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

Cuchulain! Sure and Cormac knew the tales, which he had heard far more than once. He had dreamed of
those times, of those days of great and incredible deeds. But thisтАФ!
Had his mental state, the decline in mental and physical heightening from their peak following the slaying of
the bear... had these and the eyeseizing, mind-dulling effect of the fire merely sent him into a sort of trance?
Had he but seemed to see, to feel himself a participant in those tales of, the Hound of Chulan the Smith?
Or... had EdarтАЩs words held the truth? Cormac, the druid had said, had about him the look of a man
remembering his past lives.
Was that what I was about? Was I CuchulainтАФor rather am I? Is it possible?
Certainly few in Eirrin questioned the ancient Celtic assertion of immortality by way of the return of the basic
life force in a new body. Reincarnation was a part of religion and life. A man came onto the earth, and trod the
ridge of the world for a while. The while was called a lifetime. Its length varied. Then he was gone for a time
again to that Other Place, DonnтАЩs realm. Thence he returned to begin anew as an infant, the offspring of new
parents, a new personality with a new name in a new body. Nor did he remember his previous lives, save in
occasional snatches and glimpses. Thus was explained the inexplicable: genius in this or that trade, or at
singing, or at any of the arts or skills.
CormacтАЩs taking to weapons and combat seemed instinctive. Perhaps. And perhaps it was the continuing
ability of another life, or lives. So had Sualtim suggested, and few argued with the druids.
Whatever the explanationтАФif one indeed existedтАФthat strangeness of the тАЬrememberingтАЭ had been enough,
of itself. For Cormac had felt the pain and pangs of dying, physical and mental, with him unable to prevent
that death or even take one more foe with him...
And then had appeared Sualtim. To the matter of the bear and the matter of the Remembering was added still
a third jarring experience.
Never before had the druidic tutor of his boyhood appeared to him thus, and the man himself not there. Yet
Cormac was certain had been no trick of his mind. Illusion, perhapsтАФbut of SualtimтАЩs mind, of SualtimтАЩs
devising, of SualtimтАЩs sending. All through the night had Cormac mac Art worried over the meaning of the
druidтАЩs all too few words. And still he did, as he and Midhir allowed their mounts to pick up their pace to a trot
toward the outer wall of Glondrath.
Aye... and Cormac had known fear, too. He still did.
Treachery, Sualtim had said. TreacheryтАФby whom, from whom? Against whom? To what malignant purpose?
For how could treachery be benign, or even neutral?
Even more troublesome to his youthful mind was the dread question: Had the treachery succeeded in its
doing and its purpose?
He would find out soon enough. Around him bird sang their gladness of springтАЩs coming, and he heard them
not. The horses were nearing the tall wall of oak and earth. Men gazed down upon the riders, men in armour
and, under their helms, faces that Cormac well knew. Dour and drawn were the faces of the two weapon-men
on GlondrathтАЩs eastern wall, showing little warmth of welcome to their commander and their chieftainтАЩs son.
Much of his weariness left mac Art, then. A new energy of excitement came on him, born of apprehension
and forebodingтАФand fearfulness.
The way was opened to the two, without a word. They passed within.
тАЬBrychan!тАЭ Cormac called. тАЬWhatтАЩs amiss?тАЭ
The two guards exchanged a look. One said, тАЬAmiss?тАЭ
CormacтАЩs stare was nigh onto a glare. тАЬYe heard тАШme aright.тАЭ
Brychan tucked under his lip; his companion made reply. тАЬThe druid will tell ye, son of Art.тАЭ
Brychan could not help himself. тАЬHowтАФhow knew ye aught was amiss, son of Art?тАЭ
Cormac but looked at him; Midhir glowered. The weapon man set his teeth in his lower lip and busied himself
with the gateтАЩs closing.
The, horses paced into the sprawling townlet that had grown up around the fortress-become-manorhouse.
There the main granary. There the other. There the stables. Near it the milk-sheds. There the creamery and
buttery, there the cozy home of Midhir and his wife Aevgrine, and there doored mounds over underground
storage chambers. Two large smokehouses. The barracks, sprawling, and homes of workmen and maids,