Коллектив авторов - Realms of the Dragons vol.1

The world shrank around him, and the powerful hand that held him diminished in size and strength, shifting quickly from an iron band around his body to an unfriendly mitt trying to scratch at his ribs. Serreg's instincts told him he was at an awkward angle, his body too vertical and too close to the ground, so he beat his wings rapidly to get his center of gravity back under control.

The evil abomination gaped at the sudden transformation, four arms wide in shock and spiny mouth formed into a perfect ugly circle. Serreg hissed, craning his head forward. He flew upward a few dozen feet and settled upon a rocky pinnacle. The creature rotated its loathsome body to follow his movements.

Quickly, Serreg looked down to take inventory. Two reptilian claws clutched the promontory, and two leathery wings hung at either side. A wyvern?

Thus distracted, Serreg did not see the beast gather itself and lunge at him. Its massive bulk impacted Serreg's body, and the fangs bit into his exposed side. Four arms scrabbled for a grip on Serreg's scaly hide. Reflexively, Serreg thrust with his stinger tail, bones and sinews straining with the strike. As the poisoned barb flew past his head, he caught the briefest metallic glimmer, then the stinger plunged deep into the monster's body, pumping poison as it went.

The creature grew in size again, and Serreg slipped through its outstretched arms and fell. Looking down, he saw the ridge slope clearly, and he knew an impact was coming. He pinwheeled his arms to right himself, hit the ground hard, and tumbled and slid for more than thirty feet before coming to an abrupt and painful stop against a bush.

He looked up. The abyssal monstrosity writhed in the air, black blood dribbling down its side. It turned toward him, bellowing in its singular voice, and Serreg tightened his grip on the dagger. Thankfully, he hadn't lost his grip on it when he fell. The beast moved toward him, but then abruptly deflated of menace and sank a few feet toward the ground. The arms started to retract, then grew limp. Its barbed tail swished a few times back and forth, then quivered and was still.

His dagger held defensively in front of him, Serreg moved back up the rocky slope. The beast hung above the ground, dead, yet still suspended seven feet in the air. Its arms dangled and bloody drool oozed its way out of the grotesque mouth, but the tail was still raised.

Serreg inspected the creature-as much as he could without getting too close. He saw the gaping wound his stinger had left, saw the single scratch on one of the wrists from his claw. The blood from the mouth attested to his first dagger thrust.

Odd that I can see so clearly in the dark, he thought.

He looked down at his hand. It was a hand all right, but not human-rougher, more powerful. His clothes were his, somewhat the worse for wear though nonetheless the robes of an archwizard, but they no longer fit properly.

His callused fingers found a wide face with low cheekbones and a sloping forehead. Small tusks sprouted from his mouth under a snotty nose.

"An orc?" he said, his voice muddy and unrefined. "Well, at leasht I can shpeak."

He cast a subtle detection spell, and discerned that the evil creature's concealing weave still stood. Confident that the others were unaware of the monstrosity's demise, Serreg limped back down the ridge, his dagger dangling from one tired hand.

He turned westward, doubling back on his original flight, hoping that the other things would search for him farther east. He increased his speed from a stagger to a walk, then to a jog, and even a bit better than that. Trotting along, he found he rather appreciated his orc body. His eyes pierced the darkness easily. The pain in ribs and wrist impeded him less than he expected; perhaps an orc's nervous system was partially inured to pain. He loped along at a good clip without getting appreciably winded. His muscles were tireless and his piggy snout with wide, flaring nostrils was ideally suited to bring in large quantities of air. True, the constant dribble of snot affronted his cultured upbringing, but he would happily endure that disgrace to get farther away from those nightmarish beasts.

He moved throughout the hours of darkness, ever to the west, finding a good steady pace he could maintain for hours. As he trotted, he contemplated the dagger in his hand and the position it had put him in, somehow blaming the dagger for his plight more than he blamed the hulking beast it had killed for him.

That the blade was priceless went without saying. It was a gift from a god-a god! — and though no one would ever believe the tale, its powers were unquestionable. It had slain a hulking brute that his magic hadn't even singed, and it had changed his shape, what, three times already? If only he could learn how to control it, what power he would have! Soar up to Karsus Enclave on the wings of a nighthawk, sneak through the city streets as a cat, change to a gnat to penetrate a gap in any locked window-there was a thought! A gnat with the intelligence and magical powers of an archwizard! No secret would be safe. All those other archwizards, scheming and plotting against Delia, trying to destroy his enclave and his people, their secrets would be exposed, their plans foiled! But it all depended on that damnable dagger….

Serreg tried to force the weapon to change his shape for him. He tried every incantation he knew, and as many religious supplications as he could bring to mind or invent. He expressed the desire as a wish, a command, and a bargain; verbally, mentally, and to the best of his ability, kinesthetically. He tried drawing his own blood with the blade to activate the ability, as well as spitting on it, sweating on it, kissing it, and eventually, cursing at it. Nothing worked.

By daybreak, after a full night's run and endless hours spent beating his will fruitlessly against the magic blade, Serreg was ready to quit. He'd survived those monsters he had unwittingly unearthed, so why bother with this thrice-damned intractable item anymore? His tired brain could think of no reason. He'd just throw the blade, sling it hard, get it away from him, be done with it. The dagger seemed to squirm in his grasp. He clenched his fist tight, cocked his arm, took a deep breath-

And stopped.

He couldn't throw it away. He was still an orc.

His shoulders sagged, and he sat heavily on the ground, head drooping in defeat.

Until he figured out how to change himself back into a human, he had to keep the blade. So long as he was an orc, any human he met would kill him on sight. The two races had been warring for three millennia already, and they wouldn't stop just for him. He had no magic left to teleport to his laboratory, and even if he did, the other mages would roast him alive. He'd be overwhelmed. And he certainly wasn't going to stoop so low as to try to move in with an orc tribe. He had to keep the dagger until he discovered how to make it work for him, instead of just working on him.

But that would have to wait for later. He was tired, injured, and the sun was too bright. So thinking, he lay back, flung his left arm over his eyes, and fell asleep, his right hand clutching the dagger to his chest.

He had no idea how long he'd been asleep, nor why he felt the sudden need to roll, hard, but he did so, only to see the tip of a spear imbed itself firmly in the dirt a scant few inches in front of his eyes.

He heard someone yell, "You jackass! You woke it up!" and a grunt as the spear was pulled out of the ground into the too-bright sky.

Hunters, militia, a stray farmer, Serreg didn't know. He didn't even have a clear idea where in Netheril he was.

But he knew his life was in mortal danger. His orc glands fired amazing amounts of adrenaline into his system, giving his senses such sensitive clarity that his ears rang in pain. The battle frenzy was a new sensation to the normally intellectual archwizard, one he was neither mentally nor emotionally, prepared for. Forgetting his magical training, he leaped to his feet bellowing a mighty battle cry. He saw a silhouette nearby, dark against the painful blue sky, with a spear held defensively. Serreg charged. orc instinct, or perhaps an ingrained warrior's training granted by the dagger, urged Serreg to roll under the spear. He dived, tumbled forward, and his feet came back in under him. Serreg lunged upward again, the full weight of his body and force of his legs burying the dagger deep into the hapless human's abdomen. Serreg heard him grunt in pain-