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

oath to a code of conduct. But today no quarter had been given, wounded slain
where they lay, unarmored auxiliaries hacked to pieces, suited knights dragged
from their horses and pounded to death, blades slammed through visors or under
the armpit where they could get through the armor.
At least Arthur had struck Mordred a grievous blow


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with Excalibur before going down; they had all seen that. They could only hope
the boy-bastard was dying or already dead.
None on the Tor knew who had won or if the battle was even over yet. Shortly
after the king had been seriously wounded, his inner circle of bodyguards,
known as the core of the Round Table, had placed Arthur on a pallet and
dragged him away while the battle still raged. No courier had come with word
of victory or defeat.
They felt the dark, rolling clouds overhead threatening a vicious storm to
be a portent even though Merlin was not there to read the signs. Where the
sorcerer had gone in the days before the battle was a mystery, and there were
many who now cursed his name. Regardless, they knew the Age of Camelot was
done and the darkness of barbarism and ignorance would descend once more on
England.
The knights turned in surprise as the thick wooden door in the side of the
abbey creaked opened. They had pounded on the door without success when they'd
first arrived by boat thirty minutes ago. They'd brought Arthur here because
of the legendтАФthat on the isle of Avalon dwelt the Fisher-King and his chosen
knights; men who were immortal and who could bestow the healing gift on those
they deemed worthy. And would not King Arthur, of all who walked the Earth, be
worthy?
But on arrival they had found an apparently deserted island, with the tower
locked tight.
In the now open doorway stood a man framed by light from behind. Robed in
black, the man's hands were empty of weapons, his face etched with age, his
hair silver. He was breathing hard, as if he had come a long way. Despite his
non-threatening appearance, the knights stepped aside as he gestured for them
to part,
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allowing him access to the kingтАФall except the knight closest to Arthur.
"Are you the Fisher-King?" Percival asked as the man came close. He was
always the boldest in strange situations or when the king was threatened.
Percival's armor was battered and blood seeped out from under his left arm
where a dagger had struck just before Arthur sustained his final wound.
Percival's right hand gripped his sword, ready to defend Arthur, to amend for
not taking the blow that had downed the king. He was a stout man, not tall but
broad of shoulders, with dark hair plastered to his head with sweat. A thin
red line ran along one cheek where a blade had struck a glancing blow.
The stranger paused. "No, I am not a king."
"Are you a monk?" Percival persisted, leery of allowing a stranger next to
the king.