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

'Why?' queried the boy. 'Why kill an able general?'
'Think on it, boy.'
'I can make no sense of it.'
'That is the mystery, Cormac. Do not seek for sense in the tale. Seek for the hearts of men. Now leave me to watch these goats swell their bellies and get back to your duties.'
The boy's face fell. 'I like to be here with you, Grysstha. I ... I feel at peace here.'
'That is what friendship is, Cormac Daemonsson. Take strength from it, for the world does not understand the likes of you and me.'
'Why are you my friend, Grysstha?'
'Why does the eagle fly? Why is the sky blue? Go now. Be strong.'
Grysstha watched as the lad wandered disconsolately from the high meadow towards the huts below. Then the old warrior swung his gaze up to the horizon and the low, scudding clouds. His stump ached and he pulled the leather cap from his wrist, rubbing at the scarred skin. Reaching out, he tugged the wooden blade from the ground, remembering the days when his own sword had a name and a history and more, a future.
But that was before the day fifteen years ago when the Blood King clove the South Saxon, butchering and burning, tearing the heart from the people and holding it above their heads in his mailed fist. He should have killed them all, but he did not. He made them swear an oath of allegiance, and loaned them coin to rebuild ruined farms and settlements.
Grysstha had come close to killing the Blood King in the last battle. He had hacked his way into the shield square, cleaving a path towards the flame-haired king, when a sword slashed down across his wrist, almost severing his hand. Then another weapon hammered into his helm and he fell dazed. He had struggled to rise, but his head was spinning. When at last he regained consciousness he opened his eyes to find himself gazing at the Blood King, who was kneeling beside him. Grysstha's fingers reached out for the man's throat - but there was no fingers, only a bloody bandage.
'You were a magnificent warrior,' said the Blood King. 'I salute you!'
'You cut off my hand!'
'It was hanging by a thread. It could not be saved.'
Grysstha forced himself to his feet, staggered, then gazed around him. Bodies littered the field and Saxon women were moving amongst the corpses seeking lost loved ones.
'Why did you save me?' snarled Grysstha, rounding on the King.
The man merely smiled and turned on his heel. Flanked by his Guards, he strode from the field to a crimson tent by a rippling stream.
'Why?' bellowed Grysstha, falling to his knees.
'I do not think he knows himself,' said a voice and Grysstha looked up.
Leaning on an ornate crutch carved from dark shining wood was a middle aged Briton, with wispy grey-blond beard over a pointed chin. Grysstha saw that his left leg was twisted and deformed. The man offered the Saxon his hand but Grysstha ignored it and pushed himself to his feet.
'He sometimes relies on intuition,' said the man, gently, his pale eyes showing no sign of offence.
'You are of the Tribes?' said Grysstha.
'Brigante.'
"Then why follow the Roman?'
'Because the land is his, and he is the land. My name is Prasamaccus.'
'So I live because of the King's whim?'
'Yes. I was beside him when you charged the shield-wall; it was a reckless action.'
'I am a reckless man. What does he mean to do with us now? Sell us?'
'I think he means to leave you in peace.'
'Why would he do anything so foolish?'
Prasamaccus limped to a jutting boulder and sat. 'A horse kicked me,' he said, 'and my leg was not strong before that. How is your hand?'
'It bums like fire,' said Grysstha, sitting beside the tribesman, his eyes on the women still searching the field of battle as the crows circled, screeching in their hunger.
'He says that you also are of the land,' said Prasamaccus. 'He has reigned for ten years. He sees Saxons and Jutes and Angles and Goths being born in this Island of Mist. They are no longer invaders.'
'Does he think we came here to serve a Roman King?'
'He knows why you came - to plunder and kill and grow rich. But you stayed to farm. How do you feel about the land?'
'I was not born here, Prasamaccus.'
The Brigante smiled and held out his left hand. Grysstha looked down at it, and then took it in the warrior's grip, wrist to wrist.
'I think that is a good first use of your left hand.'
'It will also learn to use a sword. My name is Grysstha.'
'I have seen you before. You were at the great battle near Eboracum, the day the King came home.'
Grysstha nodded. 'You have a good eye and a better memory. It was the Day of the Two Suns. I have never seen the like since, nor would I wish to. We fought alongside the Brigante that day, and the coward-king Eldared. Were you with him?'
'No. I stood under the two suns with Uther and the Ninth Legion.'
'The day of the Blood King. Nothing has been right since then. Why can he not be beaten? How does he always know where to strike?'
'He is the land, and the land knows.'
Grysstha said nothing. He had not expected the man to betray the King's secret.
Of seven thousand Saxon warriors who had begun the battle, a mere eleven hundred remained. These Uther required to kneel and swear Blood Oath never to rise against him again. In return the land would be theirs, as before, but now by right and not by conquest. He also left them their own king, Wulfhere - son of Orsa, son of Hengist. It was a brave move. Grysstha knelt with the others in the dawn light before the King's tent, watching as Uther stood with the boy, Wulfhere.
The Saxons smiled, even in defeat, for they knew they knelt not before the conqueror but before their own sovereign lord.
The Blood King knew it too.
'You have my word that our friendship is as strong as this blade,' he said, hoisting the Sword of Cuno-belin high into the air, where the dawn sun glistened like fire on the steel. 'But friendship has a price. This sword will accept no other swords in the hands of the Saxon.' An angry murmur rippled amongst the kneeling men. 'Be true to your word and this may change,' said the King, 'but if you are not true I shall return and not one man, not one woman, not one squalling babe will be left alive from Anderida to Venta. The choice is yours.'
Within two hours both the King and his army had departed and the stunned Saxons gathered in the Council of Wotan. Wulfhere was only twelve and could not vote, and Calder was appointed as steward to help him govern. The rest of the day was devoted to the election of men to the Council. Only two survived out of the original eighteen, but by dusk the positions were filled once more.