"Andrew J. Offutt - Cormac 05 - Sword of the Gael" - читать интересную книгу автора (Offutt Andrew J)

rock, deep-hued basalt. Its somberness was cut here and there with veins of paler
lipartite and studded with twinkling quartz, set like jewels against the dark and
brooding background.
The Gael compressed his lips. The island was like a great rock wall or giantтАЩs
castle, surrounded by shore and a coast that was mostly rocky and precipitous, and
then by an enormous protective moat: the domain of Manannan MacLir, the
unending sea.
Then a voice rumbled up from a massy chest. тАЬThereтАЩs a great drouth in my
throat. If this be Valhalla, where be the cup-bearers?тАЭ
The Gael was forced to chuckle. He turned to look at the big man, Wulfhere
Hausakliufr, who was in the act of sitting up. Already he scratched in his beard:
тАЬI see no cup-bearers, and a Valkyrie I am not, bush-face.тАЭ
Wulfhere looked at him. тАЬCormac! We live!тАЭ
The Gael nodded. тАЬWe do. And all others breathe.тАЭ
Even as he spoke, another stirred. Like Wulfhere, he scratched at the salt
encrusting his chin deep within his vermilion beard. тАЬWhere are we?тАЭ
WulfhereтАЩs reply was a snort. тАЬAsk the gulls, Ivarr.тАЭ
The Gael named Cormac said, тАЬWhere are we? Here.тАЭ
Ivarr sighed, twisted, shoved himself erect with a palm against the sand. He
gazed around himself.
тАЬUgh and och! Here, is it? IтАЩd rather be there.тАЭ
тАЬAhh... methinks my arm be broke.тАЭ
тАЬYou are lying on it, Guthrum,тАЭ Cormac told that waking Dane. тАЬStir yourself.
ItтАЩs a nice sleep weтАЩve had: the little death. An we find not water, and that soon, it
will be the big sleep on us all.тАЭ
Another man moved, with first a grunt and then a curse. тАЬWater! HmpтАФitтАЩs
food this snarling belly wants!тАЭ
Cormac was removing his sleeveless tunic of linked chain. тАЬFood! That,
Half-a-man, weтАЩll have, for there are tasty gullsтАФтАЭ
тАЬArrgh,тАЭ Halfdan Half-a-man growled, and he made a face.
тАЬтАФand wild geese or ducks,тАЭ the man of Eirrin went on. тАЬAnd itтАЩs their blood
weтАЩll be drinking, Wulfhere, and proclaiming it the fairest quencher of thirst on the
ridge of the world!тАЭ
On his feet, Wulfhere poked a finger into his scarlet beard to scratch. He
nodded, a giant with breast muscles that bulged like a brace of shields beneath his
corselet of scalemail. He grunted when he stooped for his horned helmet. With that
on his head he was even more formidable and giant-like.
тАЬUmmm,тАЭ he agreed in a rumbling grumble. тАЬWe shall not die of thirst or
starvation, then. And meanwhileтАФwhat do we do here?тАЭ
тАЬCare for our armour,тАЭ Cormac advised. With his removed, he folded his legs
and lowered himself to the sand. He commenced a meticulous wiping of each of the
many links of good small chain, to rid it of salt and rust-bringing water.
Thirst and rumbling bellies were ignored as one, then three, and at last eight
others followed his example. A man could stand his hunger and his dry throat. Arms
and armour, thoughтАФon those his life depended. Despite the fact that this island was
surely abandoned by the gods, and unpeopled by the sons of man so that it might be
home now in both life and death, the nine survivors of Wolfsail sat, and squinted,
and rubbed and picked and polished.
As he had begun first and had no scales to lift, it was Cormac who first finished
and rose. As though he might at any instant meet an army of attackers, he doggedly