of her god,
waiting to birth her back into living existence.

"Males, give up your will to me. Poor weak sex. Tomorrow at this hour, bring me your women." She
flew down, choosing a young carpenter. She pulled him into her arms. "The rest of you, go." She carried
him off to the roof of the mage tower and let him scream deliciously as he died. Then she lay atop the
corpse for a long time, licking the dried-out, withered face with her sharp pointed tongue.
--Reach out, Zyne, reach out with your thoughts for the lesser bloods, the Ylesgaire. We must
summon my minions from the north and the east. Those who are scattered in far realms such as
Creeya and the remnants of Waejontor.--

There came a scratching like a thousand rats. Zyne rose and peered over the edge, looking down into the
hungry faces of dozens of lesser bloods. The Ylesgaire looked upon her with adoration in their twisted
faces, travesties of what they had been in life. Most wore the rotted remnants of their grave clothes
hanging in tattered shreds upon their cadaverous forms. Their huge tearing fangs overlapped their lower
lips. These had already been in the city. They had belonged to Hoon, controlled by him and his
necromancers. But that was no more. The Queen had come.

"Mine," she said. "You are all mine."

****

Throughout the city people emerged from their homes and businesses their eyes drawn to the abandoned
mage-tower and listened to the screaming like an omen of death and desolation. It should never have
carried so far, yet it had.

"What is going on, Mama?" a young girl asked, clutching at her mother's arm. She wore a patched brown
dress with gingham edgings; the hem brushed her calves and clung to her black stockings, which
descended into worn brown shoes. Her eyes were large in a narrow face and her dark brown hair hung
in twin braids down her back.

"I don't know, Seri. I don't want to know." She grabbed her daughter and retreated into her house to
close her windows and lock everything.

A gaunt, old priest, in the forest green and sienna of the Temple to Davera, who had been standing near
Seri and her mother, turned to the two younger men at his sides. "It has started. We must leave."