"Zimmer,.Paul.Edwin.-.A.Gathering.of.HerosUC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zimmer Paul Edwin)

CHAPTER ONE
The Call
The forest-scented wind hinted at magic as it blew across the water of the bay. Above his head, Istvan DiVega heard the sharp slap of canvas, and the shouting of the seamen as they scrambled in the rigging, but his eyes were held by the storied shore, and his mind by memories of tales told him in youth.
Behind him, unbroken ocean reached the horizon where the twin suns sank toward his distant home, halfway 'round the world. Their light gilded the great bay before him, gleaming on crystal towers rising from the thick green trees, and painting little houses mystic hues. It had been more than fifteen years since he had last walked the streets of ancient Elthar, or spoken with those eldest of all Immortals who dwell there. Deeply as he longed to be home in Carcosa far away, after all these months of fighting on the far eastern shores of the island continent of Y'gora, still Istvan found himself wishing that the ship could stop longer here . . .
There was a soft whisper of displaced air at his back. Swordsman's reflexes brought him around, hand flying to hilt: he heard men gasp on the deck. But his hand dropped away from his sword as he saw the blue robe on the red-haired man who had appeared out of the air behind him, and recognised the broad face and blue eyes of Aldamir Hastur.
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Istvan DiVega was Carcosan born and bred: his bow, though forma], bore no hint of the deference another might have shown to one of the Guardians of the World, for to the proud nobles of Seynyor, the House of Hastur is but one of the great families of the Land of the Lords.
"My Lord Aldamir," he murmured, and smiled at the gasps of the Nydorcans as the Hastur mirrored his bow, the greeting of one Seynyorean nobleman to another.
"My Lord Istvan," Aldamir replied. "I understand your company has finished its term of service with the Airarian Empire? That you are now free for hire?''
"A Hastur need never speak of hire to a DiVega," Istvan said stiffly, rebuke in his voice. "Where shall we march? When? It will take usЧ" he paused, thinking, sorting with his mind the gear below decksЧ"three hours perhaps, and we will be ready. Command us."
"It is not the company whose services we need," die Immortal said "but your own." Istvan blinked in surprise, and ran fingers through grizzled black hair. Aldamir smiled. "It is your sword-arm we need, and not an army." Pride rose through Istvan's confusion: trumpets played in his heart. "No army could fight its way to where we ask you to go: your road is a path for a few. Have you ever heard ofЧ"his voice dropped to a whisperЧ "Rath Tintallain?" Istvan shook his head; Y'gora was filled with similar names.
"It is an elf fortress, built above a city of die dwarves, and there elf and dwarf together guard for the Hasturs a secret of which I will not speak. But on alt the paths of the Future, now, we see an attack, and great danger and destruction should Rath Tintallain fall. Will you go?"
Glancing quickly around, Istvan saw Nydorean sailors openly staring, while his countrymen pretended, with amused tolerance, that the appearance of an Immortal upon their ship was an everyday affair, not worthy of curiosity or notice.
"IЧof course I will go," said Istvan. "But I do not understand how my single sword can aid you. Ani why should a city warded by elvesЧand by your kinЧneed the aid of any mortal man?"
"Not even the Hasturs can see die true future," said Aldamir, ' 'nor know which of the many branchings we do see it may take. Our meeting today I have seen on many branchings, and always the future is more hopeful upon those roads
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that lead from it. And you will not be alone. But remember that die sword you bear was wrought by Earnur Hastur, and some call the arm that wields it one of the most skilled in the world."
"Aha!" Istvan exclaimed. "I knew it! You've got me mixed up with my cousin Raquel!" Aldamir laughed.
"Not so! Your cousin Raquel is in Heyleu, counting up the money from his last campaign and considering an invitation from his old friend Birthran, swordmaster of the House of Ore, to visit at the Court of Kadar. No, my lord, there is no mistake.
"A party of picked warriors will gather tonight: if you would join them, you need but ride before midnight to the Inn of the Silver Axe, at the crossroads by Nockarv."
"Should I not take Alar D'Ascoli with me?" Istvan asked. "He is trained both as wizard and warrior, while my only skill is the sword."
"Of wizards, Lord DiVega, there will be no lack," said Aldamir. "But time grows short. It is a long ride to Nockarv hill. You may go or stay, but you must decide soon, to be there by midnight. Fare well!"
The Immortal vanished as suddenly as he had come, and Istvan faced empty air that rippled like the air above a fire.
He was aware of the curious eyes of the Nydoreans, and of furtive glances from his own men. The twin suns had reached the sea, and were sinking in a splendour of peacock light. Alar D'Ascoli came slowly toward him, curiosity raging in dark eyes.
"Take command," Istvan told him, "and when you get home, see that every man is properly paid. It seems I am to stay in Y'gora for a time." D'Ascoli's eyebrows rose.
"What is it about?"
"Ifl knew that," Istvan snorted, "I might have the sense to go home and forget it all!"
It was full dark by the time the boat put him ashore, and then he had to arrange for a horse. A flight of little moons soared up ahead of him as he picked out his road and urged the horse to a steady trot through the streets of Elthar.
Midnight, Aldamir had said. As he left the docks behind, me houses grew wider apart, nestled among groves of trees. That made him homesick for Carcosa. Bright archways opened
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in the ground, doorways down into the dwarf city. On either hand, the guarding towers flamed atop the great black hills that cradled the city between them.
The trees thickened as he left the mortal sector behind; the trees themselves were citizens of Elthar, with rights protected by the Elf-Folk. Leaves rustled in the wind, and faint music and laughter sounded in the trees. A bright-eyed, delicate face glanced briefly from the branches above the road. Elf-lights glimmered among the leaves.
Earth reared up in a sudden wall before him, while the road dived into a well-lit tunnel, iron gates ajar. Dwarf soldiers in gleaming mail leaned on broad axes. Their eyes moved over him quickly; they saw the Hastur-blade at his side, and nodded. He left Elthar behind, and rode east on the broad road that led to the mountain land of Tumbalia, at the edge of the Forest of Demons.
Tiny moons hurtled between the stars: shadows around him shifted and changed. His horse was nervous and his sword-hand tense, although he knew it was seldom any Night-Thing dared come so close to Elthar. This was elvish country, and their eyes would be upon him.
He pondered Aldamir's words. It was true, perhaps, that-he had some talent for coming through battles alive, and he did bear a Hastur-blade.
But it still did not make sense. He had grown up at the feet of the Mountains of the Clouds, where Hastur's fortress of Carcosa rises amid eternal snow, and he knew well the power of its Immortal dwellers. The thought of the Hasturs asking anyone's aid was not comforting.
The big moon, Domri, rose like a huge white mountain from the horizon, and by its wan light he saw the slopes of Nockarv hill a pallid green. It was still an hour or more before midnight. He rode toward the window lights that clustered in the hill's shadow.
He came to the crossroads, and trotted across the broad highway that stretched across the long miles from Cpiranor and the Dwarf Kingdom, south beyond Elantir. He had never ridden that way, although he had ridden north on that road, to the realm of the Two Kings in Galinor. He hhd been little more than a boy, then, serving with Cousin ftaquel in old Belos Robardin's company. The Two Kings had*hired them to drive back an invasion from Sarlow . . .
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So long ago! He reined his horse before the gigantic, earth-brown inn, its peaked and gabled roof like a range of triangular mountains against the moon-filled sky. Four smaller buildings stood dark, but the windows before him blazed with light.
Domri climbed free of the horizon, floating like some gigantic pearl, dwarfing lesser moons to mere sparks. The sight took Istvan back to his childhood in a surge of emotion: the big moon had not been visible from the continent since his youth, and would not rise there again for more than twenty years. He might well be long dead by then.
Two harried-looking small boys with excited, grimy faces, were dashing about outside the door, trying to tend what seemed a herd of horses: more than a dozen were still tied under the painted silver axe, though the boys led them to the stables by twos and threes.
Dismounting, Istvan wrapped his reins around the hitching post, and then, after a moment's thought, pulled his shield and the heavy bag that held helmet and tight-rolled mail-shirt from the saddle. He tossed a coin glittering through torchlight into a grubby urchin's hand. Stepping up the stairs to face the richly carved old brown door, he heard behind him high boys' voices.
"Where's he from? Never saw no one like that!" "From over the Western Sea. A Seynyorean he is, from Hastur's Mountain!" Awe in the voice reminded Istvan that here he was the wonder, from tfie world's other side.
The curlicues and spirals and legendary heroes on the story-carved oak door swung back from his touch, opening on a booming noise of men's voices and laughter, and a glare of firelight.
The room throbbed with light from a huge hearth, piled high with flaming logs. Pillars and panels of brown polished wood glowed warm wine-red: tiny fluttering candles were like stars around the room. As Istvan stepped through the portal, the many-voiced roaring fell to murmuring, and he felt dozens of keen eyes turned upon him, searching him from head to toe.
"DiVega!" a voice shouted, and Istvan saw a big-boned blond man waving at him from one of the tables. The voice was familiar, but he could not place the man, dressed in a
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brown shirt and a kilt of smoky blue tartan, bare-legged in the usual Y'goran way.
Noisy voices rose again as he felt gazes turned away. He set out for the table where the man had stood, dodging out of the path of a bustling servant woman with a roast and four beer mugs balanced on a tray. A massive man, broad-shouldered, black-bearded, in a tunic of purple and blue checks, moved out of his path between the tables with cat-like grace, surprising in so huge a man.