"Andrew J. Offutt - Cormac 01 - The Mists of Doom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Offutt Andrew J)

had been raised there, for it was a pillar-stone.
They see a dead man walk, he thought, and clamped his teeth against a groan when he paused at the stone
taller than he, the greatest hero Eirrin would ever know, with his guts slippery in his hands: His head swam
and the world was red-tinged though sunset was hours away, and he clung to himself, holding back blood and
looping bowels with one hand while with the other he worked.
Hours seemed to pass while he leaned against the pillar-stone, and got loose his breast-belt with a bloody
hand, and then his loin-girding belt. Buckled together, he looped them over the standing stone, and set his
broad back to it, the while his eyes saw a darkening red fog that was somehow also a sound, a throbbing
continuing thunder in his ears. And he made shift to fasten the belt over the hole in him, and secured himself
thus to the pillar-stone beside the loch. A terrible grunting groan escaped even his set lips that ground powder
from his teeth for he had tugged tight the belt and yet had not the strength to hold tight his jaws the longer.
And his mouth came open, and leaked blood upon his chest that was like unto that of a bear.
Yet he knew his ribs would not hold his heart, for his great heroтАЩs heart was turned all to blood within him.
But he stood. He had bound himself upright against the stone, the way he would not meet his death lying
down before his enemies, like the normal man he had never been. And though he saw only dimly, he knew
then that the host of his enemies came down onto the strand, shields and spears ready, and she knew that
he faced them standing erect with heels braced and guts bound up so they could not spill from within him,
and even now they in their company were in dread of approaching him closely. Laughter he would have given
them then, but he knew he dared not, for the strain of that laughter might sunder the straps of leather holding
back the bowels that strained and sought to pour looping from him.
For he was Cuchulain of Muirthemne, and heтАЩd die on his feet and facing his enemies. And a cloud and a
weakness rose to come over him, so that his eyes were fixed.
тАЬIt is a great shame for us,тАЭ said Erc who was the son of Cairbre whom Cuchulain had slain, тАЬnot to strike the
head off this man, in revenge for his striking the head off my father!тАЭ
And Cuchulain saw Lugaid then, Lugaid who had done death on him, and he was reaching for his
swordтАФthough Lugaid in truth had gone all reddish and dark and seemed to pulse with the throbbing thunder
Cuchulain heard; dusk must be coming on uncommon early this day. And he heard the pounding hooves that
told him his beloved horses were coming to seek to save him, and them without Laeg to drive nor Cuchulain
their lifelong master to shout them on. For he was beyond shouting.
And they did, the Black Sanglain and even the wounded Grey of Macha or so he thought he saw, both of
them that slew many with flashing hooves and terrible warhorse teeth, and they were slain and died, his
mighty horses, and Lugaid was coming for him with his sword up and his shieldhand rising the way it would
lock in CuchulainтАЩs hair that Lugaid might strike off his head.
And sadness was on Cuchulain to discover that his body that had served him so well no longer paid heed to
his demands of it, for his arms would not rise to grapple with Lugaid, though he had killed ten tens and more
of mightier men.
LugaidтАЩs face came closer, and filled all his vision, and then it seemed to shimmer like the pool into which a
stone had been tossed, and it was no longer LugaidтАЩs face before Cuchulain, but that of the druid of his
boyhood, Cathbadh.
тАЬYour name will be greater than any other name in Eirrin,тАЭ the druid said, and his face pulsed redly. тАЬBut itтАЩs
short your span of life will be.тАЭ
And this was the death of Cuchulain and this too was the first of the Rememberings to come upon Cormac
son of Art.
Then CathbadhтАЩs face, too, shimmered, even as the bright sunlight of summer off a thousand fine shields or
off the broad surface of Loch Cuan.
And it was not Lugaid that he saw. And it was not Cathbadh the Druid he saw, with his face somehow
surrounded by flames so that he stared out from within those very flames. Aye, though in truth it was a druid,
neither Lugaid nor Cathbadh. Was Sualtim he saw with his agonized eyes.
Sualtim! he thought. This is not possibleтАФthat mentor of Cormac mac Art that I will be is not even born yet!
OhтАФI am Cormac mac Art! I was Cuchulain. I am Cormac. I am in the woods, not dying though I have died