"David Gemmel - The Damned 01 - White Wolf" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

тАШSoldiers obey their rule, priest. The martial code does not allow us to
obey only those orders we like. Were I you I would leave the monastery and
journey north. It will not be long before it is attacked.тАЩ
тАШWhy would they attack us?тАЩ
тАШAsk your friend. He seems to be a man who knows which way the wind
will blow.тАЩ He paused. тАШDuring the fight I saw he had a dark tattoo upon
his left forearm. What kind was it?тАЩ
тАШIt is a spider.тАЩ
тАШI thought so. Does he perhaps also have a lion or some such upon his
chest?тАЩ
тАШYes. A panther.тАЩ
The soldier said nothing more, and walked away.
For three years now Skilgannon had sought to recapture that one
perfect moment, that sense of total clarity and purpose. On rare occasions
it seemed tantalizingly close, like a wispy image hovering at the corners of
vision that danced away when he tried to focus upon it.
He had cast aside riches and power, and journeyed through the
wilderness seeking answers. He had entered the priesthood here at the
converted castle of Cobalsin, enduring three mind-rotting years of study
and examination, absorbing - and largely dismissing -philosophies and
teachings that bore no relation to the realities of a world cursed by the
presence of Man.
And each night the dreams would haunt him. He would be wandering
through a dark wood seeking the white wolf. He would catch a glimpse of
its pale fur in the dense undergrowth and draw his swords. Moonlight
would glisten on the blades, and the wolf would be gone.
Instinctively he knew there was a link between the swords and the wolf.
The moment he touched the hilts the beast would disappear, and yet such
was the fear of the wolf that he could not resist the lure of the blades.
The monk known as Lantern would awake with a start, fists clenched,
chest tight, and roll from his narrow pallet bed. The small room with its
tiny window would seem then like a prison cell.
On this night a storm was raging outside the monastery. Skilgannon
walked barefoot along the corridor and up the steps to the roof, stepping
out into the rain. Lightning blazed across the sky, followed by a deep
rumble of thunder.
It had been raining that night too, after the last battle.
He remembered the enemy priest, on his knees in the mud. All around
him were corpses, thousands of them. The priest looked up at him, then
raised his thin hands to the storm. Rain had drenched his pale robes. тАШThe
tears of Heaven,тАЩ he said.
It still surprised Skilgannon that he remembered the moment so
powerfully. Why would a god weep? He recalled that he had laughed at the
priest, and called him a fool. тАШFind yourself a god with real power,тАЩ he had
said. тАШWeeping is for the weak and the powerless.тАЩ
Now on the monastery roof Skilgannon walked through the rain and
stared at the undulating landscape, gazing out towards the east.
The rain eased away, the clouds clearing. A bright, gibbous moon
illuminated the glistening land. The houses in the town below shone white
and clean. No rioting crowds tonight, no rabble rousers. The fires in the