"Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time 06 - Lord of Chaos" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jordan Robert)

Lord of Chaos - Book 6 of The Wheel of Time, By Robert Jordan

Prologue
The First Message

Demandred stepped out onto the black slopes of Shayol Ghul, and the gateway, a hole in reality's fabric, winked out
of existence. Above, roiling gray clouds hid the sky, an inverted sea of sluggish ashen waves crashing around the
mountain's hidden peak. Below, odd lights flashed across the barren valley, washed-out blues and reds, failing to
dispel the dusky murk that shrouded their source. Lightning streaked up at the clouds, and slow thunder rolled.
Across the slope steam and smoke rose from scattered vents, some holes as small as a man's hand and some large
enough to swallow ten men.
He released the One Power immediately, and with the vanished sweetness went the heightened senses that made
everything sharper, clearer. The absence of saidin left him hollow, yet here only a fool would even appear ready to
channel. Besides, here only a fool would want to see or smell or feel too clearly.
In what was now called the Age of Legends, this had been an idyllic island in a cool sea, a favorite of those who
enjoyed the rustic. Despite the steam it was bitter cold, now; he did not allow himself to feel it, but instinct made
him pull his fur-lined velvet cloak closer. Feathery mist marked his breath, barely visible before the air drank it. A
few hundred leagues north the world was pure ice, but Thakan'dar was always dry as any desert, though always
wrapped in winter.
There was water, of a sort, an inky rivulet oozing down the rocky slope beside a gray-roofed forge. Hammers rang
inside, and with every ring, white light flared in the cramped windows. A ragged woman crouched in a hopeless
heap against the forge's rough stone wall, clutching a babe in her arms, and a spindly girl buried her face in the
woman's skirts. Prisoners from a raid down into the Borderlands, no doubt. But so few; the Myrddraal must be
gnashing their teeth. Their blades failed after a time and had to be replaced, no matter that raids into the
Borderlands had been curtailed.
One of the forgers emerged, a thick slow-moving man shape that seemed hacked out of the mountain. The forgers
were not truly alive; carried any distance from Shayol Ghul, they turned to stone, or dust. Nor were they smiths as
such; they made nothing but the swords. This one's two hands, held a sword blade in long tongs, a blade already
quenched, pale like moonlit snow. Alive or not, the forger took care as it dipped the gleaming metal into the dark
stream. Whatever semblance of life it had could be ended by the touch of that water. When the metal came out
again, it was dead black. But the making was not done yet. The forger shuffled back inside, and suddenly a man's
voice raised a desperate shout.
"No! No! NO!" He shrieked then, the sound dwindling away without losing intensity, as though the screamer had
been yanked into unimaginably far distance. Now the blade was done.
Once more a forger appearedтАФ perhaps the same, perhaps anotherтАФ and hauled the woman to her feet. Woman,
babe and child began to wail, but the infant was pulled away and shoved into the girl's arms. At last the woman
found a scrap of resistance. Weeping, she kicked wildly, clawed at the forger. It paid no more mind than stone
would have. The woman's cries vanished as soon as she was inside. The hammers began ringing again, drowning
the sobs of the children.
One blade made, one making, and two to come. Demandred had never before seen fewer than fifty prisoners
waiting to give their mite to the Great Lord of the Dark. The Myrddraal must be gnashing their teeth, indeed.
"Do you loiter when you have been summoned by the Great Lord?" The voice sounded like rotted leather
crumbling.
Demandred turned slowlyтАФ how dare a Halfman address him in that toneтАФ but the quelling words died in his
mouth. It was not the eyeless stare of its pasty-pale face; a Myrddraal's gaze struck fear in any man, but he had
rooted fear out of himself long ago. Rather, it was the black-clad creature itself. Every Myrddraal was the height of
a tall man, a sinuous imitation of a man, as alike as though cast in one mold. This one stood head and shoulders
taller.
"I will take you to the Great Lord," the Myrddraal said. "I am Shaidar Haran." It turned away and began climbing
the mountain, like a serpent in its fluid motion. Its inky cloak hung unnaturally still, without even a ripple.