Diablo: The Black Road. Mel OdomЧитать онлайн книгу.
fallen scaffolding, and work began again. Pickaxes tore at the cavern wall covering the gray and green door. Sledges pounded huge sections of rock into pieces small enough for men to carry to the waiting carts. The steady thump and crack of the mining tools created a martial cadence that echoed within the cavern.
Mastering his impatience, Cholik watched the progress of the slaves. As the slaves worked, whole sheets of rock fell, crashing against the floor or piles of debris that were already there. The mercenaries stayed among the slaves, lashing out with their whips and leaving marks and cuts against sweat-soaked skin. At times, the mercenaries even aided in shoving the laden carts into motion.
The work went faster. In moments, one of the door’s hinges came into view. Only a short time after that, further work revealed another hinge. Cholik studied them, growing more excited.
The hinges were large, gnarled works of metal and amber as Cholik had been expecting from the texts he’d read. The metal was there because man had made it, worked by smiths to hold back and constrain, but the amber was in place because it held the essence of the past trapped within the stirred golden depths.
When enough debris was removed to make a path to the door, Cholik walked forward. The energy he’d taken from the slave wouldn’t last long, according to the materials he had read. Once depleted, he would be left in worse condition than he had been in unless he reached his rooms and the potions that he kept there to renew himself.
As he neared the door, Cholik sensed the power that was contained within. The powerful presence surged in his brain, drawing him on and repelling him at the same time. Reaching into his robe, he removed the carved box made from a flawless black pearl.
He held the box in his hands, felt it cold as ice against his palms. Finding the box had required years of work. The secret texts concerning it and Kabraxis’s door had been hidden deep in the stacks kept in the Westmarch church. Keeping the box secret had required murder and treachery. Not even Altharin knew of it.
“Master,” Altharin said.
“Back,” Cholik demanded. “And take your rabble with you.”
“Yes, master.” Altharin moved back, whispering to the men.
Gazing into the polished surface of the black pearl box, Cholik remained aware of the mass exodus from him and the gate. The old priest breathed deeply. During the years the box had been in his possession, while he’d researched and learned where Ransim had been hidden and devel-oped the courage for such an undertaking and desperation strong enough to allow him to deal with the demon he’d have to confront to take what he wanted, he’d never been able to open the box. What the contents of the box were remained to be seen.
Breathing out, concentrating on the box and the door, Cholik spoke the first Word. His throat ached with the pain of it, for it was not meant for the human tongue. As the Word left his lips, deafening thunder cannonaded in the cavern, and a wind rose up, though no wind should have existed within the stone walls.
The elliptical design on the dark gray-green surface of the door turned deep black. A humming noise echoed through the cavern over the thunder and the gusting wind.
Closing his left hand over the black pearl box, Cholik strode forward, feeling the chill of the metal. He spoke the second Word, harder to master than the first.
The amber pieces in the huge hinges lit with unholy yellow light. They looked like the fires trapped in a wolf’s eyes reflecting torchlight at night.
The wind strengthened in intensity, picking up powdery-fine particles that stung flesh when they hit. Prayers echoed within the cavern, all of them to the holy Light, not demons. It was almost enough to make Cholik smile, except that a small part of him was just as afraid as they were.
At the third Word, the black pearl box opened. A gossamer sphere, glowing three different colors of green, lifted from the box. The sphere rolled in front of Cholik’s eyes. According to the materials he’d read, the sphere was death to touch.
And if he faltered now, the sphere would consume him, leaving only smoking ash in its wake. Cholik spoke the fourth Word.
The sphere started growing, swelling in size like the eels some fishermen took from the Great Ocean. Prized as an exotic delicacy, the flesh of the eels brought a narcotic bliss when prepared with proper care, but it brought death on occasion even when served by a master. Cholik had never eaten of the eels, but he knew how the men and women who did must have felt.
For a moment, Cholik was certain he had killed himself.
Then the glowing green sphere flew away from him and slammed into Kabraxis’s door. Amplified to titanic proportions, the boom! of magic contacting the door manifested itself as a physical presence that knocked rock from the edges of the door and slammed stalactites from the cavern ceiling.
The stalactites crashed down among the huddled slaves, mercenaries, and fallen Zakarum priests. Cholik somehow retained his own footing while everyone around him toppled. Glancing over his shoulder, the priest saw three men screaming in agony but heard no sound. He felt as though spun cotton filled his head. One of the mercenaries carried on a brief, macabre dance with a stalactite that had transfixed him, then fell over. He spasmed as his life drained away.
In the silent stillness that had descended upon the cavern, Cholik spoke the fifth and final Word. The elliptical design ignited on the top, outside ring. From its starting point, a blood-red bead traced the ellipses, making them all glow as it hopped from one completed ring to another. Then it darted to the line that ran through them all, moving faster and faster.
When it reached the end of the design, the bead burst in scarlet glory.
The massive gray-green doors opened, and sound returned to the cavern in a rush. The door shoveled the remaining debris from in front of it.
Cholik watched in disbelieving horror as death poured through the open door from some forgotten corner of the Burning Hells.
SIX
Darrick peered down at Tauruk’s Port, cursing the clouded moon that had proven beneficial only a short time before. Even nestled in the lower reaches of the Hawk’s Beak Mountains, the darkness that filled the city made it hard to discern details.
The Dyre River ran mostly east and west, flowing through the canyon time had cut through the mountains. The ruins of the city lay on the north bank of the river. The widest part of the city fronted the river, taking advantage of the natural harbor.
“In its day,” Mat said in a low voice, “Tauruk’s Port must have done all right by itself. Deep harbor like that, on a river that covers a lot of miles, an’ wide enough to sail upstream, those people who lived here must have enjoyed the good life.”
“Well, they ain’t here no more,” Maldrin pointed out.
“Wonder why that is?” Mat asked.
“Somebody up an’ come along and stomped their city down around their damned ears,” the first mate said. “Thought a bright one like yerself woulda seen that without the likes of me needin’ to say it.”
Mat took no insult. “Wonder who did the stomping?”
Ignoring the familiar bickering of the two men, which at times was tiresome and at other times proved enjoyable, Darrick took a small spyglass from the bag at his waist. It was one of the few personal possessions he had. A craftsman in Kurast had built the spyglass, but Darrick had purchased it from a merchant in Westmarch. The brass body made the spyglass almost indestructible, and clever design rendered it collapsible. He extended the spyglass and studied the city closer.
Three ships sat in the harbor. All of them held lights from lanterns carried by pirates on watch.
Darrick followed the sparse line of pirates and lanterns ashore, focusing at last on a large building that had suffered partial destruction. The building sat under a thick shelf of