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Mickey Reichert: Godslayer

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Mickey Reichert Godslayer

Godslayer: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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From habit, Bramin checked his own excitement. As he walked toward the arena, he took his staff in hand. It would help him through the throng, for men rightly shied from its touch. He used it like a walking stick, though none would question his youth or vigor; even those too foolish to fear the power of his magic could not fail to notice the unearthly aura of evil inherited from his father.

The citizens of Forste -Mar shrank from the slim, dark wizard who strode purposefully to the door of the stadium. Despite the demoralizing inevitability of combat, Bramin gleaned some amusement from their awe. Years ago, these same men and women would have spit on him.

The guards gestured Bramin inside, and the crowd closed in behind him, hoping for a glimpse of the combat. Noblemen lined the balconies and applauded politely at his entrance. Bramin leaned his staff against the lowest stands, walked to center ring, and examined his audience. He raised a hand in greeting to the king and queen. Ashemir waved, then shrugged in apology. Halfrija's seat was unoccupied, and Bramin supposed she was coaching her champion. The thought formed a painful ball in his throat. He felt utterly alone. Now, before Forste -Mar's masses, Silme's reassurances rang as hollow as in youth when she swore her playmates did not hate him even as they hurled rocks and challenges. Anxiety allowed Bramin to forget the times she had stroked his hair until he ceased to tremble. He knew nothing of how she had confronted his tormentors with their inhumanity and made them blush with humility.

Thus reminded of the townspeople's hostility, Bramin's will faltered. The noise of the peasants changed pitch. The door swung open, and Halfrija entered. She wore a suit of leather far too large for her tiny frame. She grasped a long sword in both fists, and it leaned awkwardly.

The audience erupted in riot. The queen fainted. All color drained from the king, and he sat, rigid, like an ivory statue. Bramin met Halfrija halfway into the ring. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

Her eyes blazed with madness. "I am my champion. Kill or be killed," she chanted like a priest before a sacrifice. She thrust the sword clumsily.

Bramin's mouth went painfully dry. He sidestepped and caught both of Halfrija's wrists, drawing her too close for combat. If anyone in the audience spoke or moved, Bramin did not notice. His blood-colored eyes probed the princess for answers, but true to his word he avoided magic. "Halfrija:"

She spat in his face. "Beast! I would rather die than marry you."

Halfrija's words pained like blows. Bramin's grip tightened on her flesh till she winced. His voice was rambling and plaintive as a lost child. "Why? Oh, why, Halfrija? I've the power to grant your every desire. A thousand kings have offered great treasures for me to come serve them. Yet I refused them all for you. I love you, Halfrija."

Halfrija's hands whitened as her face flushed with ugly rage. "I'll not be disdained by my own people because a dark creature loves me." She added cruelly, "If, indeed, your kind can know love."

Bramin caught his breath with a sob. "Now I know love and pain." Desperately, he spouted Silme's trite comforts as if they were truths. "The people of Forste -Mar don't hate me. They mistreated me as a child from ignorance. But many years have passed since:"

"You stupid animal!" Halfrija's voice rose in pitch and volume. "We hate you now more than ever. We would kick and spit, even slay you if we didn't fear your power. You're no man, you're a beast. Worse than a beast, for a rat is content with its lot and you have the audacity to pretend you're human!"

Slapped by Halfrija's cruelty, Bramin made a pained noise. His grip went lax. "Halfrija:"

Her sword struck. Though too near her target for an effective strike, her blade nicked Bramin's side. The razor edge opened his tunic. Blood beaded his skin. Bramin watched in fascination as a single drop slid down his breeks and splashed a tiny, scarlet circle in the sand.

He looked up as Halfrija raised her sword like a club and lashed at his face. Tears stung his eyes. He stood, hopeless and uncaring, as the blade cut above his head. Just before the blow fell, self-righteous fury warmed his blood. The will to live and claim vengeance on all who had ever wronged him replaced the anguish roused by Halfrija's scorn. He sprang aside. Her sword whisked through air where he had stood and hammered the packed sand with a crash.

Off-balance, Halfrija staggered. Bramin caught her by the throat. He drew her so close their faces nearly touched. Her cheeks and eyes paled with fear, which gave Bramin a morbid satisfaction. The legacy of his dark ancestors rose hot in his veins. "Too good for me, lady?" His voice transformed to an ancient croak of evil. "You're not too good for death." His hands knotted convul-sively, cartilage crumbled beneath his fingers, and Halfrija fell limp against him.

Blood trickled from the corner of her thin lips, staining Bramin's hand. He looked up quickly to a condemning horde. A great shout rose from the stands, and men descended upon him. "Stop!" screamed Bramin. His cry was lost in the rising din. Clutching Halfrija's body with one arm, he raised the other. Spell words rushed from his throat. His life aura flared to blinding white. Smoke broiled from his fingers and rolled like fog across the arena floor. It struck the first wave of courtiers and roared to flame.

Screams filled Bramin's ears like song. The courtiers' charge was transformed to chaotic flight. Enchantments rolled from the half- elfs tongue. Bramin's staff leapt to his hand. Its jade stone winked once, staining the roiling magics an eerie green-blue. And when the works of sorcery cleared, all that remained of Bramin and Halfrija were five drops of blood on the sands of the arena,

Stiffly, Halfrija let the last of her garments fall to the floor of Bramin's quarters at the School of Dragonrank. She stood before him, naked. He had imagined her unclothed so many times in his dreams and desires, yet now the sight only sickened him. Her slimness transformed to a cadaverous frailty. Her breasts sagged, violet with pooled blood. Her eyes were hollow and dead. All his magic could not restore life, only simulate it. This was not Halfrija, just a crude animation which would perform as Bramin wished, without will or knowledge of its lot.

Black rage engulfed Bramin. His life aura rose to off white as he channeled his energies. Magic lanced Halfrija's body as it fell, and the pale form crumbled to dust. Bitterness grew like a cancer. Bramin rose and paced. With each jagged pass, his fist crashed against the smoothed-stone walls. "Hate me, do they?" he screamed at the ceiling. "Hate spawns hate."

He stared at the charred pile which had once been the person of the princess of Forste -Mar. One kick scattered the ashes around his quarters. " Hatespawn I am, and so will I remain. But all mankind shall pay for their abhorrence." His thoughts shifted slightly. For a moment he pictured his half sister Silme, as beautiful as Halfrija and in many ways as cruel.

Bramin paced again. "It was she who told me they meant no harm. She blinded me to their treacheries and laughed behind my back. She taught me the torture of love as though it were a pleasure and held me from my vengeance. She goaded me to destroy my love and shame myself before Forste -Mar's peasants. It's too late to sunder Halfrija's soul, but not Silme's. She will die in torment and the manworld of Midgard with her!"

Light flashed through his quarters, dimming his life aura to dirty yellow as another's power pulsed against him. Bramin turned with a hiss. Before him stood a man more beautiful than the woman he had loved. Fine gold locks fell to his shoulders. His dark blue eyes twinkled with cruel mischief. He wore a strangely-tailored costume interwoven with magics which shimmered as he moved. Arms folded across his chest, the stranger stared at Bramin with a grin of arrogant scorn.

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