"Zimmer,.Paul.Edwin.-.A.Gathering.of.HerosUC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zimmer Paul Edwin)
Others rushed past toward Ogar, but the dwarf stepped to meet them on short sturdy legs, sword drawn back over his shoulder with hands locked on the hilt. As they charged it came lashing out like a scythe, cleaving through bone as through air, and their bodies made a breastwork before him. War cries changed to screams.
A blur of white, and Dorialith was among them, his blade a flickering of icy flame as he struck from his saddle. White horses came weaving through the trees. Goblins fled screaming.
The dwarf ran to the rock. He groped a moment over rugged, weathered stone, then thrust his hand into a narrow opening.
Soundlessly, a part of the stone began to move.
Cracks appeared, and the outline of a wide archway became visible. A huge slab was rolling into the hillside, the top falling back more deeply than the bottom.
"Quickly now!" shouted Dorialith. "We must not let the goblins find the gate!"
"They'll find it anyway!" growled the dwarf. "Or they'll tunnel into the passage behind, through the stone."
Elf-horses gathered like wisps of fog at twilight. Men and elves slid from their backs; elves and forest-runners darted with drawn blades into the thickets where the goblins had fled. Wails and crashing brush were heard: they glided noiselessly back, tarry blood dripping from their steel. Men pulled saddlebags and gear from horses' backs.
The stone rolled. Ogar Hammerhand leaped up onto its receding surface and ran toward the sinking end.
A deep voice spoke from the stone.
- Tahion stared into the archway. With a rasp of rock, the tilting door settled into the floor of the opening. Mail-rings jingled, and short, broad figures bounded up, scrambling surefooted over rough stone. Down in the tunnel behind them, a dim light glowed.
Deep dwarvish voices rumbled; gnarled figures swarmed into sunlight. Sparkling mail burned his eyes with pinpricks
56 Paul Edwin Zimmer
of brightness. Glossy helms glimmered wetly above heavy, thick-furred brows and bristling beards. Great double-bitted axes were gripped in broad hands.
An elf whistled a birdcall, and Tahion's mind flew to the sound, blending with the senses of trees, listening with the ears of a frightened cricket . . .
Booted feet smashed through grass. Leather creaked, iron rings jangled and clashed.
"The soldiers of Sarlow are coming," he said. "Many are their feet, and they run swiftly."
"Inside!" came the deep voice of the dwarf who stood foremost among the warriors by the archway.
Dorialith's voice rose, and suddenly the elf-horses were whirling, rearing, tossing their creamy manes. In a blur of speed they bounded into the forest, like patches of fog driven by wind, and straight toward the approaching soldiery.
"They will have a marvel to report," laughed the Sea-Elf. "Swift, now, into the tunnel!"
Istvan DiVega, shield on his arm, saddlebags draped over his shoulder, stared after the vanishing elf-steeds. To what far country would they go?
The towers of Rath Tintallain reared glittering above the trees. Shimmering magic hung about them, a wild thrill in the blood, a tremor in the heart's deep core: he felt it, like a strain of music played along his nerves, and distrusted it, just as he had distrusted the elf-music in the inn.
Elves were hurrying through the arch, hastening to obey Dorialith's word, but men and dwarves were hanging back, looking up the hill from which, now, the sounds of approaching foemen could be heard.
"Inside!" the dwarf leader roared again. "Fools! Will you waste all our lives to prove your courage? Do you know the paths to the hidden gates? Go!"
Behind came shouting and the crash of steel. Over his shoulder, Istvan saw double-bladed dwarf-axes wheel in the sun, as tall men, sparkling in a glare of mail, burst through the leaves.
A GATHERING OF HEROES 57
Istvan stumbled off rough rock, and felt his foot slide on smooth, slick stone. Men jostled and muttered all around him. They could stand erect now. A deep voice shouted in the dim-lit cave.
"Close the gates!" They heard the grinding of stone on stone. Rising dark rock locked away the sunlight and the fighting outside. Istvan's sun-glared eyes peered through spark-scarred darkness at rock that rang with muffled shouts and chimes.
"Fear not for those who fight outside," echoes boomed behind him. "They know well these woods. They will but fight their way to another gate, leaving none living who can tell where this door lies. But come! The Lords of Rath Tintallain await you." Torchlight flared at the other side of the crowd; Istvan barely glimpsed the golden beard and fire-jeweled mail of the dwarf who held it.
Echoes rustled with the sound of feet as they followed, stooping in the low-roofed tunnel. Close to his head, Istvan saw glinting specks in the grey stone. Yet the floor was black, polished, and smooth. Above the sound of their feet, a faint, rhythmic chiming pulsed far away, and grew steadily louder.
They passed the mouths of tunnels still marked with the scars of the pick, and tunnels whose polished walls were inlaid with bright mosaics. The rhythmic chiming, ever louder, grew into the sound of distant hammers battering. Jeweled lights glowed in the walls. Their guide put out the torch. They passed through chambers walled with rose marble, and chambers walled with jade, and down squared corridors of planed plain stone, while ever stronger grew the sound of hammering.
Lone dwarves came scurrying by on errands. Stone rang echoing with the deafening sound of metal on anvils clamouring. Groups of dwarves bustled past. Istvan smelled dry smoky iron in the warming air.
Heat and noise swelled before them. They saw more dwarves. The air began to sting their eyes: the belling of the forge hurt their ears.
Soon dwarves thronged the corridors, staring from under bushy brows as they drew aside to let the strangers pass.
A cool breeze blew through hot, smoke-tangled air. They hurried forward, suddenly aware of running sweat and tears.
58 Paul Edwin Zimmer
The breeze poured down a marble stair, sweeping furnace heat away, comforting their faces as they climbed. Behind them, the deafening racket lessened. Then they were blinking at the sudden glare of the twin suns: tan and white and green blurred around them.
After a moment, Istvan could see that the white was the bright stone of towers and walls, the green was leaves and grass, and the tan was the skin of half-naked men and women who wore the green tartan of one of the wild forest clans.
Wild men stared, curious, yet wary, at the weary travelers. Under their feet, stone and earth throbbed with the din of dwarf-hammers. Istvan drew a deep breath of flower scents. On the edge of his nerves he felt something ancient, rich and wild: thrilling anticipation ran through him.
Sweet eldritch music healed his ears. All about him Rath Tintallain shimmered in glory. Already their guide was trotting on his short legs down winding paths between flowering shrubs, elves and dwarves at his heels. Soft music that seemed to come from the air itself moved Istvan's feet, playing on nerves and heartstrings, to bear him dancing down the path between singing flowers, whose small, winged spirits soared dancing out, to whirl with all life in the garden toward its secret center, the source from which poured a throbbing flow of power . . .
"Will they never let us be?" It was the harsh voice of Ingulf the Wanderer, shrill with passion. Istvan, stopping, saw the scarecrow figure flail the air with knotted fists at the end of long, bony arms. ' 'Why will they not leave us alone!''
Yet Tahion made no outcry, nor Arthfayel, and the music seemed to be doing no harm. Forcing himself to relax, Istvan let the music sweep him along the winding paths.
A dazzling mystery of white stone towers rose before them. Two rich thrones stood atop stairs at one tall tower's door. In one, a bearded dwarf sat, glittering with jewels, and a gold band binding the blond mane of his hair; yet every eye was drawn to the other throne, for there sat the heart of the wonder and spell that had drawn them across the garden.
Keen eyes, grey as the sea, glowed on them from a face soft and lineless as a child's face, eyes that had seen sights not known to mortal men, and Istvan knew he looked upon one mighty among the elves, one of those great ones, maybe,
A GATHERING OF HEROES 59
who had come to the aid of Hastur's sons in ancient days, in the Age of Terror, when Kandol Shadowslayer and Tuarim Mac Elathan were alike unborn.
A jeweled fillet of silver bound his raven hair, and his robes rippled white and silver-grey in the glory that wrapped him 'round. A smile came to his lips, and joy leaped in each man's heart.
"Tuarim, lad!" the Elf-Lord called, his voice sweet and wild as a blackbird's call. "It has been long indeed, sinceЧ"
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