"Robert Doherty - Area 51 - The Grail" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doherty Robert)

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PROLOGUE:

THE PAST

AVALON, ENGLAND 528 AD

Thick clouds were gathering over the island, lightning flickering, followed by
thunder seconds later, as if the gods were displaying their displeasure over
the scene below. A large plain in western England stretched as far as could be
seen in all directions. In the center was a shallow lake out of which jutted a
long, steep island like an earthen rampart, a magnificent Tor, over five
hundred feet high. At the very top, a stone abbey with one tall tower
dominated the land and water all about. Next to the abbey, a dozen men in
armor were gathered round their leader who lay next to the tower's east wall.
The king the knights called Arthur was dying, of that there was no doubt
among the few surviving men. The wounds were too deep, the loss of blood too
great. Despite the king's weakened state, his right hand still firmly held the
pommel of his sword Excalibur. A coating of blood failed to hide the bright
sheen of the blade's finely worked metal and the mystical runes carved on the
surface.
Arthur lay on his back, his armor dented and battered. His bright blue eyes
looked up toward the dark heavens. He was a large man, a fiercesome warrior,
over six and a half feet tall and solidly built. Red hair streaked with gray
topped his head. Despite spending most of his life in the field at war, his
skin was fair and pale.
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Several of the knights were looking to the east, in the direction of
Camlann, where they had come from. The day had started with some hope of peace
in the civil war splitting Britain. Arthur's forces and those of Mordred had
been drawn up on opposing sides of the plain at Camlann. Under a flag of truce
the two leaders had met in the high grass in the middle of the field, out of
earshot of their followers. What transpired between the two held the fate of
all the other men who waited, sweaty hands on the pommels of their swords and
the hafts of their spears.
It appeared to end well as the king and Mordred shook hands. As Arthur
turned to return to his troops Mordred struck a dastardly blow with a hidden
dagger, wounding the king. Arthur spun about, pulling Excalibur out of its
sheath. He slashed down, striking Mordred on the shoulder, cleaving through
the armor. The wounded men staggered back as both armies thundered forward
into the fray.
Arthur's knights drew him back from the front lines, as did Mordred's. Again
and again, the armies charged until the field was strewn with the dead and
dying.
Few on either side were still alive when they left. War-hardened though they
were, none of the knights had ever seen such a blood lust descend on both
sides in a battle, not even when they had fought the crazed Scotsmen of the
northтАФand this battle had been between Englishmen, knights who had sworn an