В войне миров далеко не всегда побеждает сила. Ведь все зависит от того, кто этими мирами управляет. Это только кажется, будто боги, властители и маги решают судьбы своих подданных. Но однажды выясняется, что истинными управителями миров являются полупсихованные ученые далеких времен из неведомых галактик. И тогда все оказывается в руках нескольких людей, нескольких эльфов и одного сердитого гнома.

Неумолимое время стирает последние следы былого могущества Хрустального города. Но что-то еще живет здесь, на зловещих равнинах Ашета, - тени прошлого способны ждать веками. И если предания старины вдруг становятся явью, значит, урочный час пробил.

Юный Яромир по прозвищу Нехлад не может избежать схватки с древними демонами, для победы над которыми, возможно, потребуется нечто большее, чем меч и магия. И уже нельзя сойти с пути, определенного задолго до его рождения. Теперь от Яромира зависит судьба настоящего и… прошлого.

Каждому Пророчеству - свой мессия. Каждому мессии - свой тернистый Путь. А у каждого Пути есть своя Цель, но не каждому дерзнувшему пойти дорогой Предназначения хватит сил, терпения, да и просто удачи ее достигнуть. Впрочем, если вам совершенно наплевать на Пророчества, мессий, их Пути и Цели, позаботьтесь лучше о своей судьбе и своем личном счастье. Иначе об этом позаботятся другие. Но совпадет ли их представление о счастье с вашим?

Дождливая погода, протекающая крыша, опустевший кошелек и отсутствие живого собеседника влияют на человека не лучшим образом. На потомственного некроманта тем более. Что может разнообразить жизнь и добавить новых проблем? Конечно же визит прекрасной незнакомки…

It was 2 p.m. on the afternoon of May 7, 1915. The Lusitania had been struck by two torpedoes in succession and was sinking rapidly, while the boats were being launched with all possible speed. The women and children were being lined up awaiting their turn. Some still clung desperately to husbands and fathers; others clutched their children closely to their breasts. One girl stood alone, slightly apart from the rest. She was quite young, not more than eighteen. She did not seem afraid, and her grave, steadfast eyes looked straight ahead…

Mrs. Thomas Beresford shifted her position on the divan and looked gloomily out of the window of the flat. The prospect was not an extended one, consisting solely of a small block of flats on the other side of the road. Mrs. Beresford sighed and then yawned.

"I wish," she said, "something would happen." Her husband looked up reprovingly. "Be careful, Tuppence, this craving for vulgar sensation alarms me." Tuppence sighed and closed her eyes dreamily…

Mrs Van Rydock moved a little back from the mirror and sighed. 'Well, that'll have to do,' she murmured. 'Think it's all right, Jane?' Miss Marple eyed the Lanvanelli creation appraisingly. 'It seems to me a very beautiful gown,' she said. 'The gown's all right,' said Mrs Van Rydock and sighed. 'Take if off, Stephanie,' she said. The elderly maid with the grey hair and the small pinched mouth eased the gown carefully up over Mrs Van Rydock's upstretched arms…

Mrs. Bantry was dreaming. Her sweet peas had just taken a First at the flower show. The vicar, dressed in cassock and surplice, was giving out the prizes in church. His wife wandered past, dressed in a bathing suit, but, as is the blessed habit of dreams, this fact did not arouse the disapproval of the parish in the way it would assuredly have done in real life. Mrs. Bantry was enjoying her dream a good deal.

She usually did enjoy those early-morning dreams that were terminated by the arrival of early-morning tea. Somewhere in her inner consciousness was an awareness of the usual early-morning noises of the household…

Gwenda Reed stood, shivering a little, on the quay-side. The docks and the custom sheds and all of England that she could see, were gently waving up and down. And it was in that moment that she made her decision-the decision that was to lead to such very momentous events. She wouldn’t go by the boat train to London as she had planned.

After all, why should she? No one was waiting for her, nobody expected her. She had only just got off that heaving creaking boat (it had been an exceptionally rough three days through the Bay and up to Plymouth) and the last thing she wanted was to get into a heaving swaying train…

In the heart of the West End, there are many quiet pockets, unknown to almost all but taxi drivers who traverse them with expert knowledge, and arrive triumphantly thereby at Park Lane, Berkeley Square, or South Audley Street.

If you turn off on an unpretentious street from the Park, and turn left and right once or twice, you will find yourself in a quiet street with Bertram's Hotel on the right-hand side. Bertram's Hotel has been there a long time. During the war, houses were demolished on the right of it, and a little farther down on the left of it, but Bertram's itself remained unscathed…