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

done about it - he'd put off this errand as long as he could.
The massive vallenwood front door creaked as Flint
opened it, causing the shutters on his windows to bang in
the chill breeze, their hinges sagging like an old woman's
stockings. They ought to be repaired - there were many
such tasks to be done before the first snow fell.
Flint's home was one of the few in Solace at ground level,
since he was one only of a handful of non-humans living in
the town, including dwarves. While the view from up in the
trees was quite lovely, Flint had no interest in living in a
drafty, swaying house. Wooden walkways suspended by
strong cords attached to high branches were the sidewalks
of Solace. Probably they had provided a useful means of de-
fense against the bandit armies that had once ranged across
the plains of Abanasinia in the wake of the Cataclysm.
Nowadays the trees served as an aesthetic delight, Solace's
trademark. People came from many miles away simply to
gaze on the city of vallenwood.
The day was cool but not cold, and warming sunshine cut
through the thick trees in slanted white lines. The greengro-
cer's shop rose above the very center of the eastern edge of
the town square, a short distance away. Flint set out for the
nearest spiral stair leading to the bridgewalks overhead. By
the time his short legs had pumped him to the top of the cir-
cling thirty-foot wooden ramp, his brow had broken out in
beads of sweat. Flint plucked at the furry edges of his vest
and wished he hadn't dressed so warmly; he slipped his arms
from it and draped the leather and wool garment over one
shoulder. He saw the grocer's, at the end of a long straighta-
way.
For the first time in quite a while, Flint truly noticed his
surroundings. The village of Solace was washed in vivid fall
colors. But unlike the maples or oaks of other areas, each
large vallenwood leaf turned red, green, and gold in perfect,
alternating angled stripes of about an inch wide. So instead
of seeing blazing clumps of solid color, the landscape was a
multicolored jumble. The bright sunlight cast the leaves in a

shimmering iridescence that shifted in shade and intensity
with each passing breeze.
The view from the bridgewalk allowed him to see quite a
distance. He looked down at a smithy, where the blacksmith
Theros Ironfeld toiled at shoeing the lively stallion of a
robed human who was pacing with impatience.
A seeker, Flint thought sullenly, and his mood darkened.
It seemed the seekers were everywhere these days. The sect
had arisen from the ashes of the Cataclysm, which was itself
caused by the old gods in reaction to the pride and misdirec-
tion of the most influential religious leader at the time, the
Kingpriest of Istar. This group, calling themselves seekers,