"James M. Ward - The Pool 3 - Pool of Twilight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ward James M)

twisted the man's arm behind him. The sword clattered to the cobblestones. Tarl gave a quick jerk and was
rewarded with a sharp snap. The robber screamed in agony and slumped to the street, cradling his broken
arm. A fierce grin broke across Tarl's face.
"Next?" the white-haired cleric of Tyr inquired.
Apparently there was some confusion as to whose turn it was, for the remaining robbers collided with
each other as they swiftly turned tail in order to flee.
"Hey, wait for me!" their leader cried out with anguish, scrambling to his feet to hurry after his
confederates.
" 'Old man' indeed!" Tarl snorted, flexing his powerful shoulders. "I don't need eyes to deal with curs like
that. My nose works well enough. I don't think that fellow has ever heard of the adage 'cleanliness is next
to holiness.' "
Kern gazed at his father with pride. Sighted or not, Tarl was not a man to be trifled with.
 They reached the temple's gates without further inci-dent. Two fully armored clerics standing guard
allowed them to pass, and they crossed a vast courtyard to the temple proper.
A dozen marble columns supported a facade which was carved with friezes depicting a stern-faced Tyr.
The god, who was missing his right hand, was dispensing justice to figures that knelt before him. The pleas
of some were answered with riches, those of others with jagged light-ning bolts.
"Tyr's a rather gloomy-looking fellow, isn't he?" Listle noted apprehensively as they ascended the
temple's steps.
"He's the God of Justice, Listle," Kern replied in annoy-ance. "Somehow I don't think it would have the
same impact on the unjust if he were a kindly old man with a sweet smile and pockets full of candy."
"Maybe not," Listle agreed. "But then, I'm all in favor of candy."
The three passed through a columned portico and found themselves beneath the temple's bronze-gilded
dome in a great circular hall of gray stone. The floor was decorated with an intricate mosaic depicting Tyr's
sym-bol: scales resting on a warhammer, with which Tyr weighed the arguments for and against those
seeking redemption.
"Tarl!" a deep voice boomed, resounding off the soar-ing andesite vaults. A burly cleric, with a grizzled,
iron-col-ored beard and wearing a traditional white robe, came striding across the room. "I'm glad you could
be here on this auspicious day, Brother." Patriarch Anton, oldest and foremost of the temple's clerics,
gripped Tarl's forearms warmly. "You also, Kern. I'm sure you will want toтАФ"
"Ahem. Aren't you forgetting someone, Patriarch Anton?" Listle piped up.
Anton glowered darkly at being interrupted, but after Listle shot a winning smile at the old patriarch, he
let out a rumbling laugh despite himself. It was the elf's dimples, of course. It was impossible to be angry at
someone with dimples, and Listle's were superior examples. They allowed her to get away with all sorts of
impertinences.
"Yes, Listle Onopordum, you are welcome as well," Anton rumbled amiably. "Though I wonder if I
would be able to keep you away even if you were not."
Listle thought about that for a moment. "Probably not," she decided.
The patriarch led the three to a group of white-robed clerics clustered about a long mahogany table. It
looked as if all the temple's clerics were there, about thirty alto-gether. Five years ago there would have
been three score clerics and a half-dozen young men and women besides Kern wearing the white tabard of
the paladin-aspirant. Few new disciples had taken the places of the clerics of Tyr who had been struck
down, one by one, over these last years.
"This way, Brother Tarl." Anton led the blind cleric to the table. "Come, hear what we've learned."
In the center of the table, a huge book rested on a cush-ion of black velvet. Kern had seen it on several
prior occa-sions: a tome five handspans across, bound in the dusky, scaly leather of some unnameable
beast. Within its crack-ling pages of ancient, yellowed parchment were thirteen terrible prophecies written
by the dark god Bane himself over a thousand years ago. Its pages foretold in horrible detail some of the
suffering and misery that Bane would bring to Faerun. Kern had heard the story of the book, called The
Oracle of Strife, and how it came to the temple, many times.