"Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Elminster 4 - Elminster In Hell" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenwood Ed)

The worlds roared. White-hot and all-devouring, the torrents of force spilling from the Weave
snarled all around the tumbling man, tugging at his robes and old limbs and heard alike as he spun along in
a roaring rush of air. What might have been the green trees of Shadowdale turned crazily above his head.
Beneath-or was it above? - his hooted feet stretched a blood-red, sunless sky. He'd seen it a time or two
before and had no desire ever to see again.
Streamers of noxious gas streaked that crimson dome like dirty clouds. They whirled to form what
looked like giant eyes staring down, eyes that were swept away before they could focus, only to form
anew, again and again. Beneath the ruby glow lay a dark nightmare land of bare rock and flumes of
sparks and gouting flame, where things slithered and scrambled half-seen in the shadows. Mountains
clawed the ruby sky. The Land of Teeth, Azuth had once aptly called it, surveying the endless jagged
rocks. This was the Greeting Ground, the realm of horror that had claimed the lives of countless mortals.
He was whirling along above Avernus, uppermost of the Nine Hells.
"Mystra," the tumbling man groaned. He called to Me all the magics on his body, bringing them to
tingling readiness in his fingertips.
Whether the Lady of die Weave heard and assisted him or not, life ahead was not going to be
pleasant for Elminster Aumar. He was going to have to spend all of his magic healing this rift, for the love
of Toril that so seldom loved him, be burned and blasted in the doing, perhaps fail and be torn apart-and
if he succeeded, plunge at the last down into Avernus, bereft of spells and defenseless.
Yet his duty was clear.
Dark, bat-winged shapes were already soaring aloft, beating their menacing way toward him,
seeking to plunge through the rift or tear it open farther, ere he could close it. The rift could be closed
only from this side, not from the more pleasant skies of Toril - and if he were to do it at all, he would
spend his magic so swiftly that he could not help making himself a bright beacon to all infernal eyes.
Those eyes were watching.
Oh, yes.
Elminster saw something huge and dark and dragon-winged rise from a distant mountain, spreading
leathery wings and trailing a long, long scaly tail as it rose ponderously into the sky of blood. Rose, and
turned his way...
Nearer at hand, lightning cracked and stabbed out of the edges of the rift. Glistening black devils
struggled to pluck it farther open... struggling, no doubt, under orders from unseen devils below.
The hurtling wizard saw the blue sky of Toril one last time. A mighty crash of lightning thrust
blinding-bright talons through devils. Sleek obsidian and crimson bodies twisted in pain as they burned,
their blood blazing up in red flames even as their scorched ashes fell to the uncaring rocks below.
"To Hell with ye all," Elminster murmured sardonically. He closed his hands into fists and drew forth
the silver fire within him, as small and precise an unleashing of it as he could manage. When the rift
closed, he'd almost certainly lose touch with the Weave and Mystra and be unable to regain magical
power. Silver fire consumed the rings and bracers and even the vestments he wore.
Strange singings and snartings filled his ears as enchantments dissolved, flowing through him to spin
in glowing blue-white flames around his hands The racing fires of his magics hummed with comforting
power as they crackled, spat, and grew stronger. The Old Mage's clothes became tatters. Ancient metal
bands around his fingers fell away in dust and were gone. His hat burst into a blue flame that sank down
into his long tresses. He called in its power. A dagger in one boot crumbled, then the boot itself. He said
a fond mental farewell to his favorite pipe ere it fell into ash. In its last tumbling moments IтАЩll spent tiny
bates of his precious magic to guide his fell, turning in the air to swoop back to the rift.
The scar was growing, spitting vicious lightning in all directions across the dark sky of Avernus.
Bolts arced across the bloody vault like so many angry stars streaking to fading fells. Far below, many
red, glistening eyes looked upward at the deadly splendor.
Lightning clawed the air nearby, and the gaunt old wizard sent forth blue fire from his fingertips to
snare it, or some part of it, to turn that raging energy to his task.
The bolt plucked him from the sky like a gnat caught in a gale, whirling him away. His teeth