The Tower of Living and Dying. Anna Smith Spark

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       Chapter Eight

       ‘The isle of Third is a fine land,

       Her corn rising high like maidens dancing,

       Her fat flocks, her fat cattle,

       Her green meadows and her green forests,

       Her rivers sweet and clear.

       But still I say nothing is more lovely,

       More joyous, more worthy of praise,

       Than a great host girded for battle,

       Bronze swords bright in the sunlight,

       Young men’s faces raised and eager,

       Red banners proud in the wind.’

      The marsh and the banks of the estuary slipped away behind them. Ahead, the dark sea and the darker smudge of Seneth Isle. The wind blew fair in the sails. Scant hours, before they made land.

      ‘That’s the biggest load of cock I’ve heard in days,’ said Tobias.

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      ‘That bloody song. A load of crap. Third’s a shithole, and an army’s a load of ugly sweaty buggers ready to rip someone’s guts apart.’

      ‘Watch your mouth,’ said Brand. ‘Third’s his kingdom, and we’re his army, and it’s bloody glorious.’

      ‘Oh, bloody glorious.’

      ‘I said watch your mouth, Immishman.’

      Fuckhead romantics. Tobias went back to looking at the water. Maerlk, the man who had started it by singing, went back to looking at his sword. He seemed quite astonished to be wearing one. Tobias kept feeling an itching need to tell him which end you held it by.

      Back on a bloody ship. Spent years successfully avoiding ships. Never get involved in amphibious warfare. One of Skie’s old maxims. Suddenly made a hell of a lot of sense. Just never, Tobias. One thing this company’ll never bloody do.

      Never do a lot of the things he’d somehow done in the last little while.

      It was all cloudy in his mind, making him irritable. He’d hated the king, once. Before he realized something. Something. And now the great coming battle, to decide who got the crown and got to say he was better and everyone loved him more. He hadn’t wanted the king to win, once. Had wanted … something else for him. Kind of hard to remember what. Just still a nagging sense of pointlessness, that there was no real reason for any of this. That he should just turn around. Run.

      A little house and a girl to clean it and a pint of Immish gold of an evening and a fat soft gut. That had been … been a really good good idea he couldn’t quite shake. He’d done a bad thing, hadn’t he? Something bad. To the king. Hadn’t wanted … something to happen.

      He looked across the water and the king was there, standing at the prow of his ship, looking straight ahead. So tiny, a stick of black with a red cloak, maybe a flash of light where his crown was, but you knew him. They all knew him, even without seeing him. The ships moved slightly, changing formation; the figure was gone. Light snow furring the deck, making it slippery. Hands cold and raw on the hilts of their swords. He’s the king. We’ll make him king. His kingdom and his army.

      Bloody glorious! Yeah!

      Third was still an ugly freezing damp shithole, though. And his army was still a load of ugly sweaty buggers ready to rip someone’s guts apart. Bloody wounds and oozing sores glorious.

      Yeah.

      Seneth was coming properly into sight, grey rocks and green hills rising up clear ahead of them, blurred in the snow. Huddles of houses down on the shoreline; you could even see the smoke of hearth fires. Didn’t look any different to Third.

      Tobias had kind of expected they’d be making land soonish, camp for the night and then march. Instead, the ships turned, moving north following the line of the coast, the king’s ship taking position at the front. Another hour’s sailing, slow in a weak wind. The snow had stopped, thank the gods. But still bloody cold. Rations of bread and meat and beer handed out, they ate crouched on the deck, eyes on the shore. Could feel people on the shore looking back. A couple of fishing boats sailing panicked before them, tacking and darting to get away. An army looks like a dragon to peasant men, Tobias thought watching them. Gods alone know what an army of ships must look like, when you’re out on the dark pitiless sea. They sailed on, then a shout came from one of the ships ahead of them, orders relayed back whipping on the wind, voices calling like the gulls, the sound of the waves slapping against the hull, the men craning to hear.

      ‘Furl the sails! To oars!’

      A movement of men to the mast, a great creak of canvas and rope thrashing like snakes. A space in the sky where the sail had been, the mast standing useless like a dead winter tree, rough splintered wood with the bowsprit across it like wide-spread arms. Like that stupid sodding stake they stuck the stupid sodding dead horse on. Oars striking out into the water. The sound of the ship now the crunch and crack of men’s bones.

      ‘Strike the drums! To arms!’

      So they were moving much more slowly now, crawling along with the land bedside them, a high rugged headland, harsh black rocks. Something looking from the top of the cliff a moment, СКАЧАТЬ