"Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Elminster 1 - The Making of a Mage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenwood Ed)

near at hand, but the lone rider showed no fear. Her calm would have raised the eyebrows of the hardened knights who
dared ride this road only in large, well-armed patrolsтАФand their wary surprise would not have ended there. The lady
rode easily, a long cloak swirling around her, time and again flapping around her hips and hampering her sword arm.
Only a fool would allow such a thingтАФbut this tall, lean lady rode the perilous road without even a sword at her hip. A
patrol of knights would have judged her either a madwoman or a sorceress and reached for their blades accordingly.
They'd not have been wrong.
She was Myrjala 'Darkeyes,' as the silvern sigil on her cloak proclaimed. Myrjala was feared for her wild ways as
much as for the might of her magic, but though all folk feared her, many farmers and townsfolk loved her. Proud lords
in castles did not; she'd been known to hurl down cruel barons and plundering knights like a vengeful whirlwind,
leaving blazing bodies in dark warning to others. In some places she was most unwel-come.
As night's full gloom fell on the road, Myrjala slowed her horse, twisted in her saddle, and did off her cloak. She
spoke a single soft word, and the cloth twisted in her hands, changing from its usual dark green to a russet hue. The
silver mage-sigil slithered and writhed like an angry snake and became a pair of entwined golden trumpets.
The transformation did not end with the cloak. Myrjala's long curls darkened and shrank about her
shouldersтАФshoulders sud-denly alive and broadening with roiling humps of muscle. The hands that donned the cloak
again had become hairy and stubby fingered. They plucked a scabbarded blade out from the pack be-hind the saddle
and belted it on. Thus armed, the man in the saddle arranged his cloak so its newly shaped herald badge could be
clearly seen, listened to the wolf howl againтАФcloser nowтАФand calmly urged his mount forward at a trot, over one last
hill. Ahead lay a castle where a spy dined this nightтАФa spy for the evil wizards bent on seizing the Stag Throne of
Athalan-tar. That realm lay not far off to the east. The man in the saddle stroked his elegant beard and spurred his
horse onward. Where the most feared sorceress in these lands might be met with ar-rows and ready blades, a lord
herald was always welcome. Yet magic was the best blade against a wizard's spy.
The guards were lighting the lamps over the gate as the her-ald's horse clottered over the wooden drawbridge. The
badge on his cloak and tabard were recognized, and he was greeted with quiet courtesy by the gate guards. A bell
tolled once within, and the knight of the gate bade him hasten in to the evening feast.
"Be welcome in Morlin Castle, if ye come in peace."
The herald bowed his head in the usual silent response.
" 'Tis a long way from Tavaray, Lord Herald; ye must know hunger," the knight added less formally, helping him
down from his mount. The herald took a few slow steps, awkward with saddle stiffness, and smiled thinly.
Startling dark eyes rose to meet those of the knight. "Oh, I've come much farther than that," the herald said softly,
nodded a wordless farewell, and strode away into the castle. He walked like a man who knew his wayтАФand
welcomeтАФwell.
The knight watched him go, face expressionless in puzzle-ment. An armsman nearby leaned close and murmured,
"No spurs ... and no esquires or armsmen. What manner of herald is this?"
The knight of the gate shrugged. "If he lost them on the road or there's some other tale of interest, we'll know it
soon enough. See to his horse." He turned, then stiffened in fresh surprise. The herald's horse was standing near and
watching him, for all the world as if it were listening to their talk. It nodded and took a half step to bring its reins
smoothly to the armsman's hand. The men exchanged wary glances before the armsman led it away.
The knight watched them for a moment before shrugging and striding back to the mouth of the gate. There'd be
much talk on watch later, whatever befell. Out in the night nearby, a wolf howled again. One of the horses snorted and
stamped nervously.
Then a window in the castle above flickered with sudden lightтАФmagical light from a battle spell, and the battle
was joined. There was a terrific commotion within, scattering plates and overturned tables, shrieks of serving maids
and roars of flame. Next moment, these sounds were joined by the shouts of the knights in the courtyard below.
That had been no herald, and from the sound and smell of it, others within the castle were not what they seemed,
either. The knight gritted his teeth and clenched his sword, starting for the keep. If Morlin fell to these wicked
spell-slingers, would the Stag King fall next? And if all Athalantar fell, there would be years upon years of sorcerous
tyranny. Aye, there would be ruin and misery ahead.... And who could ever rise to oppose these mage-lords?
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