"Kenneth C. Flint - Gods of Eire 03 - Master of the Sidhe UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Kenneth C)

"But we mustn't be too ready to believe we've won yet!" he cautioned them
sharply. "Until the Fomor are defeated totally, their last warrior driven from
Eire, we'll not be done with them or properly revenged for the years we lived
as their slaves!"

There were murmurs and nods of agreement at that. None there had not felt the
cruelty of the Fomor, and none underestimated the brutal power of that enemy.

"Our scouts have told us that right now they're gathering," he continued. His
sword point stabbed down into the chart, impaling a spot on the northern
coast. "Here. Their last and largest city in Eire."

He looked to the others again, his voice taking on a grim intensity. "I don't
have to tell you that if they choose to stand against us there, the battle
will be a long and bloody one. There'll be no making peace. The Fomor will
have their backs to the sea and they'll fight with the savageness of the
beasts they are."

One of the warriors exchanged looks with his fellow chieftains, then spoke in
reply.

"My King, our people are ready. They are armed and trained and their full
strength is restored to them. They want nothing more but to finish this war
and have Eire at last!"

The High-King nodded. He had expected nothing else.

"Very well. Then be prepared to march. We have had word from the Fomor that
they will accept a truce and discuss terms of surrender. Lugh Lamfada and our
other comrades have agreed to go to their city and meet with them. But if they
refuse to make terms, we will have to fight."

"I hope our friends survive," said a cunning-looking little Druid who sat
beside the king. "The Fomor are treacherous."

Nuada's expression gave way to a grin at that.

"Findgoll," he replied, "knowing Lugh and his company as we do, I think it's
the survival of the Fomor we should be wondering about."

THE STRONGHOLD 5

The little band strode purposefully down from the last high ridge of hills
toward the Fomor stronghold. It lay far below, at the base of a wide trough of
land that ran to the sea, a square patch of filthy linen dropped on the soft
green plain along the shore.

It was an odd collection of people who now approached this goal, although the
couple who led it did little to create this impression. They seemed a quite
pleasant, harmless sort of pair. The young man was cleanly and boldly