Silverthorn
(Sprache: Englisch)
A poisoned bolt has struck down the Princess  Anita on the day of her wedding to Prince Arutha of  Krondor. To save his beloved,  Arutha sets out in search of the mytics herb...
Leider schon ausverkauft
versandkostenfrei
Buch (Kartoniert)
6.03 €
3 DeutschlandCard Punkte
sammeln
- Lastschrift, Kreditkarte, Paypal, Rechnung
- Kostenlose Rücksendung
Produktdetails
Produktinformationen zu „Silverthorn “
A poisoned bolt has struck down the Princess  Anita on the day of her wedding to Prince Arutha of  Krondor.
To save his beloved,  Arutha sets out in search of the mytics herb called  Silverthorn that only grows in the dark and  forbidding land of the  Spellweavers.
Accompanied by a mercenary, a minstrel, and a clever  young thief, he wil confront an ancient evil and do  battle with the dark powers that threaten the  enchanted realm of Midkemia.
Klappentext zu „Silverthorn “
A poisoned bolt has struck down the Princess Anita on the day of her wedding to Prince Arutha of Krondor.To save his beloved, Arutha sets out in search of the mytics herb called Silverthorn that only grows in the dark and forbidding land of the Spellweavers.
Accompanied by a mercenary, a minstrel, and a clever young thief, he wil confront an ancient evil and do battle with the dark powers that threaten the enchanted realm of Midkemia.
Lese-Probe zu „Silverthorn “
PrologueTwilight
The sun dropped behind the peaks.
The last rays of warmth touched the earth and only the rosy afterglow of the day remained. From the east, indigo darkness approached rapidly. The wind cut through the hills like a sharp-edged blade, as if spring were only a faintly remembered dream. Winter's ice still clung to shadow-protected pockets, ice that cracked loudly under the heels of heavy boots. Out of the evening's darkness three figures entered the firelight.
The old witch looked up, her dark eyes widening slightly at the sight of the three. She knew the figure on the left, the broad, mute warrior with the shaved head and single long scalp lock. He had come once before, seeking magic signs for strange rites. Though he was a powerful chieftain, she had sent him away, for his nature was evil, and while issues of good and evil seldom held any significance for the witch, there were limits even for her. Besides, she had little love for any moredhel, especially one who had cut out his own tongue as a sign of devotion to dark powers.
The mute warrior regarded her with the blue eyes unusual for one of his race. He was broader of shoulders than most, even for one of the mountain clans, who tended to be more powerful of arm and shoulder than their forest-dwelling cousins. The mute wore golden circle rings in his large, upswept ears, painful to affix, as the moredhel had no lobes. Upon each cheek were three scars, mystic symbols whose meaning was not lost upon the witch.
The mute made a sign to his companions, and the one to the far right seemed to nod. It was difficult to judge, for he was clothed in an all-concealing robe, with a deep hood revealing no features. Both hands were hidden in voluminous sleeves that were kept together. As if speaking from a great distance, the cloaked figure said, "We seek a reading of signs." His voice was sibilant, almost a hiss, and there was a note of something alien in it. One hand appeared and the witch
... mehr
pulled away, for it was misshapen and scaled, as if the owner possessed talons covered with snakeskin. She then knew the creature for what it was: a priest of the Pantathian serpent people. Compared to the serpent people, the moredhel were held in high regard by the witch.
She turned her attention from the end figures and studied the one in the center. He stood a full head taller than the mute and was even more impressive in bulk. He slowly removed a bearskin robe, the bear's skull providing a helm for his own head, and cast it aside. The old witch gasped, for he was the most striking moredhel she had seen in her long life. He wore the heavy trousers, vest, and knee-high boots of the hill clans, and his chest was bare. His powerfully muscled body gleamed in the firelight, and he leaned forward to study the witch. His face was almost frightening in its near-perfect beauty. But what had caused her to gasp, more than his awesome appearance, was the sign upon his chest.
"Do you know me?" he asked the witch.
She nodded. "I know who you appear to be."
He leaned even farther forward, until his face was lit from below by the fire, revealing something in his nature. "I am who I appear to be," he whispered with a smile. She felt fear, for behind his handsome features, behind the benign smile, she saw the visage of evil, evil so pure it defied endurance. "We seek a reading of signs," he repeated, his voice the sound of ice-clear madness.
She chuckled. "Even one so mighty has limits?"
The handsome moredhel's smile slowly vanished. "One may not foretell one's own future."
Resigned to her own likely lot, she said, "I require silver."
The moredhel nodded. The mute dug a coin from out of his belt pouch and tossed it upon the floor before the witch. Without touching it, she prepared some ingredients in a stone cup. When the conco
She turned her attention from the end figures and studied the one in the center. He stood a full head taller than the mute and was even more impressive in bulk. He slowly removed a bearskin robe, the bear's skull providing a helm for his own head, and cast it aside. The old witch gasped, for he was the most striking moredhel she had seen in her long life. He wore the heavy trousers, vest, and knee-high boots of the hill clans, and his chest was bare. His powerfully muscled body gleamed in the firelight, and he leaned forward to study the witch. His face was almost frightening in its near-perfect beauty. But what had caused her to gasp, more than his awesome appearance, was the sign upon his chest.
"Do you know me?" he asked the witch.
She nodded. "I know who you appear to be."
He leaned even farther forward, until his face was lit from below by the fire, revealing something in his nature. "I am who I appear to be," he whispered with a smile. She felt fear, for behind his handsome features, behind the benign smile, she saw the visage of evil, evil so pure it defied endurance. "We seek a reading of signs," he repeated, his voice the sound of ice-clear madness.
She chuckled. "Even one so mighty has limits?"
The handsome moredhel's smile slowly vanished. "One may not foretell one's own future."
Resigned to her own likely lot, she said, "I require silver."
The moredhel nodded. The mute dug a coin from out of his belt pouch and tossed it upon the floor before the witch. Without touching it, she prepared some ingredients in a stone cup. When the conco
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Raymond Feist
Der 1945 in Los Angeles geborene Raymond Feist ist einer der wichtigsten Vertreter der Fantasy in der Tradition Tolkiens. Sein in den 80er Jahren begonnener Zyklus um Midkemia ist bereits jetzt ein Klassiker des Genres und gilt als Meisterwerk der modernen Fantasy. Er lebt im Süden Kaliforniens.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Raymond Feist
- 1993, 352 Seiten, Maße: 10,8 x 17,4 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Bantam Books
- ISBN-10: 0553270540
- ISBN-13: 9780553270549
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
"I found Silverthorn to be as exciting and absorbing as Magician in every way. The excellent characterization wedded to a tight and well-tumed plot makes it one of the outstanding fantasy offerings of the season." --Andre Norton
Kommentar zu "Silverthorn"
0 Gebrauchte Artikel zu „Silverthorn“
| Zustand | Preis | Porto | Zahlung | Verkäufer | Rating |
|---|
Schreiben Sie einen Kommentar zu "Silverthorn".
Kommentar verfassen