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

Now individual voices rose out of the crowd.
". . . summer, the daughter of Falmoran, and she was as sweet as the piping of Ciallglind, and her eyes were as ..."
". . . cut his way out, they say, and fled into the forest. So now Conn Mac Bran is in exile, and some say that he is in Cotarjon, and plotting with Athprecan's younger brotherЧthey do say that one fancies himself quite the kingmaker." Cups rattled loudly.
". . . and struck it off. 'My curse upon you!' says the head ..."
"... under the ground, and a good vein it was, too. But the posts must be set in carefully, or the roof will go . . ."
". . . safe, but Grom Beardless came down from Sarlow with a horde of his butchers, and a skull-headed, shriveled sorcerer to aid them, and slaughtered men, women, children, and dragged off as slaves those left alive."
"Aye. Vor Half-Troll would have done the same at Ardaraq, had Carrol) and Anarod not chanced to be there. It was Anarod who drove back the . . ."
". . . if his song cannot move her, then I am forever lost and alone in the evil world, and mocked by . . ."
". . . near a jest. Tormac himself laughed as he died. You never saw a merrier fight. And even his own kin did not like that stingy little tyrant, Tormac Beag Mac Cuon. Yet the Piper Athev made a lament for him some call the saddest music ever made by mortal man ..."
"Even old Komanthodel stirs, they say, and the young dragons roam each ..."
". . .the black one from the hills ..." 1
Istvan. rounded a table of dwarves. The man who) had hailed him was sitting alone, and he saw in surprise that it was Tahion, Prince of the House of Halladin, Lord of the
A GATHERING OF HEROES 7
Living Forest across the sea, exiled heir of the ancient Kings of Aldinor.
At the prince's side was the blade his father had taken into exile, the enchanted, two-handed Sword of Kings: he wore kilt and shirt in Y'goran style, and Istvan remembered that TahJon's mother had come from here, a woman of the Clan Gilteran, who live at the edge of the Elfwoods.
"Well met!" Tahion rose, and his grip was firm on Istvan's arm. "I did not know you were in this part of the world at all. Serving the Empire during raiding season?" Istvan nodded. Tahion's smile widened. "Now, it would be an odd chance that could bring us both here tonight, unless . . ."
"Then the Hasturs summoned you as well?"
"The Hasturs?" Tahion's eyes widened. "WhyЧno, it was Dorialith of the Sea-Elves who sent word tt> me, through my kin in the Elfwoods, to meet him here." Istvan was startled: few men at any time had dealings with the Elves of the Sea. "And when I cameЧ" he waved a hand at the crowd around them, "I recognise half the famous names of Y'gora, and then you walk in. A strange clientele. So! It was the Hasturs called you here?"
Istvan nodded, and tugged thoughtfully at his dark, greying beard.
"Aldamir Hastur appeared on our shipЧwe'd put in at Elthar for provisions and some last bit of cargoЧand asked me if I would go to aid in the defense ofЧ" Istvan*paused, trying to remember the name, "RathЧRathtallin orЧRathtain-linnЧsomething like that."
"So," said Tahion, thoughtful. "I think in truth you may know more of this matter than I. Yes, the elves who bore Dorialith's message said that some great danger marches on Rath Tintallain. What all this may mean I cannot guess, unless one of the greater terrors from the Dark World has broken through once more; perhaps one of the Great Dyoles, or the Sabuath."
"Not the Sabuath, at least!" A deep, resonant voice broke in, and looking up, they saw a lean man, black-bearded, hawk-faced, standing by their table, a polished staff in his hand. "All that live know when that one enters the world, and sleepers wake screaming for a thousand miles around." A dark cloak was around him, over a tartan robe with a pattern of grey, black and gold. "And I am surprised at you.
8 Paul Edwin Zimmer
Tahion Mac Raquinon, that you should have forgotten that. Do you remember me? We studied together at Elthar."
"I do indeed, Arthfayel Mac Ronan, though it has been long and long," said Tahion. Istvan, noting the threads of silver in Arthfayel's beard, wondered at that, for the man was plainly older than Tahion, perhaps as old as Istvan himself. "Join us." The wizard pulled out a chair and sat.
"I cry your pardon for breaking so rudely into your speech," he said then, turning to Istvan. "I heard you, my lord, addressed as DiVega. Are you not Istvan the Archer?"
"No," Istvan lied, cursing the poet who had coined that hated name. "You must be thinking of someone else." Prince Tahion quickly hid a smile behind his hand.
"What do you know of all this, brother Arthfayel?" Tahion gestured at the room around them.
"That both the Elf-Folk and the Clan of Hastur gather warriors for the defense of Rath Tintallain. That you knew already: by looking among the company here, you see that only the pick of the Champions of the World have been summoned. As to why?" He stroked his beard and his eyes were somber. "You, Tahion, will surely have noticed there is some mystery about Rath Tintallain. Rarely will the Immortals speak of it, and their speech is well-guarded. I have been thereЧonce, long ago. It is deep in the Forest of Demons, and not far from the borders of Sarlow. But there are other cities, both of elves and dwarves, that are as near.
"A mist of illusion guards it, and cloaksЧa very strange feeling. A tension. And a sense ofЧevil. Have you ever heard the legend ofЧOsadkah?" Tahion looked up, startled. "Other tales there are, too, of evils so great the Hasturs could neither slay them nor drive them from the world."
"1 have always doubted that tale," said Tahion. "It is like the tale of Anthir and his Stone: it goes against all I have learned of magic."
"I dare not claim it is trueЧone must ask a Hastur for thatЧbut the tale goes that Osadkah was sealed by spells into a mound. It is my belief that Rath Tintallain is built atop such a mound, to guard it, and I believe that the servants of the Dark Lords now seek to freeЧwhat is buried thereЧipm its prison."
"But wait, now," objected Tahion. "Rath Tintallain is a
A GATHERING OF HEROES 9
city of dwarves, as well as elves. Is not a great part of it underground?"
"Indeed," Arthfayel nodded solemnly. "The mines of the little people stretch under the earth for miles around. You are asking how the dwarves dare tunnel with such a thing in the earth? I have pondered that myself. But the dwarf city is very old: my belief is that it was there before, and that the Hastur-kin imprisoned the creature in some chamber of the mines, and ..."
"I'm sorry, Master," a woman's voice broke in, "but the dwarves have drunk the last of the beer, and the roast is gone, too!" Looking up, they saw a harried-looking woman with iron-grey hair, balancing a tray of empty mugs in her hands. "Would you like whiskey, perhaps?" Tahion nodded. "And your friendsЧ" A voice bellowed somewhere in the back of the hall, and she started. "Ah, they're calling me. I'll be back as soon as I can. What a night!" She bustled off.
The door slammed loudly, and they all started. Two men had come in, wearing bright plaids of red and blue. Tumbalian hillmen, Istvan guessed: small round shields were on their backs, broad-biaded swords at their sides; each wore a belt bristling with daggers, and bore three javelinsЧtwo light, long-bladed and wooden-shafted, the third a sharpened iron" stake: the terrible iron javelin that is the distinctive weapon of the Y'goran warrior.
Silver gleamed at the throat and belt of the smaller, dark-haired man, and on the jutting hilts of all his weapons. A silver brooch, richly worked and set with moonstones, pinned his plaid at the shoulder: his shirt was fine white linen, and the feathers of a chief rose from his cap.
His companion was a red-bearded giant, towering over the other, even stooping; his shirt was rough-woven saffron-cloth, his belt plain leather, and the hilts of all his weapons unadorned.
Tahion and Arthfayel looked at each other.
"It is a bard's repertoire of hero-names tonight," said Arthfayel.
"Who are they?" Istvan asked.
"The dark man with the silver trim is Starn, chief of Clan MacMalkom of Benbiel. He has led his Clan in many a fight: at the battle of Quol Ardavin, he slew sixteen men with his own hand. It was he killed Duvnal VicMahan, a man skilled
10 Paul Edwin Zimmer
as any here, who might well have been called, had blood-feud never risen between the Clans of Mahan and Malkom.
"A good man of his hands, Starn MacMalkom, but the man with him is a better: his bodyguard, Flann MacMalkom. He has stood at Starn's back in every battle, and for every man his chief has killed, Flann has slain two. When the sorcerers of Sarlow raised the demon-host against the Tumbalian hills a few years gone, Flann wrought great deeds with the enchanted blade that the elves gave him; and it was he alone who sought out and slew the dragon-bird, S'thagura, who ate a hundred men in one day. Not a champion in Y'gora has more songs about his deeds, saving only Carroll Mac Lir: the songs of the harpers ring with his name."
"Except for Tahion," said Istvan, "I know no one here. And what songs from Y'gora cross the ocean usually tell of things long past, so I know little of living heroes. Tell me, who is that at the next table? The islander there, with his war-flail? And the other, with the scythe?" He gestured at the gaunt, big-boned redhead, who wore the long tartan robe of an islander from east of Airaria. Across his table lay the bladed war-flail, which Istvan had seen used in battle: a tricky weapon, that only an expert might use safely, with a- long flattened iron bar attached to a longer handle by a length of chain, part of the bar filed to a chisel-edge.
"That is Ingulf, Son of Fingold," said Arthfayel, "of the Clan Hua-Eliron from Tray Ithir in the Eastern Isles. Some call him 'the Wanderer,' but others call him Ingulf the Mad. He is a strange one: they say he served in the Emperor's army for some years, but came west and wandered about the Three Kingdoms. Some say he has been to the City of the Sea-Elves, where men do not go, and that it was there that he got the enchanted sword that he calls Frostfire. It was he, with Carroll Mac Lir, who led that wild raid into Sarlow which freed so many men and women from slavery. The other islander is Fithil of the Curranach, Swordmaster of the Clan MacAran, from the Isle of Tongorem. Some say he is the best swordsman of the Isles."
The man he indicated was blond: his eyes pale blue on each side of a nose hooked and lean, that stood out like a beak from the thin face. His red-and-blue checked robe was held shut by a broad leather belt with ornate buckle. The handle of the scythe stood up by his chair.