Уэйн Барлоу— американский художник, работающий с научно-фантастическими и фэнтезийными сюжетами. Родился 6 января 1958 года в городе Глен Гуве (Glen Cove) неподалеку от Нью-Йорка, в семье известных художников-натуралистов Сайя и Дорети Барлоу. В 1979 году Барлоу впервые попробовал себя на писательском поприще и создал книгу «Barlowe's Guide to Extraterrestrials» («Путеводитель Барлоу для Инопланетян»), которая была тепло принята и год спустя завоевала награду Locus Award в номинации «Самая лучшая иллюстрированная книга».
Война Люцифера привела к низвержению легионов восставших ангелов в дымные глубины Преисподней, и в неизмеримых пространствах ее сложилось государство демонов. Доменами этого государства правят архидемоны — бывшие серафимы, огненные воины Небес, и первый среди них — жуткий Вельзевул, Повелитель Мух.
Демоны правят, терзают грешные души, множат свои богатства... и собственные мучения.
Один из них, могущественный Саргатан, не забыл Небеса. Многие тысячелетия управляет он своим вассальным государством, выстраивает прекрасный город Адамантинаркс, лучшую из столиц Ада. Но ему не дает покоя мысль об утраченной близости к Божественному, о недосягаемой в Аду радости. Мелкий, казалось бы, случай приводит его к решению, которое потрясает основы Ада. Саргатан отваживается на новый бунт, чтобы вернуться на Небеса и привести с собою тех, кто во имя искупления последует за ним, будь то демоны или души смертных.
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С тяжело нависших умбровых небес, словно смягчая хаос разорванного мира, плавно опускался пепел. Сквозь пелену за открытым окном едва просматривались развалины башен. Он скорее угадывал, чем видел, их контуры. Лишь вечно пылающие воды Алголя пронизывали своим блеском темные пепельные тучи и освещали кабинет тусклыми ржавыми лучами. Элигор, сгорбившись замер у стола. Час, другой, третий сидел он так, провожая взглядом опускающиеся серые хлопья, и вдруг подумал, как прекрасно этот густой траурный полог подходит к торжественности момента. Он на минуту перевел взгляд на крошечные фигурки работников, далеко внизу разбиравших развалины разрушенного Адамантинаркса, и вновь взялся за перо. Хлопья пепла падали с небес спокойно и мирно, порывы ветра не нарушали их неспешного полета, и поэтому Элигор мог писать, не отвлекаясь поминутно на уборку стола.
______________________________Why do I do this? Inquisitor Glokta asked himself for the thousandth time as he limped down the corridor. The walls were rendered and whitewashed, though none too recently. There was a seedy feel to the place and a smell of damp. There were no windows, as the hallway was deep beneath the ground, and the lanterns cast slow flowing shadows into every corner.
Why would anyone want to do this? Glokta's walking made a steady rhythm on the grimy tiles of the floor. First the confident click of his right heel, then the tap of his cane, then the endless sliding of his left foot, with the familiar stabbing pains in the ankle, knee, arse and back. Click, tap, pain. That was the rhythm of his walking.
The dirty monotony of the corridor was broken from time to time by a heavy door, bound and studded with pitted iron. On one occasion, Glokta thought he heard a muffled cry of pain from behind one. I wonder what poor fool is being questioned in there? What crime they are guilty, or innocent of? What secrets are being picked at, what lies cut through, what treasons laid bare? He didn't wonder long though. He was interrupted by the steps.
If Glokta had been given the opportunity to torture any one man, any one at all, he would surely have chosen the inventor of steps. When he was young and widely admired, before his misfortunes, he had never really noticed them. He had sprung down them two at a time and gone blithely on his way. No more. They're everywhere. You really can't change floors without them. And down is worse than up, that's the thing people never realise. Going up, you usually don't fall that far.
He knew this flight well. Sixteen steps, cut from smooth stone, a little worn toward the centre, slightly damp, like everything down here. There was no banister, nothing to cling to. Sixteen enemies. A challenge indeed. It had taken Glokta a long time to develop the least painful method of descending stairs. He went sideways like a crab. Cane first, then left foot, then right, with more than the usual agony as his left leg took his weight, joined by a persistent stabbing in the neck. Why should it hurt in my neck when I go down stairs? Does my neck take my weight? Does it? Yet the pain could not be denied.
Glokta paused four steps from the bottom. He had nearly beaten them. His hand was trembling on the handle of his cane, his left leg aching like fury. He tongued his gums where his front teeth used to be, took a deep breath and stepped forward. His ankle gave way with a horrifying wrench and he plunged into space, twisting, lurching, his mind a cauldron of horror and despair. He stumbled onto the next step like a drunkard, fingernails scratching at the smooth wall, giving a squeal of terror. You stupid, stupid bastard! His cane clattered to the floor, his clumsy feet wrestled with the stones and he found himself at the bottom, by some miracle still standing.
And here it is. That horrible, beautiful, stretched out moment between stubbing your toe and feeling the hurt. How long do I have before the pain comes? How bad will it be when it does? Gasping, slack-jawed at the foot of the steps, Glokta felt a tingling of anticipation. Here it comes…
The spasm passed. Glokta moved his limbs cautiously, one by one, testing the damage. His leg was on fire, his foot numb, his neck clicked with every movement, sending vicious little stings down his spine. Pretty good, considering. He bent down with an effort and snatched up his cane between two fingers, drew himself up once more, wiped the snot and tears on the back of his hand. Truly a thrill. Did I enjoy it? For most people stairs are a mundane affair. For me, an adventure! He limped off down the corridor, giggling quietly to himself. He was still smiling ever so faintly when he reached his own door and shuffled inside.
A grubby white box with two doors facing each other. The ceiling was too low for comfort, the room too brightly lit by blazing lamps. Damp was creeping out of one corner and the plaster had erupted with flaking blisters, speckled with black mould. Someone had tried to scrub a long bloodstain from one wall, but hadn't tried nearly hard enough.
Practical Frost was standing on the other side of the room, big arms folded across his big chest. He nodded to Glokta, with all the emotion of a stone, and Glokta nodded back. Between them stood a scarred, stained wooden table, bolted to the floor and flanked by two chairs. A naked fat man sat in one of them, hands tied tightly behind him and with a brown canvas bag over his head. His quick, muffled breathing was the only sound. It was cold down here, but he was sweating. As well he should be.
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Например, экранизации (готовящиеся или состоявшиеся). Награды и премии (если таковые произведение завоевало). Другие обложки изданий на русском (для ретро) и прочее (предлагайте).
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