"Mary Kirchoff, Douglas Niles. Flint, the King ("Dragonlance Preludes II" #2) (angl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

Flint found himself thinking about Aylmar and wonder-
ing how long it had been since he had seen his older brother.
Oh, fifteen, maybe twenty years, he decided with a frown,
Then a smile dotted his face as he recalled the escapades
they had had together, the nick-of-time victories, the grand
treasures.
In particular he remembered the grandest treasure of
them all - the Tharkan Axe. His older brother Aylmar and
he had stumbled upon the axe on one of his earliest treasure-
hunting forays into the foothills of the Kharolis Mountains,
near Pax Tharkas, to be exact, which was why the brothers
had so named it. Typical dwarven greed had driven the two
Fireforge brothers into the deepest recesses of a hobgoblin
lair that was rumored to be filled with riches. Dispatching
more than fifteen of the hairy-hided, six-foot monstrosities
with blows to their red-skinned heads, Flint and Aylmar had
made their way through the last of five interconnected caves
to the hobgoblins' treasure chamber. There, atop a four-
foot-high pile of coins and glittering gems, the beautiful axe
gleamed like a beacon. Aylmar had snatched it up first while
Flint stuffed his pockets and pouches with other riches, then
the two had run from the lair before any more hobgoblins
appeared.
Many years later Aylmar, his heart already showing the
weakness that would soon force him to retire from the ad-
venturing life, presented the weapon to Flint on his
Fullbeard Day - the dwarven coming-of-age celebration.
Smirking, and using the teasing tone that he knew got Flint's
dander up, Aylmar had said, "Considering the girlish way
you fight, boy, you need this a lot more'n me!" That had
been more than forty years ago.
The dwarf remembered, with a touch of gruff sentimen-
tality, the times he had wielded that Tharkan Axe on his
travels. The magnificent weapon had gleamed, cutting a sil-
ver are around Flint in battle. For several good years the
weapon had served him. It served to remind him of Aylmar
as well.
His brow furrowed at the memory of the barrow mounds

where he had lost the axe while on yet another treasure
hunt. Amid heaps of coins, a scattering of gems, and the
bare skeletons of a dozen ancient chieftains, a figure of cold,
sucking blackness had lurked. A wraith of death, it had
seized Flint's soul with its terrible grip. A deadly chill had
settled in his bones, and he had staggered to his knees, hope-
less to resist.
The Tharkan Axe had flashed, then, with a white-hot
light that drove the wraith backward and gave Flint the
strength to stand. With a mighty heave, the dwarf had bur-
ied the weapon in the shapeless yet substantial creature be-