Книга только для ознакомления
. The
dark clerics, worshipers of the Queen of the Abyss, had not
succeeded in their scheme to fill the void left by the
departure of the other gods' faithful. The words of the
strange mage, who called himself Raistlin, echoed in their
hearts.
IN THIRTEEN DAYS' TIME, THE GODS IN THEIR
WRATH AT THE FOLLY OF MEN WILL HURL A FIERY
MOUNTAIN DOWN UPON ANSALON. THE LAND WILL
BE SUNDERED, SEAS WILL RISE, AND MOUNTAINS
TOPPLE. COUNTLESS NUMBERS WILL DIE.
COUNTLESS MORE, WHO WILL LIVE IN THE DARK
AND TERRIBLE DAYS TO FOLLOW, WILL COME TO
WISH THEY HAD DIED.
Michael and Nikol reached the edge of the forest, came to
the clearing where Akar had received his prize - the dying
knight, Nicholas - from the goblins who had captured him.
The knight's blood still stained the crushed grass. Both
paused, without a word spoken. Neither had said a word to
each other, following their departure from the Lost Citadel.
Thirteen days. Thirteen days until the destruction of the
world.
"Where do you want to go, my lady?" Michael asked.
Nikol glanced around the clearing, slowly darkening
with the coming of night. The dazzled bewilderment was
fading, a numbness and lethargy that was not so much a
weariness of body as it was a weariness of spirit that made
her feet seem too heavy to lift, her heart too heavy to bear.
She had only one thought. "Home," she said.
Michael looked grave, opened his mouth, probably to
protest. Nikol knew what he was going to say, stopped the
words on his lips with a glance
|
