"James Lowder - The Harpers 05 - The Ring of Winter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lowder James)

Cormyr's wealthy. These men and women were often more pedigreed than brave. Their patronage
financed the expeditions of the legitimate members, but they lessened the prestige of the society. Artus
referred to these members as Warts, not Stalwarts.
It was at that moment, as Artus silently lamented the foolishness around him, that one of the most
obvious Warts made the worst mistake of her life.
"Here, old fellow," an elfmaid drawled. "I hear tell Theron is back from Chult. Had another breakdown,
don't you know." She detached herself from a small group of sniggering nobles and sauntered toward Artus.
"It wouldn't surprise me if his mind's gone for good this time." As an afterthought, she added, "Poor fellow."
Fighting to hide his surprise at the news of Theron Silvermace's return, Artus said coldly, "The only thing
that could drive someone like Theron mad would be to spend too much time around the likes of you, Ariast."
He turned his back on the woman. The eldest daughter of a family that could trace its roots back to the
rulers of fabled Myth Drannor, Ariast prided herself on being haughty. She held the workaday members of
the club in as little regard as they held her. Like many Warts, she gloried in any gossip that tarnished an
older explorer's reputation. Theron Silvermace, in particular, was a favorite target, especially after the
crusty old soldier had suffered a mental collapse after escaping from a drow prison in the nightmarish
underground city of Menzoberranzan.
"There's no need to be so rude, Artus," the elfmaid said, her sweet voice full of contempt.
Artus heard her stifle a chuckle. This will be trouble, he noted angrily. Ariast was known for casting
cantrips on those who slighted her; the minor spells were mostly harmless, intended to embarrass the victim
more than harm him. He turned to face her, hoping to give her pause before she made him belch or trip or
laugh uncontrollably.
What he saw was not the pretty young elfmaid in the midst of an incantation, but the muscled back of a
four-armed man standing well over seven feet tall.
"Skuld, no!"
He was too late. Before either Artus or Ariast could react, the spirit guardian grabbed the elfmaid by the
wrists. "You will now know better than to harm my master, witch," Skuld hissed through filed teeth. With a
quick flex, he crushed both her wrists.
Ariast's wail of pain brought the room to a standstill, but only for an instant. Within seconds, a dozen
mages had launched spells meant to contain the spirit. Glowing spheres of blue and gold energy pelted the
silver-skinned giant. A snaking band of light wrapped around him, then fell harmlessly away. Skuld's
laughter at the magical onslaught was like the jingling of his earrings, high and musical. He tossed Ariast
aside like a broken doll and prepared to defend himself against two swordsmen who were moving warily
toward him.
All this time, Artus tried frantically to make the spirit return to the amulet. He shouted orders. When that
didn't work, he clasped his hands together and hammered Skuld's back. The spirit guardian did nothing to
stop Artus, but he didn't follow his commands either. It was only when Uther appeared at Artus's side that
Skuld paused.
"Please step aside, Master Cimber," the butler warned. His slitted eyes were narrowed as he
approached the spirit. He lowered his magnificent horns and prepared to charge. "I will take care of this
ruffian."
Skuld dropped his four hands to his sides, a look of surprise on his face. "You, a beast from the pit, call
this little worm master?" The spirit looked at Artus and bowed respectfully. "I have underestimated you, O
mighty one. Forgive this humble slave."
That said, the spirit guardian faded into a silver cloud and flew into the medallion.
Swords found their sheaths, and mages carefully placed the components for spells back into their
pockets. Uther calmly righted a table and went to help Ariast. "Hey," one of the Stalwarts said to the butler,
"that thing thought you were from the Abyss!"
Uther studied the man for a moment, then surveyed the chaos in the library. "There are times, sir," he
said blandly as he helped the whimpering Ariast to her feet, "when I myself am forced to wonder if I'm not
a willing denizen of the pit."