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

then reached down to help the man, a mangy, cross-eyed fellow with a face like a rat's, to his feet. He
gazed at Kern with an expres-sion of abject terror.
"Are you all right?" Kern asked him.
"By all the bloody gods of darkness, leave me be!" the scrawny man squealed. He squirmed from Kern's
grip and dashed away, disappearing down a side alley.
 Kern stared in shock. He had never before heard the gods of evil invoked in Phlan.
"Pleasant fellow," Listle noted dryly.
Kern shook his head. "I was only trying to help."
"You can't help him," spoke a husky voice. Kern spun in surprise to see a barmaid leaning against the
tavern's doorway. "He sold himself to the gods of evil a long time ago," the woman went on with a hoarse,
throaty laugh. "Now he has nothing left to sell to pay off his gambling debts." The barmaid might have been
pretty once, but her weary face was smeared with dirt, and the grimy bodice of the ragged gray dress she
wore had slipped disconcert-ingly low.
"I'm sorry," was all Kern could think to say.
The woman eyed him calculatingly. "Well, if you're so interested in helping someone," she crooned,
advancing on him, "perhaps you could help me, my handsome war-rior."
Listle glared at her. "Come on, Kern, let's get out of here." The elf jerked his arm viciously. Kern and
Tarl were practically dragged down the street by the sorcer-ess's apprentice. "I don't think you'd want to
give her the kind of 'help' she's looking for."
Kern heard the barmaid cackle behind him, but there was no mirth in the sound.
"Listen to your little friend, warrior!" the woman called after him. "You'd better hurry on to your
precious temple. This part of town is no place for the pure of heart. Then again, no part of this town is
anymore!"
The three hurried on. Tarl had fallen silent, a pained expression on his face. The city's degeneration
wounded the cleric of Tyr deeply.
Finally the thick stone walls of the temple of Tyr hove into view. The massive temple was a welcome
sight. It had been built several decades ago, the first step in an attempt to reclaim and civilize the
monster-infested ruins that in those days was Phlan. As such, it was as much a citadel as temple. The high
stone walls were dotted with arrow slits and topped by machicolations, openings located beneath the wall's
crenelations through which hot pitch or other unpleasant substances could be rained down onto attack-ers.
Behind the walls rose the bulk of the temple, a square, utilitarian building of dark stone topped by a single
gleam-ing dome of bronze. Kern allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief as he led the way toward the
temple's gates.
Suddenly, four raggedly clad men stumbled out from a side alley. They were laughing coarsely, as if they
had just shared a particularly bawdy joke. The men lurched directly in Kern's path. Their laughter vanished
in a heart-beat, along with their drunken manner. All four were sober and quite well armed.
A big shaggy man with one eye leveled a rusted broad-sword at Kern. "Give us all your gold, boy, and
maybe you and your mates here will keep your heads."
Kern moved swiftly in front of Listle to protect her, heft-ing his battlehammer.
"Kern," the elf hissed in annoyance, "it's nice that you're such a gentleman, but I can't cast a spell if
you're blocking my view."
"Looky here," sneered another of the robbers with a leer. "The puppy in the armor has a hammer.
Maybe he wants us to use it to pound in some coffin nails."
Kern raised his weapon, inwardly calling upon Tyr for strength. Four to one were bad odds, but he had
to do his best to protect Listle and Tarl.
Before Kern could act, Tarl stepped past him.
"Why don't you try me first, ruffian?" Tarl taunted in his booming voice. "Being blind, I can't imagine I'd
be much of a challenge for you." Kern stared at his father in horror.
The leader of the cutthroats laughed. "Suit yourself, old man." The robber raised his rusty sword.
With astonishing swiftness, Tarl reached out and grabbed the robber's hand. Deftly, the blind cleric