"Weis, Margaret & Hickman, Tracy - Darksword 03 - Triumph of the Darksword UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weis Margaret)

But there was one thing the powerful sword could not do. It could not reverse the spell of the Turning. The young man saw the catalyst change to stone before his eyes. The Watcher felt his grief and looked forward with a heart filled with hatred to the young mans revenge.
It did not come. Instead, the young man took the sword and laid it reverently in the catalysts stone hands. The young man bowed his head upon the stone breast of his friend; then he turned and walked into the mists of Beyond. The golden-haired girl, calling out his name, followed him.
The Watcher stared in amazement. He waited to hear the last wail of horror, but in vain. Only silence came from those shifting mists.
The Watchers stone gaze went to those left behind and saw with grim satisfaction that the young mans revenge was enacted without him. Bishop Vanya fell to the ground as though struck by a thunderbolt. The Empress's body decomposed. It was then that the Watcher realized she must have been dead for some time, existing on magic alone. Prince Xavier ran to the stone statue of the catalyst and tried to wrest the sword from its grip, but the catalyst held it fast.
Soon the living left the Border, left it once more to the living dead. Left it to a new statue Чa new Watcher. But it was not made thirty feet tall like the others. Its face was not frozen in fear, or hatred, or resignation as were the faces of its fellow Watchers.
The stone statue of the catalyst holding the strange sword in his hands stared out into the Realm of Beyond, and upon the stone face was a look of sublime peace.
And there was one other unusual thing about this living statue. It had one more, unique visitor. Now, from around the catalysts stone neck, there fluttered gaily a banner of orange silk.
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Хhe W, HBorde
|he Watchers had guarded the ler of Thimhallan for centuries. It was their enforced task, through sleepless night and dreary day, to keep watch along the boundary that separated the magical realm from whatever lay Beyond.
What &? lie Beyond?
The ancients knew. They had come to this world, fleeing a homeland where they were no longer wanted, and they knew what lay on the other side of those shifting mists. To protect themselves from it, they encompassed their world in a magical barrier, decreeing that the Watchers be placed on its Border Ч eternal, sleepless guards. But now it was forgotten. The tides of centuries had worn away the memory. If there u>aj a threat from beyond the Border, no one worried about it, for how could it pass the magic barrier?
The Watchers kept their silent vigil still Ч they had no choice. And when the mists parted for the first time in centuries, when a figure stepped out of the shifting gray fog and
Х7 WEIS AND H1CKMAN
put his foot upon the sand, the Watchers were appalled and cried out their warning.
But there were none, now, who knew how to listen to words of stone.
Thus the man's return was unheralded, unannounced. He had gone forth in silence and in silence he returned. The Watchers shrieked, "Beware, Thimhallan! Your doom has come! The Border has been crossed!"
But no one heard them.
There were those who might have heard the silent cries, had they been attentive. Bishop Vanya, for one. He was the highest ranking catalyst in the land and, as such, it seemed likely that his god, the Almin, would have called His ministers attention to such a calamity. But it was dinner time. His Holiness was entertaining guests and, though the Bishop prayed beautifully and devoutly over the meal, everyone had the distinct feeling that the Almin realty hadn't been invited.
Prince Xavier should have heard the warnings of the stone Watchers. He was a warlock, after all Ч DKarn-duuk, a War Master, and one of the most powerful magi in the land. But he had more important matters to consider. Prince Xavier Ч pardon, Emperor Xavier Ч was preparing for war with the kingdom of Sharakan and there was only one thing more important to him than that. Or rather, it was all tied together. How to retrieve the Darksword, held fast in the arms of a stone statue. If he possessed this powerful sword Ч a weapon that could absorb magic Ч Sharakan must fall to his might.
And so Bishop \гmya sat in his elegant chambers at the top of the mountain fastness of the Font, dining on boar's head and piglet tails and pickled shrimp, discussing the nature and habits of marsupials with his guests, and the warnings of the Watchers were swallowed up with the wine.
Prince Xavier paced about his laboratory, occasionally darting over to read the text in some musty, brittle-paged book, consider it, then shake his head with a bitter snarl. The warnings of the Watchers were lost in his curses.
Only one person in all of Thimhallan heard the warnings. In the city of Sharakan, a bearded young man dressed in purple hose, pink pantaloons, and a bright red silken waistcoat, was wakened from his afternoon nap. Cocking his head
TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 5
toward the east, he cried out irritably, "E'gad! How do you expect a fellow to get any sleep? Stop that fearful racket!" With a wave of his hand, he slammed shut the window.
Beware, Thimhallan! YourThe man who stepped out of the mists was m his late twenties, though he appeared older. His body was that of a young man Ч strong, muscular, firm, and upright. His face, was the face of a man whose sufferings might have spanned a century.
Framed by thick black hair, the face was handsome, stern, and Ч at first glance Ч appeared as cold and unfeeling as the stone faces of those who watched him. Lines of care and of grief had been chiseled into that face by a Masters hand, however. The fires of anger and hatred that had once burned in the brown eyes had died out, leaving behind cold ash.
The man was dressed in long white robes of fine wool, covered by a wet, mud-stained traveling cloak. Standing upon the sand, he looked about him with the slow and deliberate gaze of one who looks about the home he has not seen in many, many years. The expression of sadness and of sorrow on his face did not change, except to grow deeper. Turning, he reached back into the mists. A hand took hold of his, and a woman with long, golden hair stepped out of the shifting gray fog to stand beside him.
She glanced about her with a dazed air, blinking her eyes in the rays of the setting sun that stared at them from behind distant mountains Ч its red, unblinking eye seeming to regard them with amazement.
"Where am I?" the woman asked calmly, as if they had walked down a street and taken a wrong turn.
"Thimhallan," the man replied in an even tone of voice that spread like salve over some deep wound.
"Do I know this place?" the woman questioned. And though the man replied and she accepted his answers, she did not took at him or appear to be talking to him but continually sought out and spoke to an unseen companion.
The woman was younger than the man, about twenty-seven. The golden hair, parted in the center of her head, was
6 WE1S AND HICKMAN
tied loosely m two thick braids that hung down to her waist. The braids gave her a childish look, making her seem younger than her years. Her pretty blue eyes enhanced this childish appearance as well Ч until one looked into them closely. Then it could be seen that their eerie brilliance and wide-open stare were not expressive of the innocent wonder of childhood. This woman's eyes saw things that could not be seen by others.
"\bu were born here," the man said quietly, "\bu were raised in this world, as was I."
"That's odd," said the woman. "I would think I'd remember." Like the mans, her cloak was splattered with mud and wet through. Her hair, too, was wet, as was his, and clung damply to her cheeks. Both were weary and appeared to have traveled a long distance through a soaking rainstorm.
"Where are my friends?" she asked, half-turning and staring behind them into the mists. "Aren't they coming?"
"No," the man said in the same calm tones. "They cannot cross the Border. But you will find new friends here. Give them time. They are probably not accustomed to you yet. No one in this land has talked with them in a long, long while."
"Oh, really?" The woman brightened. Then her face grew shadowed. "How lonely they must be." Lifting her hand to her forehead to block out the beaming rays of the sun, she peered up and down the sandy shore. "Hello?" she called, holding out her other hand as she might to a wary cat. "Please, its all right. Don't be frightened. You can come to me."
Leaving the woman talking to the empty air, the man Ч with a profound sigh Ч walked up to the stone statue of the catalyst; the statue that held the sword in its rock hands.
As he stared at the statue in silence, a tear crept from one of his clear, brown eyes, disappearing into the deep lines that cut into the stern, clean-shaven face. Its mate slid down the other cheek, falling in the thick, black hair that curled upon the mans shoulders. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, the man reached out his hand and gently caught hold of the orange silk banner Ч now tattered and tornЧthat fluttered bravely in the winds. Taking it from the statue, he smoothed the silk in his hands, then folded it and placed it carefully m a
TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD /
pocket of the long, white robes he wore. His slender fingers reached out to stroke the statues careworn face.
"My friend," he whispered, "do you know me? I have changed from the boy you knew, the boy whose wretched soul you saved." His hand pressed against the cool rock. "Yes, Saryon," he murmured, "you know me. I feel it between us."

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