"2 - Last Sword Of Power (v1.0)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

'He is Cotta, a monk of the White Christ. You will meet him soon; he also is a friend.'
"This I knew. I can feel his kindness.'
Once more Revelation moved his hand across the water. Now he saw a young man with long, raven-dark hair leading a fine herd of Sicambrian horses in the vales beyond Londinium. The man was handsome, a finely-boned face framed by a strong, clean shaven jaw. Revelation studied the rider intently.
This time the water shimmered of its own accord - a dark storm-cloud hurling silent spears of jagged lightning, streaming across a night sky. From within the cloud came a flying creature with leather wings and a long wedge-shaped head. Upon its back sat a yellow-bearded warrior; his hand rose and lightning flashed towards the watchers. Revelation's arm shot forward just as the water parted; white light speared up into his hand and the stench of burning flesh filled the room. The water steamed and bubbled, vanishing in a cloud of vapour. The silver bowl sagged and flowed down upon the table, a hissing black and silver stream that caused the wood to blaze. Cotta recoiled as he saw Revelation's blackened hand. The Abbot lifted the golden stone and touched it to the seared flesh. It healed instantly, but even the magic could not take away the memory of the pain and Revelation sagged back into his chair, his heart pounding and cold sweat on his face. He took a deep breath and stared at the smouldering wood. The flames died, the smoke disappearing as round them the candles flared into life.
'He knows of me, Cotta. But in attacking me I learned of him. He is not quite ready to plunge the world into darkness; he needs one more sacrifice.'
'For what?' whispered the old man.
'In the language of this world? He seeks to open the Gates of Hell.'
'Can he be stopped?'
Revelation shrugged. 'We will see, my friend. You must take ship for Raetia and find Anduine. From there take her to Britannia, to Noviomagus. I will meet you in three months. Once there you will find an inn in the southern quarter - called, I believe, the Sign of the Bull. Come every day at noon and wait one hour. I shall join you when I can.'
'The blind girl is the sacrifice?'
'Yes.'
'And what of the red-haired boy and the rider?'
'As yet I do not know. Friends or enemies . . . only time will tell. The boy looked familiar, but I cannot place him. He was wearing Saxon garb and I have never journeyed amongst the Saxons. As to the rider, I know him; his name is Ursus and he is of the House of Merovee. He has a brother, I think, and he yearns to be rich.'
'And the man upon the dragon?' asked Cotta softly.
'The Enemy from beyond the Mist.' 'And is he truly Wotan, the grey god?' Revelation sipped his wine. 'Wotan? He has had many names. To some he was Odin the One-Eyed, to others Loki. In the East they called him Purgame-sh,or Molech, or even Baal. Yes, Cotta, he is divine - immortal if you will. And where he walks, chaos follows.'
'You speak as if you know him.' 'I know him. I fought him once before.' 'What happened?' 'I killed him, Cotta,' answered the Abbot.

CHAPTER ONE
Grysstha watched as the boy twirled the wooden sword, lunging and thrusting at the air around him. 'Feet, boy, think about your feet!'
The old man hawked and spat on the grass, then scratched at the itching stump of his right wrist. 'A swordsman must learn balance. It is not enough to have a quick eye and a good arm - to fall is to die, boy.'
The youngster thrust the wooden blade into the ground and sat beside the old warrior. Sweat gleamed on his brow and his sky-blue eyes sparkled.
'But I am improving, yes?'
'Of course you are improving, Cormac. Only a fool could not.'
The boy pulled clear the weapon, brushing dirt from the whittled blade. 'Why is it so short? Why must I practise with a Roman blade?'
'Know your enemy. Never care about his weaknesses; you will find those if your mind has skill. Know his strengths. They conquered the world, boy, with just such swords. You know why?'
'No.'
Grysstha smiled. 'Gather me some sticks,- Cormac. Gather me sticks you could break easily with finger and thumb.' As the boy grinned and moved off to the trees Grysstha watched him, allowing the pride to shine now that the boy could not see him closely.
Why were there so many fools in the world, he thought, as pride gave way to anger? How could they not see the potential in the lad? How could they hate him for a fault that was not his?
'Will these do?' asked Cormac, dropping twenty finger-thin sticks at Grysstha's feet.
'Take one and break it.'
'Easily done,' said Cormac, snapping a stick.
'Keep going, boy. Break them all.'
When the youngster had done so, Grysstha pulled a length of twine from his belt. 'Now gather ten of them and bind them together with this.'
'Like a beacon brand, you mean?'
'Exactly. Tie them tight.'
Cormac made a noose of the twine, gathered ten sticks and bound them tightly together. He offered the four-inch-thick brand to Grysstha but the old man shook his head.
'Break it,' he ordered.
'It is too thick.'
СTry.'
The boy strained at the brand, his face reddening the muscles of his arms and shoulders writhing under his red woollen shirt.
'A few moments ago you snapped twenty of these sticks, but now you cannot break ten.'
'But they are bound together, Grysstha. Even Calder could not break them.'
"That is the secret the Romans carried in their short-swords. The Saxon fights with a long blade, swinging it wide. His comrades cannot fight close to him, for they might be struck by his slashing sword, so each man fights alone, though there are ten thousand in the fray. But the Roman, with his gladius -he locks shields with his comrades and his blade stabs like a viper bite. Their legions were like that brand, bound together.'
'And how did they fail, if they were so invincible?'
'An army is as good as its general, and the general is only a reflection of the emperor who appoints him. Rome has had her day. Maggots crawl in the body of Rome, worms writhe in the brain, rats gnaw at the sinews.'
The old man hawked and spat once more, his pale blue eyes gleaming.
'You fought them, did you not?' said Cormac. 'In Gallia and Italia?'
'I fought them. I watched their legions fold and run before the dripping blades of the Goths and the Saxons. I could have wept then for the souls of the Romans that once were. Seven legions we crushed, until we found an enemy worth fighting: Afrianus and the Sixteenth. Ah, Cormac, what a day! Twenty thousand lusty warriors, drunk with victory, facing one legion of five thousand men. I stood on a hill and looked down upon them, their bronze shields gleaming. At the centre, on a pale stallion, Afrianus himself. Sixty years old and, unlike his fellows, bearded like a Saxon. We hurled ourselves upon them, but it was like water falling on a stone. Their line held. Then they advanced, and cut us apart. Less than two thousand of us escaped into the forests. What a man! I swear there was Saxon blood in him.'
'What happened to him?'
'The emperor recalled him to Rome and he was assassinated.' Grysstha chuckled. 'Worms in the brain, Cormac.'