"Stephen Lawhead - Pendragon Cycle 02 - Merlin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lawhead Stephen)

An odd question to ask a child of seven. But an image formed itself in my mind:

A sword тАФ not the short, broadgladius of the legionary, but the long, tapering length of singing lightning
of the Celt. The hilt was handsome bronze wrapped in braided silver with a great amethyst of imperial
purple in the pommel. The jewel was engraved with the Eagle of the Legion, fierce and proud, catching
sunlight in its dark heart and smouldering with a deep and steady fire.

'I see a sword,' I said. 'The hilt is silver and bears a purple gem carved like an eagle. It is an emperor's
sword.'

Both Maximus and Lord Elphin тАФ my father's father, who stood beside me тАФ looked on me with
wonder, as though I had spoken a prophecy great and terrible in its mystery. I merely told them what I
saw.

Magnus Maximus, Commander of the Legions of Britain, gazed thoughtfully at me. 'What else do you
see, lad?'

I closed my eyes. 'I see a ring of kings; they are standing like stones in a stone circle. A woman kneels in
their midst, and she holds the Sword of Britain in her hands. She is speaking, but no one hears her. No
one listens. I see the blade rusting and forgotten.'

Although Romans were always keen for an omen, I do not think he expected such an answer from me.
He stared for a moment; I felt his fingers go slack in my hair, and then he turned away abruptly. 'King
Elphin! You look fit as ever. This soft land has not softened you, I see.' He and my grandfather walked
off, arms linked: two old friends met and recognized as equals.

We were there at Caer Cam the morning he arrived. I was training the pony Elphin had given me,
desperate to break the wily creature to the halter so that I could ride it home in a few days' time. The little
black-and-white animal seemed more goat than horse and what had begun as a simple trial with a
braided rope harness soon grew to an all-out war of wills with mine suffering the worst of it.

The sun was lowering and the evening mist rising in the valley. Wood pigeons were winging to their
nests, and swallows swooped and dived through the still, light-filled air. Then I heard it тАФ a sound to
make me stop rock still and listen: a rhythmic drumming in the earth, a deep, resonant rumble rolling over
the land.

Cuall, my grandfather's battlechief, was watching me and became concerned. 'What is it, Myrddin
Bach? What is wrong?' Myrddin Bach, he called me: Little Hawk.

I did not answer, but turned my face towards the east and, dropping the braided length of leather, ran to
the ramparts, calling as I ran, 'Hurry! Hurry! He is coming!'

If I had been asked who was coming, I could not have made an answer. But the instant I peered
between the sharpened stakes I knew that someone very important would soon arrive, for in the
distance, as we looked down along the valley, we could see the long, snaking double line of a column of
men moving northwest. The rumble I had heard was the booming cadence of their marching drums and
the steady plod of their feet on the old hard track.

I looked and saw the failing sunlight bright on their shields and on the eagle standards going before them.