"01 - The Cutting Edge 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duncan Dave)

it.
"I mourn my cousin deeply," the prince said, "but I welcome you in his stead. I
think it was not only the God of Battle who was with us out there today,
Signifer. I think the God of Justice was busy, also. "
Tears sprang suddenly into Ylo's eyes.
He wondered if he had just given away his soul.

5
The terrible day was not over-indeed, it had barely started. Ylo staggered out
of the legate's tent into blinding heat, although the hour was shy of noon. The
army did not consider a major battle any reason to slacken discipline. The camp
lay spread out around him, rows of tents straight as javelins in all directions.
On the outskirts, exhausted legionary grunts were digging the encircling
vallation. The centurions' screamed threats drifted in faintly. Well, there was
the first blessing . . .
"You have your own duties to attend to." Shandie had dismissed him with those
words, but what in the Name of Evil did they mean?
The massive centurion accosted Ylo again and saluted. He had replaced the
missing sandal.
Bewildered, Ylo returned the salute and only then realized that he was holding
the slain signifer's cape. That had been what this leather-faced thug had been
saluting.
"Hardgraa," the monolith growled. "Chief of his bodyguard. "
"Ylo," Ylo said. "Personal signifer." That felt curiously satisfying.
Not believable, just satisfying.
"Thought you might need these," Hardgraa remarked. He held out a wad of rags and
a rolled red cloth.
Of course a signifer's first duty would be to tend his standard-clean it,
replace the bunting. That was what the legate had meant. Ylo took the offering
with shaky hands. "Thanks." He forced his aching feet to move.
The centurion paced beside him until they reached the standard. The easiest way
to dispose of the cape was to put it on. It did keep the sun off, and the hood
was certainly more comfortable than the massive, dented helmet. As Ylo was about
to start work, the centurion muttered, "A moment, Signifer," and straightened
the hood for him. Bug-eyed perfectionist!
Ylo began polishing the lowest of the emblems. He would need a stool to reach
the star, for he must never lay the pole on the ground. He tried to ignore the
watching Hardgraa.
"See that civilian over there, the one who looks like a retired priest?"
Ylo forced his eyes to focus and grunted.
"Sir Acopulo-his chief political advisor. And the butterball just going into the
tent? Lord Umpily, chief of protocol. And me. Anything you need to know, any
help you want . . . just ask. Ask any of us, but one of those three especially."
Ylo grunted again, squinting against the incandescent desert sun reflecting in
his eyes. "Thanks more."
"Anything concerning security or his safety-anything at all, no matter how
trivial-tell me with your next breath."
Ylo nodded and decided not to mention his own ambitions for a sharp blade
between the royal ribs. He went back to work. The centurion rubbed the bark on
his chin. "You did say personal signifer, Signifer?"