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

in a horrid cacophony of teeth clattering and bone snapping.
The paladin fought down the panic clawing at his chest. "I will stand firm, Tyr!" he shouted to his god.
He swung his battlehammer in a whistling arc toward the darkness.
But his footing was not secure.
His heel skidded on coins scattered across the stone floor. His blow went wild, the hammer spinning off
into the darkness as he fell to his knees. Shrill laughter bub-bled from the alcove as the coffin-walls erupted
in a new chorus of gleeful rattling. The paladin hung his head in defeat. He was no hero.
No, you are not, youngling. You are a fool. And now you will die a fool's death!
Midnight-dark claws slashed out of the darkness. They punched through the paladin's steel breastplate
as if it were parchment. Four streaks of searing fire streaked across his chest. His body arched backward
in agony. Hot blood spattered the dark stone floor. A scream ripped from his lungs.
"No! Tyr, help me! It wasn't supposed to end like this!"
There was no answer to his cry. His god had forsaken him. The shadow-shrouded being stirred again,
readying its final blow.
*****
 "Kern, come back to us!"
A cry reached through the darkness. The voice was calm and reassuring, but faint, as if coming to him
from across a vast distance.
"He can't hear you, Shal." This voice was deeper than the first, gruffer. Despite its faintness, there was
a distinct edge of worry to it.
"Yes, he can. He can and will." The voice seemed to grow louder, cutting through the darkness. "You're
hav-ing one of your dreams, Kern. Let it go. You have to come back to us."
He struggled to break free, but the darkness was too heavy. It pressed down upon him. He couldn't
breathe. It was no use.
"Kern Miltiades Desanea, come back this instant!"
With all his might he struggled upward, toward a faint light that shone brighter and brighter as he rose.
Just when he was about to give up, he broke through the sur-face, and a ragged, shuddering breath filled his
lungs.
"Mother... Father ..." His voice croaked like an old frog's from a throat as dry as bone dust. "It was the
dream again."
He was lying in his bed in the comfortingly familiar chamber in Denlor's Tower where he had slept
every night of his twenty-two years. A beautiful middle-aged woman smiled down at him. Her hair formed
a flame-colored corona around her face, and her green eyes were so bright as to put emeralds to shame.
An aura of magic seemed to shimmer about her. But then, she was a sorceress.
"It's all right now, Kern," Shal said, smoothing his hairтАФred hair, just like hersтАФfrom his forehead.
"You're back with us now."
He nodded and smiled, the expression suddenly turn-ing into a grimace of pain.
"Shal, what is it?" Tarl asked in concern. A hale, broad-shouldered man, Kern's father was still in his
prime despite his snow-white hair. His sightless eyes stared blankly into the air as he reached out to lay a
hand on his son.
Kern cried out in pain.
Shal's brow furrowed as she threw back the woolen blanket that covered her son. A gasp escaped her
lips.
"Kern, you're wounded!"
Kern stared in astonishment. Four long gashes marked his white nightshirt. Crimson blood soaked the
garment. His chest quivered as he drew shallow, painful breaths. The nightmare replayed itself in his mind.
He remem-bered the shadow-filled nave. Something had lurked there, lashing out at him with midnight-dark
talons.
"But... it was just a dream!" Kern protested. Instantly he regretted his shout as blood oozed from the
gashes.