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

Two hours after dawn the Eighteen met and now the real business began. Some were for heading east and linking with Hengist's son, Drada, who was after all Wulfhere's uncle and blood-kin. Others were for waiting until another army could be gathered. Still more suggested sending for aid across the water, where the Merovingian wars were displacing fighting men.
Two events turned the day. At noon a wagon arrived bearing gifts of gold and silver from the King, to be distributed 'as the Council sees fit'. This gift alone meant that food could be bought for the savage winter ahead, and blankets and trade goods from the Merovingians in Gallia.
Second, the steward Calder made a speech that would live long in the minds, if not the hearts of his listeners.
'I fought the Blood King and my sword dripped red with the blood of his Guards. But why did we fight him? Ask yourselves that. I say it was because we felt he could be beaten, and there would be plunder from Venta, Londinium, Dubris and all the other merchant towns. But now we know. He cannot be beaten ... not by us ... perhaps not by Drada. You have seen the wagon - more coin than we could have taken in a campaign. I say we wait and judge his word: return to our farms, make repairs, gather harvests where we can.'
'Men without swords, Calder. How then shall we reach Valhalla?' shouted a tall warrior.
'I myself follow the White Christ,' said Calder, 'so I have no interest in Valhalla. But if it worries you, Snorri, then join Drada. Let any man who wishes to fight on do the same. We have been offered friendship - and surely there are worse things in the world to receive from a conqueror than a wagon of gold?'
It is because he fears us,' said Snorri, lurching to his feet. 'I say we use his gold to buy men and arms and then march on Camulodunum.'
'You will perhaps take the barn with you on your campaign,' said Calder. Laughter followed his words, for it was well known that Snorri had hidden from the Romans under a blanket in the broad barn, only running clear when the enemy put it to the torch. He had been voted to the Council merely on the strength of his landholdings.
'I was cut off and it was that or die,' said Snorri. СIТll take my gold and join Drada.'
'No one takes the gold,' said Calder. "The gift is to the Council and we will vote on its use.'
At the last Snorri and four other landsmen, with more than two hundred men, joined Drada; the rest remained to build a new life as vassals of the Blood King.
For Grysstha the decision tasted of ashes. But he was Calder's carle and pledged to obey him, and the decisions of the great rarely concerned him.
That night, as he stood alone on High Hill, Calder came to him.
'You are troubled, my friend?' the steward asked.
'The Days of Blood will come again. I can feel it in the whisper of the wind. The crows know it too.'
'Wise birds, crows. The eyes of Odin.'
'I heard you told them you followed the White Christ?'
'You think the Blood King had no ears at our meeting? You think Snorri and his men will live to join Drada? Or that any of us would have been left alive had I not spoken as I did? No. Grysstha. I follow the old gods who understood the hearts of men.'
'And what of the treaty with Uther?'
'We will honour it for as long as it suits us, but one day you will be avenged for the loss of your sword-arm. I had a dream last night and I saw the Blood King standing alone on the top of a hill, his men all dead around him and his banner broken. I believe Odin sent that dream; it is a promise for the future.'
'It will be many years before we are as strong again.'
'I am a patient man, my friend.'
The Blood King slowly dismounted, handing the reins of his war-horse to a silent squire. All around him the bodies of the slain lay where they had fallen, under a lowering sky and a dark cloud of storm crows waiting to feast.
Uther removed his bronze helm, allowing the breeze to cool his face. He was tired now, more tired than he would allow any man to see.
'You are wounded, sire,' said Victorinus, approaching through the gloom, his dark eyes narrowed in concern at the sight of the blood seeping from the gash in the King's arm.
'It is nothing. How many men did we lose?'
'The stretcher-bearers are still out, sire, and the surgeon is too busy to count. I would say around eight hundred, but it might be less.'
'Or more?'
'We are harrying the enemy to the coast. Will you change your mind about not burning their ships?'
'No. Without ships they cannot retreat. It would cost near a legion to destroy their army utterly, and I do not have five thousand men to spare.'
'Let me bind your arm, sire.'
'Stop fussing over me, man! The wound is sealed - well, almost. Look at them,' said the King, pointing to the field between the stream and the lake and the hundreds of bodies lying twisted in death. 'They came for plunder. Now the crows will feast on their eyes. And will the survivors learn? Will they say. "Avoid the realm of the Blood King?" No, they will return in their thousands. What is it about this land that draws them?'
'I do not know, sire, but as long as they come we will kill them,' said Victorinus.
'Always loyal, my friend. Do you know what today is?'
'Of course, my lord. It is the Day of the King.'
Uther chuckled. 'The Day of the Two Suns. Had I known then that a quarter-century of war would follow . . .' He lapsed into silence.
Victorinus removed his plumed helm, allowing his white hair to flow free in the evening breeze. 'But you always conquer, my lord. You are a legend from Camulodunum to Rome, from Tingis to Bysantium: the Blood King who has never known defeat. Come, your tent is ready. I will pour you some wine.'
The King's tent had been pitched on the high ground overlooking the battlefield. Inside a brazier of coals was glowing beside the cot-bed. Uther's squire, Baldric, helped him out of his chain-mail, his breastplate and his greaves, and the King sank gratefully to the cot.
Today I feel my age,' he said.
'You should not fight where the battle is thickest. A chance arrow, a lucky blow ..." Victorinus shrugged. 'We . . . Britain . . . could not stand without you.' He passed the King a goblet of watered wine and Uther sat up and drank deeply.
'Baldric!'
'Yes, my lord.'
'Clean the Sword - and be careful now, for it is sharper than sin.'
Baldric smiled and lifted the great Sword of Cunobelin, carrying it from the tent. Victorinus waited until the lad had gone, then pulled up a canvas stool and sat beside the monarch.
'You are tired, Uther. Leave the Trinovante uprising to Gwalchmai and me. Now that the Goths have been crushed, the tribes will offer little resistance.'
'I will be fine after a night's sleep. You fuss over me like an old woman!'
Victorinus grinned and shook his head and the King lay back and closed his eyes. The older man sat unmoving, staring at the face of his monarch -the flaming red hair and the silver blond beard - and remembered the youth who crossed the borders of Hell to rescue his country. The hair was henna-dyed now and the eyes seemed older than time.
For twenty-five years this man had achieved the impossible, holding back the tide of barbarian invaders threatening to engulf the Land of Mist. Only Uther and the Sword of Power stood between the light of civilization and the darkness of the hordes. Victorinus was pure-blood Roman, but he had fought alongside Uther for a quarter of a century, putting down rebellions, crushing invading forces of Saxon, Norse, Goth and Dane. For how much longer could Uther's small army prevail?
For as long as the King lived. This was the great sadness, the bitter truth. Only Uther had the power, the strength, the personal magnetism. When he was gone the light would go out.
Gwalchmai entered the tent, but stood in silence as he saw the King sleeping. Victorinus rose and drew a blanket over the monarch; then, beckoning to the old Cantii warrior, he left the tent.