"Andrew J. Offutt - Cormac 02 - The Tower of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Offutt Andrew J)

тАЬHeavy! By Aegir the bountiful, thereтАЩs wine in her hold, as ye were assured! And outrun Raven such aтАЩ
round-bellied seagoing walnut could not, even were she riding light!тАЭ Halfdan smacked his lips. тАЬWe will drink
tonight.тАЭ
тАЬAhh,тАЭ Wulfhere gusted, in a bliss of anticipation. тАЬPush out, then, ye thirsty sons of Dane-mark! Reward is
ours!тАЭ
Cormac said naught, and his grin was a bare skinning of teeth as he drew his sword. Dark and
smooth-shaven was his face, of a sinister cast not amended by the scars upon it, or the cold narrow eyes
grey as his weapon-steel. His visage was fitly framed in the cheek-pieces of his helmet, a hard leather
casque strengthened with plaques of black iron. Its flowing horsehair crest was the nearest thing to ornament
he had on him, and even that to a purpose; was a lasting taunt to HengistтАЩs Jutes, for the White Horse was
the badge of their royal house, and they fought under a standard of white horsetails.
Held vertically, oars thrust down into the creek-bed, poling Raven forward.
As she slid lithely out to where she had more waterroom, the poling men seated themselves and ran their
oars out horizontally. Their two-score benchmates did the same. The blades dipped raggedly, cut into water,
and fifty strong men pulled back against its resistance.
Raven sprang forth on a bright sea glittering with scales of hot gold.
Knud the Swift, in the stern, called staves for his comrades to row by, and they rowed hard. Water peeled
back white from RavenтАЩs copper-sheathed prow. It hissed by the strakes. Oars lifted shining, swept back,
dipped, and men drove them forward again, revelling in the free use of muscles too long cramped. Work?
Naught of the kind! A touch of healthy exercise to get the kinks out before they bathed their weapons!
тАЬBrightly flash the oar-blades,
Washing in the whaleтАЩs bath,
Dipping in the salty
Ale of AegirтАЩs daughters.
Better is the brew there,
Casked in yonder cargo,
Where the wine of Eastland
Waits for WulfhereтАЩs killers.

тАЬYe that row to steerboard,
Raise your oars and rest them,
While the wights a-portside
Turn us to the grappling.
See, the southron sailors,
White with terror-madness,
Hunch like hunted conies
With the stoats among them.тАЭ

In truth, it was not such a large brag. The crew of Thetis was more than two to one outnumbered, and every
man able plainly to see it. Nor might they have stood against the wild slayers out of the north, even at level
odds. As for an attempt at flight... Raven was making three shipтАЩs lengths to the fat corbitoтАЩs one. It was
unfair, so close to homeтАФand mad and raving mad the pirates must be, to be trying it! Demons from the
reddest pits of hell they seemed, a-glimmer with metal scales and bosses and horned like Satan, their dark
ship a dragon fit to carry such creatures.
The voyage had been hard and weary, and this to be its ending! Unfair.
Raven was so close now that Gervase could see the Danish leaderтАЩs face, aye, and his henchmanтАЩs, too.
Gervase knew them at once. Not a seaman on these coasts but had heard of the ruddy giant with his ax and
burning beard, and the dark-visaged sworder in black mail.
The heart of Gervase turned cold. Yet at the same time he felt hope stirring, for it was said that these twain
were not given to wanton slaying of the helpless. And helpless he was, and all his crew.