"Reichert, Mickey - Renshai 1 - Last Of The Renshai" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichert Mickey Zucker)

Haim whipped his attention back to Tokar. "No, master. He did not mention either of us. Nor the Lady Trilless either." He inclined his head to indicate the Sorceress. "In fact, he said nothing more."

Shadimar grappled with the information. Each Wizard knew his role in the Great War, though some in more detail than others. Parts of the prophecies had been lost; at least one premature death of a Wizard had interrupted both the Eastern and Southern lines, taking with them all previous memories. By piecing together legends and Wizards' writings, Shadimar knew that the Great War would pit evil against neutrality in the bloodiest battle the world had ever seen. Trilless' people, the Northmen, would have little or no involvement. The stories conflicted as to who would triumph.

Long contemplation of the Great War always frightened Shadimar. As the Eastern Wizard, his loyalties lay with the Westlands. Should evil win, nothing would stand between good and evil, and the wars would rage for eternity, or until one or the other triumphed. Yet if neutrality completely defeated evil, there would remain no force to

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equalize Trilless' good. The weakest of the Wizards cleared his throat. Should such a thing happen, goodness would lose all meaning, and he could not discount the possibility that the loss of symmetry alone would plunge the world into the Ragnarok. "Colleagues, it's certain that nothing positive can come of the Great War. If either side wins, it would disrupt the very balance we were created to uphold."

Tokar nodded his support without a trace of the passion that had filled Shadimar's words. Trilless said nothing. The matter did not involve her. A brief silence followed, shattered abruptly by Carcophan's laughter. "Balance?" He laughed again, with malice. "My Wizard's vows and duties say nothing of balance. But they do say that I must fulfill the prophecies set up for me by Southern Wizards down through eternity." He rose, anticipation dancing in his yellow-green eyes. "There will be a Great War, a bloody rampage like nothing your weak mind could imagine. If you choose not to oppose me, I will be disappointed, but it will only make my job that much easier." Piece spoken, he rose from his chair and stomped out the only exit from the Meeting Room.

Surprised and crushed by the unexpected hostility of Carcophan's opposition, Shadimar said nothing. He had misjudged completely, and he needed time to understand his mistake. It had all seemed so clear to him. Carcophan 's refusal is folly. Surely even the Southern Wizard can see the danger. If the Ragnarok annihilates the world, who will remain to espouse his beloved philosophies of evil?

Trilless rose. Though slender and graceful, she maintained an aura of great power. "It pains me to side with the Evil One, but he's right this time. Though he supports the wrong cause, he is as honor bound to Odin as any of us." She glanced toward the door, obviously reluctant to remain on neutral territory while her opposite wove his evil into mortals unopposed. But the captain of the ship that carried the Wizards to and from the Meeting Isle was one of her own minions. He would not return Carcophan to the world without her presence to balance his. "It's our duty to the gods to fulfill whatever prophecies our predecessors created. To abandon that duty would mean forsaking our Wizards' vows and would

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bring the very Ragnarok you intended to avoid." Unwilling to wait any longer, she hurried after Carcophan.

Shadimar went utterly still. His neutral position surely gave him a clearer view of the consequences, and he could see nothing but disaster coming in the wake of the Great War.

Tokar rose, waving his apprentice to his side. "Shadimar, don't let your fears for the masses make you lose sight of details. We are each honor bound to fulfill our own predecessors' prophecies, but nowhere does it state that we can't thwart one another. Carcophan can no more choose to suppress the War than you can let the high king's heir die. Yet we can oppose the Evil One even as we execute our own roles." He headed through the door, Haim following in his wake, then turned back to voice a final thought. "Odin constrained us so that our followers could remain free, heroes and victims of their own mistakes. We can only motivate; the mortals choose their routes and methods and create their own consequences." He continued into the gloom, his last, soft statement nearly swallowed by position and distance. "I believe there may be more to this Golden Prince of Demons than any of us knows."

The Ragnarok in my lifetime. Shadimar let his chin sink back into his palms. Davrin played a gentle song of comforting, passed along and perfected across hundreds of generations. Yet today the melody fell on deaf ears. We can only hope, Shadimar brooded, that my reign is infinite.

PROLOGUE

Year: 11,224 (Year 10 of the Reign of Valar Buiranesson)

Ten-year-old Rache Kallmirsson leapt and kicked and spun, his sword slicing arcs through the deepening dusk. Light flashed like a signal from the blade, as if it gathered the glow of the stars and crescent moon to scatter them from the silver of the steel or the gold of his close-cropped hair. An outsider might have been hard-pressed to differentiate whether Renshai-child or sword initiated each action, but to Rache every movement was his own, precise and directed. Called Gerlinr, the Renshai maneuver had a proper sequence of motion and balance; every deviation, no matter how slight, was a mistake that could spell the difference between life and death in combat. Each sweep, trip, or thrust was designed to cut down an enemy who had avoided the previous one, or to finish the opponent who had not blocked quickly enough.

Rache whipped the sword in a sidestroke, seeing nothing but the imagined form of an enemy before him, hearing only the crisp whistle of his blade through air. Like all Renshai, Rache was physically immature for his age, his blue eyes relatively wide, his head, body, and legs proportioned more like a seven-year-old than a boy who had reached double digits. Though honed and finely-balanced, his sword was small, lighter than the weapons the adults used, and the leather-wrapped hilt felt snug and proper in fists scarred from practice. Rache's strokes lacked the power his adult musculature might someday lend them, but it did not matter. The Renshai maneuvers were designed for speed and agility, and Rache had both beyond his years.

Rache sprang into the last sequence, snapped through a wild parry of a fancied enemy attack, then performed

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the final stroke. He ended in a well-set stance, prepared to cover his mistakes or his enemies' wiles, to defend or attack again. He held the position as if he had hardened to stone, reviewing each purposeful movement, every twitch. I've mastered Gerlinr. Self-esteem flooded through Rache, the innocent, shameless pride of a praised child. Tonight is the night I move to the next class. He sheathed his sword with reverence. The promotion would make him only the third of the ten children his age to advance to daylight training sessions. He knew a few younger ones had already surpassed him; one girl, scarcely five, had left her peers far behind. But the gods had granted her a rare natural dexterity and competence. Rache's progress pleased him.