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

priest?тАЭ
тАЬтАФand we who are united in Christ and who are everywhere, king son of a king, are your eyes and ears and,
with some small increase in numbers, your protection.тАЭ
Milchu spoiled his own dramatic effect then, for whilst he sought to fix the king with a meaningful gaze of
steel, that feather the fog seemed to have put into his throat tickled again, so that he coughed.
Power, Lugaid thought. Increase in numbers, is it? That means increase in power! I hear ye, priest. I hear
even the words ye speak not.
тАЬMilchu.тАЭ
тАЬLord King?тАЭ
тАЬConnacht.тАЭ
тАЬLet me tell the High-king not of those who plot, but of a perhaps worse danger in Coiced Connachta of the
west.тАЭ
And Lugaid listened with attentiveness and narrowed eyes grey and impenetrable as fog, and forgot the
tankard of ale and the mug of good mulled wine.
тАЬIt is of a youth only recently turned fourteen IтАЩd be speaking, lord King.тАЭ
тАЬFourteen! A boy! MilchuтАФтАЭ
Milchu but raised a pale, pale hand a little, fingers up, palm to the king. The king stared, silencing himself.
And waiting.
тАЬAnd is ten and four not the age of manhood, lord King? тАФand most especially when the youthful man in
question is rising six feet in height, with an athleteтАЩs muscle on him, and druid-taught craftiness in him, and a
consummate weaponish skill, a natural talent? And when he all alone but a single moonтАЩs passage agone did
battle with no less than four Cruithne on the rocky shores of westernmost Connacht, and sustained him but a
scratch, and left four Pictish corpses to rot in sun and tide?тАЭ
Staring bright-eyes, his knuckles nigh white on his tankardтАЩs zoomorphic handle, Lugaid gestured impatiently
with his other hand, for the spy had paused as if to tease.
тАЬThis is fact, Milchu?тАЭ
тАЬThisтАФтАЭ Milchu broke off coughing, and coughed, nor did he bring up aught of phlegm or curses. Blinking, he
sipped, drank, wiped at the corner of his eye with a long thin index finger.
тАЬThis is fact, son of Laegair. He cut them down all four as trees are felled in the wood.тАЭ
тАЬIt sounds like legend.тАЭ
тАЬAh! DoesnтАЩt it! It is what Connachtmen are saying of this youth... his name Cormac, son of Art son of
Comal.тАЭ
тАЬArt!тАЭ
тАЬAye.тАЭ
тАЬGods of Eirrin, what a name! Legend itself: Cormac mac Art! How dare one so named as Art give his son the
name of that great High-king of long ago!тАЭ
тАЬHe does, my lord King, and with calculation. For the lord Art of Connacht has naught of the fool about him,
and knew what the sound of that name he gave his son would be, in the ears and minds of all men of Eirrin...
your Eirrin, mac Laegair.тАЭ
тАЬMy Eirrin,тАЭ Lugaid said, tasting the words and looking ready to smack his lips over them.
тАЬNow this lad has done deeds to call attention to himself so that his name is heard throughout Connacht. And
too, to him is applied another name, now. For itтАЩs yourself has said it, lord King; his deed sounds like one of
legend. For not only did he perform this deed with spear and sword and buckler, and him alone, but when
afterward others came upon him he stood against a great standing stone on the shore, with the four
death-hacked Cruithne at his feet.тАЭ
тАЬFour,тАЭ Lugaid muttered.
тАЬWinded he was, and splashed with Pictish gore, and he leaned panting against the great rock rising up from
the sand. To those who first came onto the strand, it appeared the lad was bound there, that he was dead
there, standing... as,тАЭ Milchu said on, emphasizing each several word now, тАЬwas EirrinтАЩs greatest hero at his
deathтАФтАЭ