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Фантастика. Фэнтези
   Зарубежная фантастика
      Paul B.Thompson, Tonya ъ.Carter. Darkness and Light -
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blindfolded respectively, gallantly waved their good spirits. ъainspot looked sodden and for- lorn under his cloud, but avowed that he felt well. Sighter cleared his throat and arched an eyebrow in a maddeningly superior way. "It is evident that the closer we get to the obelisk, the more intensely the neutral power of Lunitari infects us," he said. "Let's push on," said Sturm. They continued on for about an hour, when they came upon a path, cleared from the strange jungle. And where the cleared path met the horizon, there stood a tall spire - the mysterious obelisk of Lunitari. They were still some ten miles away, but the land sloped downward toward the obe- lisk at an easy grade. There were no other features to over- shadow it. "Looks like we're expected," said Sturm. "The Voice?" Fitter wondered. "Who else?" Sighter replied. He hooked his thumbs under his suspenders. "If I'm right, we're going to meet a very remarkable being. Someone who'll make all the other won- ders of Lunitari seem like cheap carnival tricks." The obelisk grew from a slim red line to a robust tower five hundred feet tall. It had a curiously striped appearance, caused by thin black bands that alternated with the red stone of its walls. The closer the explorers came, the higher the grand tower seemed to thrust into the sky. Cutwood broke the long silence. He said, "Have you noticed how the plants lean toward the tower?" It was true. All of them, even the spiny puffballs, were bent so that they faced the great obelisk. "Like lilies turned to the sun," surmised Kitiara. They halted fifty yards from the base of the obelisk. The red marble sides were beautifully dressed and squared, unlike the crude masonry of the tree-men's village. The black bands between the courses of marble were mortar of some kind. On ground level, facing the explorers, was an open entrance, a notch cut in the smooth stone. Inside was only darkness. At regular intervals, the obelisk's walls were pierced by long, narrow windows. "What do we do now?" asked Fitter in a very small voice. Come closer! Sturm and Kitiara stepped back, reaching for their weap- ons. "Who said that?" called Sturm. I, the Keeper of the New Lives, said a soothing bass voice within their own heads. "Where are you?" Kitiara demanded. In the edifice before you. Come closer. "We'll stay right here, thank you," said Cutwood. Ah, you are afraid. Is mortal flesh so dear that you would ignore the opportunity to feast your eyes on a rare and won- derful sight, namely myself? That the humans would be afraid I did not doubt, but I expected better of you gnomes. "We saw a colleague die not long ago, so you'll excuse us if we're a bit cautious," Wingover said. You require proof of my good will? Behold. A small shape stirred in the dim doorway. It emerged into the light of day, stopped and waved. It looked like Stutts. "Gears and sprockets!" Fitter crowed, dashing forward. Of course, he dragged ъoperig with him. Cutwood and Wingover stumbled after them, while ъainspot wandered over in a fog, with Sighter chuckling at his side. "Wait," said Sturm. "It could be an illusion." But it was not an illusion. The gnomes engulfed Stutts, yelling with unrestrained delight. Birdcall and Flash appeared in the door and leaped on the pile of happy gnomes. After a heartily bruising hello, Stutts extricated himself from the press and toddled to Sturm and Kitiara. He shook Sturm's hand solidly and expressed concern for Kiti- ara's bandaged shoulder. "It is you," she said, pinching his ear. "It is, and I am quite well, thank you. We've been waiting for you all for days." "What happened to your stutter?" Sturm asked. Suspi- cion made him blunt. "Oh, that! It's gone, you know, poof! The Keeper says it's due to the leveling effect of the magic forces present on Luni- tari." Stutts peered behind the humans. "Where's Bell- crank?" Sturm laid a hand on the gnome's shoulder. "I fear that we have grave news, my friend." "Grave? How - ?" Are your fears alleviated? intruded the voice. "For now," Kitiara said. "May we have our flying ship back, please?" Don't be so hasty! We've not been properly introduced. Please come in, won't you? "Explain later," Stutts said quickly. He took Kitiara's and Sturm's hands and led them to the door. "We've had the most tremendous adventure since you left to prospect for ore," he reported. "The Keeper has treated us marvelously." "Who is this Keeper? Where is he?" asked Kitiara. "Come and see for yourselves." Stutts let go of their hands. Sturm and Kitiara stepped through the deep door-notch into the shadowed interior of the grand obelisk. Sunlight filtered down from the slit windows higher up in the obelisk. In the center of the floor, illuminated by the sunlight, sat the flying ship Cloudmaster. The ethereal air bag had shrunk to half its previous size, just a soft lump in many folds of loose netting. The wings had been detached from the hull, no doubt to allow the craft to fit through the door in the obelisk. The leather wings were neatly folded and lying on the red marble floor beside the ship. Clicking in the darkness beyond the Cloudmaster proved the presence of Micones. Inevitably, the warriors' gazes were lifted by the soaring hollowness of the interior. As Sturm and Kitiara raised their eyes, they saw a series of ledges and horizontal pillars set into the immensely thick walls. Perched about fifty feet above the floor was the occupant of the obelisk, the Keeper. A dragon. Where blades of sunlight struck him, his scales shone greenish gold. No dragon had been seen on Krynn in centuries, so long, in fact, that their actual existence was a sorely debated point among historians, clerics, and natural philosophers. Sturm believed from boyhood that there had been dragons, but face to face with a living example, he felt so much fear that he thought he'd faint. Be a man, a knight! he admonished himself. Men had faced dragons before. Huma had done it. So while Sturm's head swam from this newest and greatest revelation, he kept his feet firmly under him. Kitiara, too, was stunned. Her eyes were huge and white in the dim light. She recovered more quickly than Sturm, however, and said, "Are you the Keeper who spoke to us?" Yes. "Or do you prefer spoken language?" asked the dragon. Its voice was not as booming as Sturm had expected it to be; considering its size (thirty-five feet from nose to tail) and the distance to it, it was quite soft-spoken. "Spoken is best. That way I can be sure of what I'm hear- ing," answered Kitiara. "As you wish. I do enjoy speaking, and I've gone such a long time without having anyone to speak to. The ants, you see, respond best to telepathy." The dragon shook its broad, angular head with a noise of clanging brass. It lifted its feet off the ledge and dropped to a lower perch with a single fluff of its wings. The breeze washed over the amazed explorers. "Where are my manners? I am Cupelix Trisfendamir, Keeper of the New Lives and resident of this obelisk." The gnomes had retreated behind the humans when the dragon appeared. Now they spread out and began to bombard him with questions. "Keeper of what new lives?" "How much do you weigh?" "How did you get here?" "How long have you been here?" "Do you have any raisins?" The dragon was amused by this barrage, but he dismissed the gnomes with a wave of one giant foreclaw. "You are Kiti- ara Uth Matar and Sturm Brightblade, are you not?" he asked. The two nodded dumbly. "Your small friend, Stutts, speaks very highly of you both. Apparently, you have impressed him with many sterling qualities." "Apparently'" said Kitiara dryly. "I have only the evidence of Stutts's impressions. Be that as it may, I am very glad you are here. 1 followed your prog- ress along the trail I had the Micones make -" Cupelix tilted his burnished head and peered at Sturm with dagger eyes. "Yes, Sir Knight, the trail was deliberate." "You read minds," Sturm said uncomfortably. "Not deeply. Only when a thought is so clearly on the tip of one's tongue." Stutts introduced his colleagues to the dragon. Cupelix exchanged witty banter with each one, until Sighter's turn came. "You are a bronze dragons" questioned the gnome. "Brass, if you must know. But enough of these trivialities! You have come a long way and labored hard to recover your flying craft. Now that you have found it and each other once more, enjoy a moment of repose at my expense." "We'd rather be on our way," said Sturm. "But I insist," said the dragon. He slid along the edge of his perch, his rear legs gripping the stone ledge and his wings flaring out for balance. Cupelix worked his way around to just over the door - the only way out. Sturm didn't like what was happening. By instinct, his hand strayed to the pommel of his sword - which changed to a chicken drumstick when he touched it. The gnomes looked popeyed, and Kitiara's jaw fell open in surprise. "Please excuse my little joke," said Cupelix. In the wink of an eye, the poultry leg was gone and the sword was back. "Your weapons are unnecessary here. That was just my way of showing you the truth of it. Men so often have to be shown the truth before they believe something. r, "And now," said Cupelix, drawing himself erect. "Let there be victuals!" His eyes flashed with an inner light that seemed to leave bright sparkles in the air. The sparkles col- lected in the open space before the bow of the Cloudmaster. When they faded, they left behind a broad oak table groan- ing under the weight of food and drink. "Eat, my friends. Drink, and we shall tell each other tales of great doings," intoned the dragon. The gnomes fell upon the table with squeals of delight. Kitiara eyed the pitchers of foaming ale and sauntered over. Though the spear plants could taste like any food she wished, Kitiara had missed the sight of real food. Only Sturm remained where he stood, his hands folded at his waist. "You do not eat, Master Brightblade," said Cupelix. "The fruits of magic are not fit victuals," Sturm said. The reptilian nostrils twitched. "You have poor manners for one who styles himself a knight." Sturm answered carefully. "There are higher directives than mere manners. The Measure tells us to reject magic in all its forms, for example." The brass jaws widened, reveal- ing saber-sized teeth and a forked black tongue flecked with gold. For a second, Sturm's heart contracted to a tight knot in his chest, for he knew he could not withstand this mon- ster's attack. Then, he realized Cupelix was grinning at him. "Oh, how boring it has been these centuries past without creatures to dispute with! Bless your stiff neck, Sturm Brightblade! What pleasure you give me!" The jaws closed with a metallic clank. "But come now, surely you have heard of Huma the Lancer?" "Of course." "He got along quite well with some types of dragons, did he not?" "So the histories say. I can only point out that while Huma was a brave warrior and a great hero, he was not a model knight." Cupelix burst out laughing; it sounded like a chorus of mighty gongs. "Do as you please, then! I would not want to be responsible for undermining such formidable virtue!" With that, Cupelix sprang from his stand and, beating his wings furiously, flew up to the highest recesses of the hollow obelisk. Sturm went to the sumptuous table. The gnomes were gorging themselves on baked apples, dove stuffed with bacon and chestnuts, wild rice with saffron, whole sweet onions glazed with honey, venison steaks, blood pudding, pickled eggs, breads, punch, wine, and ale. Kitiara had taken her injured arm out of its sling and let it rest on the table. With her coat falling off one shoulder and the flush of new ale on her cheeks, she looked quite wanton. She sniffed when her eyes met Sturm's, and she popped a whole pickled egg in her mouth. 'You're missing a feast," she said after swallowing. "The old emperors of Ergoth never ate so well." "I wonder what it's made from?" Sturm said, picking up a warm roll and letting it fall back into its tray. "Sand? Poi- sonous mushrooms?" "Sometimes you are tiresome beyond belief," said Kitiara and quaffed a three-gulp swallow of ale. "If the dragon wanted to kill us, he could do it without resorting to the sub- tleties of poison." "Actually," Cutwood said, leaning across the table and spewing bread crumbs with every syllable, "brass dragons traditionally are not aligned with evil." "Have we nothing to fear from this creature?" Sturm asked the table at large. He glanced up at the darkness that held the dragon, and lowered his voice. "Our ancestors on Krynn fought long and hard to eliminate dragons from the world. Were they all wrong?" "The situation here is completely different," said Stutts. "Lunitari is this dragon's home. He has taken a kindly inter- est in our plight. We shouldn't refuse his help because of ancient prejudices that have no application at the present time." 'What does he want from us?" "He hasn't told us yet," Stutts admitted. "But he, ah, won't let us leave." "What do you mean?" Sturm said sharply. "Birdcall, Flash, and I wanted to go searching for you. We rerouted the engine control sufficiently to make short ascents - hops, really - but Cupelix refused to allow us out of the obelisk. He claimed it wasn't safe, and that he was taking steps to bring you all here." "Well, we're here now," said Kitiara, reaching for another broiled dove. "And we'll soon be on our way." "Will we?" Sturm asked, craning his neck again to peer into the dim heights of the obelisk. "Now that he has us all, will he let us go?" Chapter 20 A New Age Aften Kitiara and thee gnomes had their fill, they stole off to the Cloudmaster for a nap. Only Stutts remained with Sturm. The two of them strolled around the interior of the vast obelisk, and Sturm related the story of Bellcrank's death. "It was pure chance that Bellcrank died instead of Kit or Sighter." They paused in their walk as Stutts plucked a handkerchief from his vest pocket and dabbed at his nose. Sturm told of ъapaldo's death, and how they placed Bell- crank in the middle of the mushroom garden. "He and I were at gear-making school together, you know," Stutts said softly. "I'll miss him a great deal." They passed under the bow of the flying ship, and Sturm saw a smooth round hole, eight feet wide, bored in the hard mar- ble floor. He asked Stutts what it was. "The Micones live in a cavern below," Stutts said. "They enter and leave by these holes." He indicated two others not far away. Sturm stood on the lip of one of the holes and looked down. There was a feeble bluish glow below, and he could see the jagged shapes of stalagmites. A faintly bitter smell wafted up from the depths. "Did the Micones build this place?" Sturm asked. "Not as far as I can tell," Stutts replied, resuming his walk. "The Micones are a rather new addition to this place. Cupe- lix hints that he created them, but I don't believe he's that powerful. But to address your question: The obelisk was here even before the dragon." "How do you know that?" "By observing Cupelix. While a healthy adult specimen of a brass dragon, his features are in many ways molded by the fact that he grew up inside this obelisk. Notice, for example, his short wings and powerful legs; he spends all his time perching on the ledges rather than flying. He can jump tre- mendous distances, even straight up." Stutts stopped, seeing that Sturm was studying him. "What?" asked the gnome. 'You're so changed," said Sturm. "Not just the lack of a stutter; you seem so calm and collected." Stutts blushed pink under his neatly trimmed beard. "I suppose we gnomes must appear awfully disorganized and impractical to you humans." Sturm smiled. "Not at all." Stutts returned the grin. He said, "Being on Lunitari has changed me - all of us. The flight of the Cloudmaster, while erratic, has been the first true success in my life. I spent years in the workshops of Mt. Nevermind, building flying machines. They all failed. It wasn't until I learned of Bell- crank's experiments with ethereal air that the Cloudmaster became possible." Mention of the lost chemist quelled con- versation for a moment. "Be at peace," Sturm finally said. "He was avenged." They passed below the tail of the flying ship. A mixed chorus of snores issued from the open portholes. Stutts ges- tured toward the sound. "They are a fine band of colleagues," he said. "They deserve to go home to the cheers of all Sancrist." "Do you think we'll ever see Krynn again?" Sturm asked. "That all depends on Cupelix and what he wants. I have a theory - " A wind flowed over them. With a customary metallic ringing, the dragon alighted on the lowest sill, perhaps fif- teen feet above Sturm and Stutts. The gnome sidled away from Cupelix. "I trust you are satiated," Cupelix said to Stutts. "The meal was excellent, as always," Stutts replied. He yawned. "It weighs a bit heavy on my stomach, though. I think I shall join my colleagues." With a polite nod, Stutts returned to the ship. Cupelix loomed over Sturm. "So it is you and I, Master Brightblade. What shall we talk about l Let us debate our philosophies, knight to dragon. What do you say?" "No magic?" Cupelix laid a burnished claw on his breast. "Dragon's honor." "How is it," Sturm wondered, "that you speak so fluently the Krynnish tongue!" "Books," replied the dragon. "My nest on high is plentiful- ly supplied with books by authors mortal and immortal. Now I shall ask a question: What is it you seek from life?" "To live honorably and in the manner befitting an Oath-taken knight. My turn. Have you always lived inside this tower?" "From the days when I was a dragonlet no larger

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