Книга только для ознакомления
. Morgion's servants preferred
privacy for their work. It would not do for some peasant to
stumble on them. He might escape and warn the others.
The Nightmaster began chanting a litany that brought
back to Rennard faint memories of stench-ridden ruins and
dark practices for the glory of the despotic deity who was
their lord. It would not be long before the sacrifice. The
special death of a Knight of the Rose was a great gift to the
dark god. Small wonder that the Nightmaster might think it
sufficient to at last reunite the cultists with their master.
Rennard had willed himself to be visible to the young
knight. Now the ghost sought to do the same with the
cultists, hoping that his horrific appearance would send
them fleeing. Exactly how he had accomplished the feat the
first time, the ghost didn't know. Intense need, anger,
bitterness . . .
At first, he thought he'd failed, for surely someone
should have noticed him, then one of the acolytes raised his
head. His eyes settled on where the ghost stood.
An indrawn hiss alerted the others. Hoods shifted as the
servants of Morgion turned to see what had so startled their
companion. The acolytes quickly retreated at the sight of an
armed knight, but the Nightmaster held his ground.
"Have you come for your companion, Knight of
Solamnia? Come and take him ... or join him, perhaps.
Morgion will be doubly pleased, yes." The cloaked figure
held out his hands, presumably to show he had no weapon.
Rennard stepped forward, his eyes on the Nightmaster
|
