"Reichert, Mickey - Renshai 2 - Western Wizard" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichert Mickey Zucker)

Near-immortality had bestowed patience on Trilless. She did not allow the demon's stalling to fluster her. "Who is the 'one of my own' who witnessed the Western Wizard's ceremony of passage? And what makes you refer to him as 'one of my own'?"

The demon chose to answer both questions at once. "He is a Northman, Wizard. Men call him Deathseeker. The gods use the title Kyndig." He used the Northern pronunciation Kawn-Aee, which translated to "Skilled One." The demon's features achieved a near-human sneer. "You call him the Golden Prince of Demons."

Trilless recoiled as if slapped. Immediately sensing the new weakness in her wards, the demon thrust at the enchantments that held it. Hurriedly, Trilless fought vulnerability, plugging the gap with webs of utter purity. Her magic burned it. Screaming, the demon struggled backward, deeper into the sorceress' wards.

Annoyance made Trilless' head throb. Pain was a tool of evil, not good. Despite the nature of the demon, she had no wish to torture it. She softened the magics of her bindings, and the demon's shrieks changed pitch to the deep rumble of laughter.

Trilless spoke in a controlled monotone. Over time, her magic was losing power while the demon gained more. She could not afford to keep it much longer. Yet, one question still begged asking. "I know Carcophan is

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plotting against us already. Who is the Southern Wizard's new champion?"

The demon writhed in its bonds. It waved one splay-clawed hand and spoke in a voice that could quail a brave warrior. "Carcophan has no champion yet." The hand dissipated. Though not bound to say more, the demon chose to continue, perhaps hoping to further rattle his keeper. "But it is fated. Carcophan shall command a swordsman unmatched by any other mortal."

Trilless paled, but this time she retained control. "Who is this mortal?" "I do not know."

"What more do you know about Carcophan's champion?"

"Only what I've told you."

Another dead end. Trilless hesitated. There were more questions she would have liked to ask, but none seemed worth the risk. Clearly, unless Colbey died before Carcophan selected his champion, he was the only mortal who answered the demon's description. That, combined with the early prophecy that linked the Golden Prince of Demons with Ragnarok left her little choice. Her course of action seemed clear. First, Colbey must be questioned about the ceremony he had witnessed. A Wizard's passage required the use of magics more potent than the sum of all the spells used throughout the centuries of his reign. Any interference could cause consequences she could only begin to contemplate. Since Colbey had become a follower of neutrality, his interrogation could only be carried out by Shadimar. Afterward, Trilless had no choice but to see to Colbey's death.

Odin's laws bound the Wizards to see that their predecessors' prophecies were fulfilled; yet, as far as she knew, no Wizard had been specifically assigned to instigate the Ragnarok. In fact, it would stand against the survival of nearly all of the gods, the Wizards, and the world to assign anyone to such a task. Fortunately, without a Wizard to back it, the prophecy had little chance of coming to fruition, and Trilless saw no reason why she should not oppose it. Still, it went against her many oaths to confront any mortal directly or to suggest that another Wizard do such a thing. Even if she did, Shadi-

The Western Wizard

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mar might mistrust her intentions. Their causes did, at times, come head to head. She could only choose her own champion, send him or her after Colbey, and hope that Shadimar did not step in the way. To let Carcophan's champion skew the balance toward evil meant a fate nearly as ugly to Trilless as the Ragnarok. And there was only one way to even the odds between Colbey and whatever champion she chose to send against him. Ristoril, the White Sword of Power. The calmness that accompanied this decision felt as right as the eternity she had dedicated herself to preserve. Many Northern Wizards before her had placed the Great Sword in a champion's

hands.

"Demon," Trilless said softly, her mind made up. "You still owe me a service. I would have you retrieve the White Sword of Power."

This once, the demon had no taunts. "I shall fulfill your request, though it is folly. Should Carcophan recall the Dark Blade, his champion would still best yours by skill. You take an unnecessary risk with lives you claim to protect. Including your own."

Trilless stood statue still. She knew the demon spoke truth. Another prophecy claimed that the Ragnarok would occur when all three Swords of Power existed in Odin's world of law at once. Previous mages had already crafted two of the Swords, storing them on the plane of magic when not in a champion's hands. Yet the third Sword had not yet been crafted, and Trilless believed it would require a joint effort of Eastern and Western Wizards to create it. So long as the Western Wizard did not exist, she was taking no risk. Without Ristoril, her champion had no chance at all against Carcophan's chosen one. Surely Carcophan knew this, too. He would have to guess that Trilless might call the White Sword against Colbey. After all, the Southern Wizard had been wise enough to withhold the Dark Sword from Siderin. "You cannot defy me."

"As you wish, Lady."

Trilless tightened her control on the snarled webs of warding as the demon bellowed harsh, vulgar syllables that made her ears ache. Yet the result of his ravings was beautiful to behold. The sun shouldered through a crack

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