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The Wizardwar :: Каннингем Элейн
Страница: 15 из 208They nodded to the young man as he passed, giving the deference due to the king's messenger. None of them suspected the true identity of the black-eyed, brown-skinned youth.
The disguised wizard stopped before an enormous door and bowed to the ancient, cadaverous archmage who guarded it. He handed the old man a scroll.
"A writ from the king," he said in the lilting accents common to the coastal islands.
The archmage glanced at the missive, then lifted his rheumy gaze to the messenger. "By the king's command, we must answer your questions with the same candor we would offer him. I swear by my wizard-word oath it will be so."
The youth inclined his head in respectful thanks. "I would know who raised and commanded the undead army during the battle against the Mulhorandi invaders."
The guardians exchanged uncertain glances. "The king himself is acclaimed for this victory," the archmage ventured.
The messenger snorted. "When did the king become a master of necromancy? Tell me who among your ranks could have done such a thing."
The old man's lips thinned as if to hold back the answer he was sworn to give. "It is beyond my art," he admitted at last. "No one in this room could cast such a spell. We can all raise and command undead, certainly, but not in such numbers! If the king did not cast this spell, then his equal did."
"Who is equal to the king?" asked the disguised wizard, imbuing his voice with a mixture of indignation and concern, such as a faithful young messenger might express.
"I assume you speak rhetorically, as did I," the archmage hastened to add. "For who could be the king's equal?"
Who indeed? The wizard swallowed the wry smile that tugged at his lips. The old archmage's parry was as deft as any swordmaster's, but in truth many wizards were beginning to wonder if perhaps they might prove to be the king's equal. The guardian's question might have been rhetorical, but it would not long remain in the bloodless realm of rhetoric.
The wizard bowed his thanks and gestured toward the door. The archmage moved aside, clearly eager to end this disturbing interview.
Massive, ironbound doors swung inward on silent hinges, untouched by mortal hand. Torches mounted on the walls flared into life, revealing a circular room with several doors but no floor other than a gaping pit. Faint but fearsome howls wafted up from untold depths, carrying a feint charnel scent and the promise of oblivion.
The wizard stepped into the empty air, counted off several paces to the left, and strode confidently across the void.
The disguised wizard stopped before an enormous door and bowed to the ancient, cadaverous archmage who guarded it. He handed the old man a scroll.
"A writ from the king," he said in the lilting accents common to the coastal islands.
The archmage glanced at the missive, then lifted his rheumy gaze to the messenger. "By the king's command, we must answer your questions with the same candor we would offer him. I swear by my wizard-word oath it will be so."
The youth inclined his head in respectful thanks. "I would know who raised and commanded the undead army during the battle against the Mulhorandi invaders."
The guardians exchanged uncertain glances. "The king himself is acclaimed for this victory," the archmage ventured.
The messenger snorted. "When did the king become a master of necromancy? Tell me who among your ranks could have done such a thing."
The old man's lips thinned as if to hold back the answer he was sworn to give. "It is beyond my art," he admitted at last. "No one in this room could cast such a spell. We can all raise and command undead, certainly, but not in such numbers! If the king did not cast this spell, then his equal did."
"Who is equal to the king?" asked the disguised wizard, imbuing his voice with a mixture of indignation and concern, such as a faithful young messenger might express.
"I assume you speak rhetorically, as did I," the archmage hastened to add. "For who could be the king's equal?"
Who indeed? The wizard swallowed the wry smile that tugged at his lips. The old archmage's parry was as deft as any swordmaster's, but in truth many wizards were beginning to wonder if perhaps they might prove to be the king's equal. The guardian's question might have been rhetorical, but it would not long remain in the bloodless realm of rhetoric.
The wizard bowed his thanks and gestured toward the door. The archmage moved aside, clearly eager to end this disturbing interview.
Massive, ironbound doors swung inward on silent hinges, untouched by mortal hand. Torches mounted on the walls flared into life, revealing a circular room with several doors but no floor other than a gaping pit. Faint but fearsome howls wafted up from untold depths, carrying a feint charnel scent and the promise of oblivion.
The wizard stepped into the empty air, counted off several paces to the left, and strode confidently across the void.