"Joan D. Vinge - The Storm King" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vinge Joan D)

uncleтАЩs treachery. He had been attacked by his own guard as he prayed in the
temple (In the templeтАФhis mouth pulled back), and maimed, barely escaping with
his life, to find that his entire world had come to an end. He had become a hunted
fugitive in his own land, friendless, trusting no oneтАФforced to lie and steal and
grovel to survive. He had eaten scraps thrown out to dogs and lain on hard stones in
the rain, while the festering wound in his back kept him away from any rest. . . .

Reliving each day, each moment, of his suffering and humiliation, he felt his
rage and his hunger for revenge grow hotter. The Earth hated this usurper of Her
holy place, the girl had said ... but no more than he hated the usurper of his throne.
He climbed to his feet again, every muscle on fire, and held out his hands. He
shouted the incantation aloud, as though it could carry all the way to his homeland.
His homeland: he would see it again, make it his own againтАФ

The power entered him as the final word left his mouth, paralyzing every
nerve, stopping even the breath in his throat. Fear and elation were swept up together
into the maelstrom of his emotions, and power exploded like a sun behind his eyes.
But through the fiery haze that blinded him, he could still see the water heaved up
from its bed, a steely wall crowned with white, crumbling over and down on itself. It
swept toward him, a terrifying cataclysm, until he thought that he would be drowned
in the rushing flood. But it passed him by where he stood, plunging on over the
outcropping roof of the cave below. Eddies of foam swirled around his feet, soaking
his stained leggings.

The power left him like the waterтАЩs surge falling away. He took a deep breath,
and another, backing out of the flood. His body moved sluggishly, drained,
abandoned, an empty husk. But his mind was full with triumph and rejoicing.

The ground beneath his feet shuddered, jarring his elation, dropping him
giddily back into reality. He pressed his head with his hands as pain filled his senses,
a madness crowding out coherent thoughtтАФa pain that was not his own.

(WaterтАж!) Not a plea, but outrage and confusion, a horror of being trapped
in a flood of molten fire. The dragon. He realized suddenly what had invaded his
mind; realized that he had never stopped to wonder how a storm might
communi-cate with a man: Not by human speech, but by stranger, more elemental
means. Water from the fall he had created must be seeping into its lair. ... His face
twisted with satisfaction. тАЬDragon!тАЭ He called it with his mind and his voice together.

(Who calls? Who tortures me? Who fouls my lair? Show yourself, slave!)

тАЬShow yourself to me, Storm King! Come out of your cave and destroy
meтАФif you can!тАЭ The wildness of his challenge was tinged with terror.

The dragonтАЩs fury filled his head until he thought that it would burst; the
ground shook beneath his feet. But the rage turned to frustration and died, as though
the gates of liquid iron had bottled it up with its possessor. He gulped air, holding
his body together with an effort of will. The voice of the dragon pushed aside his
thoughts again, trampled them underfoot; but he knew that it could not reach him,
and he endured without weakening.