"Gemmell, David - Waylander - v1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

Acknowledgements

My thanks go to my agent Leslie Flood, whose supнport carried me through the lean years; my local editor, Ross Lempfiere, without whom Waylander would not have stalked the dark woods; Stella Graham, the finest of proof-readers, and Liza Reeves, Jean Maund, Shane Jarvis, Jonathan Poore, Stewart Dunn, Julia Laidlaw and Tom Taylor.

Special thanks to Robert Breare for the fun of it all, and for holding the fortress against the odds.

Prologue

The monster watched from the shadows as the armed men, torches aloft, entered the darkness of the mountain. He backed away as they advanced, keepнing his huge bulk from the glare.

The men made their way to a rough-hewn chamber and placed the torches in rusty iron brackets on the granite walls.

At the centre of the twenty-strong group was a figure in armour of bronze, which caught the torchнlight and seemed to blaze like fashioned flames. He removed his winged helm and two retainers erected a wooden skeleton frame. The warrior placed the helm atop the frame and unbuckled his breastplate. He was past middle age, but still strong - his hair thinning, his eyes squinting in the flickering light. He passed the armoured breastplate to a retainer who laid it on the frame, rebuckling the straps.

'Are you sure of this plan, my lord?' asked an elderly figure, slender and blue-robed.

'As sure as I am of anything, Derian. The dream has been with me now for a year and I believe in it.'

'But the Armour means so much to the Drenai.'

'That is why it is here.'

'Could you not - even now - reconsider? Niallad is a young man and he could wait at least two more years. You are still strong, my lord.'

'My eyes are failing, Derian. Soon I shall be blind. You think that a good trait in a King renowned for his skill in war?'

'I do not wish to lose you, my lord.' said Derian. 'It may be that I am speaking out of turn, but your son . . .'

'I know of his weaknesses,' snapped the King, 'as I know his future. We are facing the end of all we have fought for. Not now . . . not in five years. But soon will come the days of blood and then the Drenai must have some hope. This Armour is that hope.'

'But, my lord, is not magical. You were magical. This is merely metal which you chose to wear. It could have been silver, or gold, or leather. It is Orien the King who has built the Drenai. And now you will leave us.'

The King, dressed now in a brown tunic of doeнskin, placed his hands on the statesman Is shoulders.

'I have been much troubled these past few years, but always I have been guided by your good counsel. I trust you, Derian, and I know you will look to Niallad and guide him where you can. But in the days of blood he will be beyond your advice. My vision is black indeed: I see a terrible army falling upon the Drenai people; I see our forces sundered and in hiding - and I see this Armour shining like a torch, drawing men to it, giving them faith.'

'And do you see victory, my lord?'

'I see victory for some. Death for others.'

'But what if your vision is not true? What if it is merely a deceit fashioned by the Spirit of Chaos?'

'Look to the Armour, Derian,' said Orien, leading him forward.

It glinted in the torchlight still, but now had gained an ethereal quality which puzzled the eye. 'Reach

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out and touch it,' ordered the King. When Derian did so, his hand passed through the image and he recoiled as if stung.