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

all the way through him.
Without a sound, Cormac mac Art bounded up the second set of narrow stone
steps. Passing a corridor to his right, he charged straight ahead. On the floor, in a
shaft of sunlight from the broad window, a man lay still, with an arrow through his
throat. Ivarr or Guthrum had shot well, at a man who had shown them only head and
shoulders!
Another archer, crouched by that same window, was already whipping around
and loosing a feathered shaft at the charging invader.
Cormac spun his left arm, trusting to the shield to find the rushing arrow. He
was rewarded by the sound of ironshod wood ringing off ironbound buckler. Then
his right arm came whipping around in a grey blur. He had a vision of enormous blue
eyes beneath a small cap. of a helmet, and then eyes and the face in which they were
set leaped high and were gone, as his blade sent the head flying from its
shouldersтАФand out the window.
There was no time for so much as a grim smile at the, sound of an exultant cry
from his comrades outside.
тАЬCOMMMMMMME!тАЭ the son of Art of Eirrin shouted, and then he was
slamming his shoulder against a wall. From it dangled dusty tatters of an eons-old
tapestry that had once lent beauty to these somber basaltic halls. From the corner of
his eye Cormac had seen the appearance of another man, at the top of the steps at
the far end of the broad corridor.
He wore a winged helmet, and he held a bow with arrow nocked. The string
snapped home and the arrow came too fast for Cormac to see it, at this close range.
His shield was angle-held, and the arrow was deflected with a ring and a rap of its tail
that was followed instantly by the sound of its glancing off the wall to his left.
Already another arrow was being fitted to string.
Only an idiot charged an archer at such proximity. Had he been a bit closer, only
an idiot of a bow-man would have tried to stop attack with an arrow. As it was, the
other man had the better of it, and Cormac adopted an uncoventional defense and
attackтАФborn of desperation.
With all his might he hurled his sword at the archer.
At the same time, he lunged wildly leftward, toward that gaping window. Even
then he was mindful of keeping his buckler betwixt him and the enemy.
It was unnecessary; the disconcerted yeoman sent his shaft on a wild upward
angle, in his attempt to dodge the flung sword. He did not succeed, nor did it do him
harm. But in the seconds he took to recover from that ridiculous тАЬattack,тАЭ his foe
covered yards of stone floor.
CormacтАЩs shield smashed into the other manтАЩs breast and face and the GaelтАЩs
dagger drove into his belly, its impact heightened by the speed of his charge and
muscles so powerful that mail parted like paper. The daggerтАЩs hilt clanked against
steel scales.
With a deliberate twist of his wrist, Cormac jerked the blade back and swung the
shield straight up, away from the clawing hand that sought to grasp it.
Nose smashed and belly gutted, the wide-eyed man in the winged helmet
staggered back one step, then two. The third time his foot came down not on floor,
but on empty air, and then the topmost step.
The man Cormac recognized as of the Norse went tumbling and clattering and
clanging down the stone stairwell.
 тАЬWhatтАЩs this?тАЭ a great voice came bellowing up. тАЬCormac sends us a gift of
welcome?тАЭ And there was a chunk. That, the Gael knew, was WulfhereтАЩs ax, and