"Douglas Niles - Forgotten Realms - Viperhand" - читать интересную книгу автора (Niles Douglas)

At the bottom of the valley, a small blue pool, surrounded by green ferns,
grass, and a few stunted palm trees, reflected the suddenly softened rays of
the sun. A gentle wisp of wind formed ripples across its smooth surface, and
from them, the sunlight glinted like cool diamond.
Shrouded in dark cloth, the Ancestor approached the caldron of the Darkfyre.
The slender figure moved slowly, but with none of the stiffness common to an
elderly human. In a sudden gesture, he threw back his hood, allowing the
crimson light of that infernal blaze to wash over his stark, pinched face.
His dark features stretched taut over his narrow skull, and his white hair
clung to his scalp, too thin to conceal the shiny black skin below. The
Ancestor's nostrils flared with his breathing, and his thin lips parted
slightly to reveal white teeth in red, clearly visible gums. His arms and legs
seemed nothing more than bone, covered with tight skin. He was an image of
death, a gaunt, skeletal figure propped up by some unseen force.
Except for his eyes. All of his energy seemed to focus in those wide, white
orbs, reflecting the dim glow of the Darkfyre and amplifying it with heat of
their own. He stared in relish at the unnatural blaze.
"The fire of true power!" hissed the ancient drow, his voice rasping like wind
through dry leaves.
He watched the Harvesters now, as they fed hearts to the blaze. The Harvesters
were young drow, not yet ready for the exalted order of the Ancient Ones, but
dedicated to the attainment of that rank. Now they worked diligently,
tele-porting nightly across the land of Maztica to the sacrificial altars of
bloody Zaltec, reaping the hearts torn from human
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DOUGLAS NILES
victims in the sunset rites.
These grisly tokens of Zaltec's faith were brought here to feed the infernal
appetite of the Darkfyre. The god's hunger, dictated to the priests by the
Ancient Ones, brought an endless stream of captives, slaves, failed
warriorsтАФeven faithful volunteersтАФto the altars. And as the hearts fed the
fire, so did the power of Zaltec grow.
The caldron and the cavern itself, the central meeting chamber of the drow,
actually lay far above the surface of most of Maztica, excavated and eroded
into the towering summit of Mount Zatal. The volcanic peak dominated the
valley of Nexal, overlooking that great city. Now the volcano rumbled, as if a
giant belch signified Zaltec's pleasure with his meal. The sensation of power
as the rock trembled beneath his feet pleased the Ancestor.
Finally the Harvesters finished, and the Ancestor took his seat, alone in the
cavern. From his great throne, he studied the circular stone depression before
him. Some twenty feet across, its lip even with the cavern floor, the caldron
glowed with a crimson, evil flame. The fresh hearts gleamed like red coals,
though they shed little heat. Most of their power seethed downward, into the
heart of the mountain and the soul of Zaltec himself.
This is might, the Ancestor realized. Zaltec is might! The worship of the god
of war is a faith of true vibrancy and great power! Known to the Mazticans
even before the coming of the drow, Zaltec had not achieved his current
influence until the Ancient Ones arrived. Spreading his cult of sacrifice,
they had fed the war god as never before. Soon Zaltec's power would be
supreme, unstoppable.