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

helmsmanтАЩs temple.
HeтАЩd scarcely begun to fall when Cormac barked, тАЬUp oars to steerboard! Turn, turn hard about! Towards the
Goth!тАЭ
One heartbeatтАЩs pause of pure amazementтАФand the the crew obeyed. Straight up from the water rose the
line of oars on CormacтАЩs right, while the rowers to port-side doubled their already bone-cracking efforts, so
that a couple of oars broke off short in strong hands. Raven turned in perhaps but three times her own length,
while her timbers made cracking protests. The biremeтАЩs ram came thrusting through seething water to gore
herтАФbut the helm was untended, veering, for a bare sufficiency of confused moments aboard the Goth.
Raven had come fully about, swifter than the Goths had deemed possible in a ship her length. Her
copper-sheathed prow now aimed directly at the biremeтАЩs port line of oars.
Blind and captive below decks, urged on by thrashings, the biremeтАЩs rowers took her to disaster.
Athanagild BericтАЩs son, bulging-eyed on her bridge, screamed, тАЬBackwater! Back water!тАЭ
But there was hardly time to say it, much less see it done.
Raven had lost impetus in her turn, and lacked space to gather it anew. It was the biremeтАЩs own hungry
speed did the work.
Her double bank of oars shattered on RavenтАЩs prow and beneath her keel, as so many rowan wands under a
coulterтАЩs blade. The broken ends whipped back within the hull to do gruesome carnage among the rowers.
Backs broke, ribs went in pieces, brains flew from their enclosing skulls in gobbets of pink and grey mud.
Marines on deck went sprawling. Some stayed on their feet by clutching the deck-rail, as did Athanagild on
his bridge. He stood appalled, maddened, infuriated. Again he beheld Wulfhere Hausakliufr, and this time far
closer, but untouchable, arrogant, like a tower of iron aquiver with mirth. He laughed in their amazed Gothic
faces as he passed.
тАЬGo home to your mothers!тАЭ was the advice he gave them.
тАЬLoose! Loose arrows!тАЭ Athanagild screamed at his archers. тАЬFeather me that great hog! Kill him! Kill him! A
hundred solidi for the man who does!тАЭ
Wulfhere heard, and remained standing in the bow long enough to be sure he was almost the sole target for
the next flight. Then he ducked beneath the dragon-head beside Cormac, and covered them both with his
shield, off which a shaft or two rattled. Most rebounded from the hammered copper that armoured the prow, or
hissed in the sea, which made it an arrow-flight wasted.
тАЬLoose again! Kill the rowers! Curse you, ready the dart-thrower!тАЭ
Modern artisans proved hardly equal to those of former times; the dart-throwerтАЩs mechanism had jammed
after one shot. Upon gaining that bit of news Athanagild raised his fists and addressed Heaven in raving
blasphemies. His god, that one Cormac called the Dead God, took no note.
Meanwhile, the Danish galley had made a close turn around the crippled bireme, and was running for the
open sea once more. AthanagildтАЩs archers rained arrows on them with grim method as they passed, so that
fourteen men were wounded and two more slain. As Raven had but forty oars functioning and the second
bireme was close upon her, all in all no one was any longer amused.
They left land-shelter for an ugly cross-chop brewed by Ran, who spread nets for ships, in one of her bitchiest
moods. Less poetically, the inimical sea here was due to the jut of the Armorican peninsula to the north, and
the mass of Spain to the south, lending their complications to the heavy swells from the Western Ocean.
Raven began to buck and wallow like a drunken walrus; the Visigothic ship drew nearer.
Cormac went aft to watch, covering the steersman with a shield.
Another huge iron-headed dart plunged into the sea, a spearтАЩs length astern. Three flights of arrows followed,
and at the third, Cormac gasped and sank down. Wulfhere, amidships, saw and hastened aft.
тАЬCormac! Have they killed ye, man?тАЭ
тАЬIтАЩmтАФwinded,тАЭ the Gael bit forth. He grinned. тАЬThe mail, and this leather sark and padding under it, kept the
point from my hide. Them and their little four-foot bows!тАЭ
тАЬAh,тАЭ Wulfhere mourned, lest the other accuse him of waxing sentimental, тАЬitтАЩs a bad day and growing no
better. I dared hope then that weтАЩd be rid of ye.тАЭ
Raven mounted a swell that slopped brine inboard. Then the sea vanished from under her, and she dropped