"Brian Thomsen - The Nobles 04 - The Mage in the Iron Mask" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thomsen Brian M)

movement in the face of the mask as well. The ringing had finally stopped in his ears from
the ceaseless clanging that had ensued during his period of hysterics when he had beaten
his head against the wall in despair. The strong iron metal of the mask had protected his
head from any major damage or concussion, and all that remained of his temporary
outbreak of insanity was a nagging headache.
The edges around his eyes chafed his sockets, while the slits that barely functioned as
access points to his mouth and nose pressed back against his face providing the smallest
windows of entry for air and other sustenance. He vaguely remembered the comment his
twin had made about the lethality of his beard's growth, and resigned himself to the
eventuality of his fast-approaching demise.
"Death," he called in a volume equal to his out-break of the night before, and immediately
regretted it as his own words seemed to echo within the skull that the combined mask and
bone of his head had become. He stopped, pulled himself up short, and steeled himself for
another round of beseeching the gods.
"Death," he called in comfortable, hushed tones, "please take me now, and spare me the
suffering of waiting."
"I'm not death," a voice interrupted from behind, "but if you don't mind, I'd like to come in
and set a spell. When you get to my age, tunnel crawling is hard work."
Rassendyll quickly turned around, and saw the source of the voice.
An old dwarf, whose pure white hair and beard were as long as his entire body, was
halfway through a hole in the wall that had been formed from the re-moval of one of the
massive stone bricks that made up the foundation.
The young mage was speechless, but this didn't stop the dwarf, who quickly regained his
feet, strode over to the new prisoner, and introduced himself.
"Hi," he said jovially, in a tone that was quite out of place for the dark dungeon. "I'm
Hoffman, from the Seventh Dwarven Abbey. I've been a prisoner down here for I don't know
how long. What's your story?"
 3
A Weakened Retreat

Along the Road from Mulmaster to the Retreat:

After the feasting at the Traveler's Cloak Inn was over, the festing began with a tour of
some of the local hot spots such as the very popular Wave and Wink (nicknamed the W&W)
and the Smashed Plate. Real-izing that he had many days of work and research ahead of
him, Volo took it fairly easy, managing to at-tract no attention to himself amidst the crowd of
Mulmaster revellers. Passepout, on the other hand, gave free reign to all of his desires with
all of the joie de vivre of the recently released prisoner that he was. His eyes and his
appetites, however, were much larger and stronger than his strength and his sta-mina. By
midevening, the chubby thespian was quite unconscious, and the master traveler had to
enlist the help of three very strong young laborers and one extremely sturdy cart to get him
back to their night's lodgings.
The following morning, Volo rose before dawn, as-sembled his pack and scribbled down
a hasty note assuring the stout thespian that he would return in a few days. He grabbed a
fast breakfast, which Dela was more than willing to provide, and left the inn. The master
traveler rented a horse from a nearby stable and set out for his next destination.
The sun was just inching over the horizon when the most famous gazetteer in all Faerun
passed Southroad Keep. Nodding to the city watch, who didn't pay him much attention as
they were more con-cerned about the apparent tardiness of their relief, he passed through
the city gate, and was on his way.