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

in the clouds, as golden and bright as the elves who dwelt far north of the Amirannak Sea. Gradually, light emerged from the globe, streaming tendrils of sun that dropped from the sky and merged at Trilless' feet as a starry burst of energy.

Its brilliance obscured the demon who summoned it. Within the light, a shape took form. Silently, the Sorceress watched as the sun streamers guttered and sank, leaving only a great Sword sheathed in a worn leather scabbard. Despite its imposing size, the plain steel hilt suggested nothing of the Sword's power. Yet Trilless knew the Sword of Tranquillity as a mother knows her child.

Lightning flared, breaking the peace of the union between mistress and treasure. The demon's obligations finished, Trilless could no longer hold it. Enchanted fetters fell from it with a sound like breaking harp strings. The demon howled its challenge, each word louder than the one before. "I've served you, Lady. Now, I'll claim my BLOOD!"

"No!" Trilless screamed. Breakers frothed against the cliffs as the sorceress pictured the demon ravaging innocents as the price for her knowledge. Tapped of power by the summons and wards, Trilless struggled to gather strength to call magics of slaying upon the demon. Yet, constrained by Odin's laws to never directly harm men or Wizards, Trilless had no practice with such spells. She had carefully drawn the sequence to the forefront of memory before summoning the creature, and she mouthed the syllables from rote. But now, her concentration seemed scattered, and the hubbub of internal suggestions only added to the confusion.

Vibrant sparks of sorcery flashed from Trilless, their

glow rivaling the sun. They struck the dark shape of the

demon, spattering harmlessly to stone. The demon

laughed, huge, serrated wings unfurling from its dark

formlessness. Blood-flecked saliva oozed from its mouth.

Despite her weakness and confusion, Trilless held her

voice steady and raised one arm. The sleeve slid back,

revealing pale, wrinkled flesh. "Take my blood, Vile

One. You shall have no other!"

Bound by the sacrifice, the demon sprang with a wa-

The Western Wizard

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vering howl. His wail filled Trilless' head, drawing and tugging, as if to pull out her soul. Claws tore her forearm like knives. She retreated, protective incantations burning her throat. Nothing of flesh or law could harm her, but she had dared to call a creature who could. Agony scattered her wits, and she called upon the memories of her predecessors for strength.

The sea surged and boiled. Trilless fell to her knees, drawing strength from the ocean's perfect basic power. She recovered her senses quickly and, with them, confidence. Her shouted sorceries regained their rhythm. Light flashed, blindingly brilliant against the demon's darkness, and the creature vanished before the spell sequence ended.

Trilless whispered the last few syllables from the deep-seated need for completeness. The demon's claw strikes trailed blood, four ugly gashes only magic could heal. Had she still been mortal, each would have stolen a decade from her time left to live; but this meant little to one who had survived four centuries and who would choose her own time of passing. She guessed this incident would have a profound significance when passed, with her soul, to her successor.

The tide accepted Trilless' blood and swirled it to the sea. Quietly, she began the sequence of magics that would restore the skin of her arm. The pain was not so easily banished, but she turned her concentration to the Sword for which she had paid. It lay so still, yet to her trained eyes so alive with magic. And, with that glance, came the memory of runes carved upon a tablet-shaped stone in the ocean, attributed to the early mages, though no Cardinal Wizard could trace the author through his memories:

A Sword of Gray,

A Sword of White,

A Sword of Black and chill as night.

Each one forged,

Its craftsman a Mage;