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

heard of them, garbled as ancient sorceries. HeтАЩd thought the techniques lost, and well lost. Someone had
worked at reviving them.
Someone, he thought, is concerned about us.
Marine archers lined the rail of the leading warship. Their bowstrings hummed, and thirty arrows hurtled at
Raven. Of that first volley, most fell short, hissing as the water took them, and none found a home in flesh.
тАЬOut to sea!тАЭ Wulfhere thundered. тАЬLetтАЩs find how these Goth lubbers take rough water!тАЭ
Crew and ship were as one; Raven turned due west. Iron-muscled backs and limbs put explosions of energy
into rowing. But the galley was heavy laden, and while her change of direction had postponed the meeting,
the Gothic biremes were gaining at every oar-stroke. The leader would be running beside them soon, and
within arrow-shot, and then the Goths would loose volley after volley.
ButтАФCormac grinned hardтАФan we win beyond that sheltering bulge of land to northward first, the Gothic
aimтАЩll suffer! Wulfhere was right.
The dart-thrower banged.
Cormac saw a bolt long as he was tall spring over the sea. It flashed above the heads of his straining rowers
to pierce the water for a fathom ere it lost force. The Gael did not see, but starkly imagined, its four-bladed
iron head. Such a thing would split RavenтАЩs overlapping strakes as WulfhereтАЩs ax broke mail.
The dart-throwerтАЩs crew was winching back its cable now for another shot.
тАЬBehlтАЩs fiery eye!тАЭ he said between his teeth. тАЬWere our archers in fettle, weтАЩd be dropping ye all stone mortal
slain about your engine!тАЭ
The bireme ploughed on. Now it lagged a shipтАЩs length behind Raven, now half, and now it edged in, foot by
foot. The archers loosed again.
The war-shields hung along RavenтАЩs foaming thwarts were some protection, and helms and byrnies more.
These arrows, though, were shot to fall from above. Some skewered brawny arms or calves. One man had the
sudden sight of a feathered shaft pinning his hand to his oar; burning pain followed. Another felt naught, for as
he bent forward in a stroke, an arrowhead drove through his offered neck between helm and byrnie. He was
instantly dead. His oar trailed useless, fouling others.
Knud the Swift justified his by-name by leaping to the bench, heaving the corpse aside and seizing the
oartimber. Three benches behind him, the man with the nailed hand coldly broke off the arrow-shaft and freed
himself.
тАЬRelief here!тАЭ he growled.
And the gap of water separating bireme from clinker-built northern galley grew straiter.
Wulfhere had gone thoughtful, hefting his giantтАЩs ax. The head was large as his two hands together, and
weighed all of seven pounds. The Gothic helmsman stood in plain sight but no, the Skull-splitter decided,
besides being loath to part with it, not even he could hurl this particular ax quite so far. He drew the smaller
one from his weapon belt.
It was a short-hafted Frankish weapon, meant for throwing, of the kind that bore the name of that fierce,
treacherous tribeтАФa francisca. HeтАЩd practiced long hours with it and knew to the nailтАЩs width its properties in
flight.
тАЬThe helmsman, Cormac,тАЭ he said. тАЬIf I bring him down, can ye remember that ye be seaman these days, and
not tending pigs in Eirrin any longer? And give the right order?тАЭ
тАЬItтАЩs a seaman I was ere ever I saw your mattress of a face,тАЭ the Gael said.
Wulfhere, grinning, brought the Frankish ax back over his mailed shoulder, edge upward, and braced a
wadmal-clad knee the size of a shield-boss in the bow. The missile-ax made two full turns over thirteen
paces, he knew, therefore one in half that; and for targets beyond or between such ranges, one must impart
more spin or more drag so that the weapon struck with edge flying foremost.
The blue eyes in their mesh of weather wrinkles judged the distance with experienced calm.
A further flight of arrows hummed, sped almost straight up now, so close were the adversaries. Wulfhere
heeded them no more than had they been a swarm of gnats. HeтАЩd cautioned Cormac to do what was
necessary, knowing that he might be dead himself. His hairy, thick-muscled arm swung forward.
The Frankish ax glittered through five full turns in the sea air... and sank, as into a turnip, through the