"Andrew J. Offutt - Cormac 04 - Tigers Of The Sea" - читать интересную книгу автора (Offutt Andrew J)

blazing and his great axe clotted with blood and brains, few there are who dare face him.
тАЬBut it is on his righthand man that Wulfhere depends for advice and council. That one is crafty as a serpent
and is known to us Britons of oldтАФfor he is no Viking at all by birth, but a Gael of Erin, by name Cormac Mac
Art, called an Cliuin, or the Wolf. Of old he led a band of Irish reivers and harried the coasts of the British
Isles and Gaul and SpainтАФaye, and he preyed also on the Vikings themselves, But civil war broke up his
band and he joined the forces of WulfhereтАФthey are Danes and dwell in a land south of the people who are
called Norsemen.
тАЬCormac Mac Art has all the guile and reckless valor of his race. He is tall and rangy, a tiger where Wulfhere
is a wild bull. His weapon is the sword, and his skill is incredible. The Vikings rely little on the art of fencing;
their manner of fighting is to deliver mighty blows with the full sweep of their arms. Well, the Gael can deal a
full arm blow with the best of them, but he favors the point. In a world where the old-time skill of the Roman
swordsman is almost forgotten, Cormac Mac Art is well-nigh invincible. He is cool and deadly as the wolf for
which he is named, yet at times, in the fury of battle, a madness comes upon him that transcends the frenzy
of the Berserk. At such times he is more terrible than Wulfhere, and men who would face the Dane flee before
the blood-lust of the Gael.тАЭ
King Gerinth nodded. тАЬAnd could you find these men for me?тАЭ
тАЬLord King, even now they are within reach. In a lonely bay on the western coast, in a little-frequented region,
they have beached their dragon-ship and are making sure that it is fully sea-worthy before moving against the
Angles. Wulfhere is no sea-king; he has but one shipтАФbut so swiftly he moves and so fierce is his crew that
the Angles, Jutes and Saxons fear him more than any of their other foes. He revels in battle. He will do as
you wish him, if the reward is great enough.тАЭ
тАЬPromise him anything you will, answered Gerinth. тАЬIt is more than a princess of the realm that has been
stolenтАФit is my little sister.тАЭ
His fine, deeply-lined face was strangely tender as he spoke.
тАЬLet me attend to it,тАЭ said Donal, refilling his goblet. тАЬI know where these Vikings are to be found. I can pass
among themтАФbut I tell you before I start that it will take your MajestyтАЩs word, from your own lips, to convince
Cormac Mac Art ofтАФanything! Those Western Celts are more wary than the Vikings themselves.тАЭ
Again King Gerinth nodded. He knew that the minstrel had walked strange paths and that though he was
loquacious on most subjects, he was tight-lipped on others. Donal was blest or cursed with a strange and
roving mind and his skill with the harp, opened many doors to him that axes could not open. Where a warrior
had died, Donal of the Harp walked unscathed. He knew well many fierce sea-kings who were but grim
legends and myths to most of the people of Britain, but Gerinth had never had cause to doubt the minstrelтАЩs
loyalty.


II.

Wulfhere of the Danes fingered his crimson beard and scowled abstractedly. He was a giant; his breast
muscles bulged like twin shields under his scale mail corselet. The horned helmet on his head added to his
great height, and with his huge hand knotted about the long shaft of a great axe he made a picture of rampant
barbarism not easily forgotten. But for all his evident savagery, the chief of the Danes seemed slightly
bewildered and undecided. He turned and growled a question to a man who sat near.
This man was tall and rangy. He was big and powerful, and though he lacked the massive bulk of the Dane,
he more than made up for it by the tigerish litheness that was apparent in his every move. He was dark, with
a smooth-shaven face and square-cut black hair. He wore none of the golden armlets or ornaments of which
the Vikings were so fond. His mail was of chain mesh and his helmet, which lay beside him, was crested
with flowing horse-hair.
тАЬWell, Cormac,тАЭ growled the pirate chief, тАЬwhat think you?тАЭ
Cormac Mac Art did not reply directly to his friend. His cold, narrow, grey eyes gazed full into the blue eyes
of Donal the minstrel. Donal was a thin man of more than medium height. His wayward unruly hair was