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

In the first wild moments of storm he had been piercingly aware of an agony
that was not his own, a part of the dragonтАЩs being tied into his consciousness, while
the fury of rain and storm fed back on their creator. But now there was no pain, no
awareness of anything tangible; even the substanti-ality of the dragonтАЩs existence
beneath him had faded. The elemental storm was all that existed now, he was aware
only of its raw, unrelenting power surrounding him, sweeping him on to his destiny.

After an eternity lost in the storm he found his sight again, felt the dragonтАЩs
rippling motion beneath his hands. The clouds parted and as his vision cleared he
saw, ahead and below, the gray stone battlements of the castle fortress that had once
been his ... and was about to become his again. He shouted in half-mad exultation,
feeling the dragonтАЩs surging, unconquerable strength become his own. He saw from
his incredible height the tiny, terrified forms of those men who had defeated and
tormented him, saw them cowering like worms before the doom descending upon
them. And then the vision was torn apart again in a blinding explosion of energy, as
lightning struck the stone towers again and again, and the screams of the fortressтАЩs
defenders were lost in the avalanche of thunder. His own senses reeled, and he felt
the dragonтАЩs solidness dissolve beneath him once more; with utter disbelief felt
himself falling, like the rain. . . . тАЬNo! NoтАФ!тАЭ

But his reeling senses righted abruptly, and he found him-self standing solidly
on his own feet, on the smoking battle-ments of his castle. Storm and flame and
tumbled stone were all around him, but the blackened, fear-filled faces of the beaten
defenders turned as one to look up at his; their arms rose, pointing, their cries
reached him dimly. An arrow struck his chest, and another struck his shoulder,
staggering him; but they fell away, rattling harmlessly down his scaled body to his
feet. A shaft of sunlight broke the clouds, setting afire the glittering carapace of his
armor. Already the storm was begin-ning to dissipate; above him the dragonтАЩs retreat
stained the sky with a band of rainbow scales falling. The voice of the storm touched
his mind a final time, (You have what you desire. May it bring you the pleasure you
deserve.)

The survivors began, one by one, to fall to their knees below him.

****

Lassan-din had ridden out of exile on the back of the whirlwind, and his people
bowed down before him, not in welcome but in awe and terror. He reclaimed his
birthright and his throne, purging his realm of those who had over-thrown it with
vengeful thoroughness, but never able to purge himself of the memories of what they
had done to him. His treacherous uncle had been killed in the dragonтАЩs attack,
robbing Lassan-din of his longed-for retribution, the payment in kind for his own
crippling wound. He wore his bitterness like the glittering dragonskin, and he found
that like the dragonskin it could not be cast off again. His people hated and feared
him for his shining alienness; hated him all the more for his attempts to secure his
place as their ruler, seeing in him the living symbol of his uncleтАЩs inhumanity, and his
fatherтАЩs. But he knew no other way to rule them; he could only go on, as his father
had done before him, proving again and again to his people that there was no
escaping what he had become. Not for them, not for himself.