"Stephen Lawhead - Celtic Crusades 01 - The Iron Lance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lawhead Stephen)

My head is spinning now. I have passed giddy and am actually growing dizzy. My
senses remain acute. I feel as if I am glowing in the dark, giving off sparks.
My hearing is sharp, but there is nothing to hear, save my own breathing.
Since I have not been instructed otherwise, I decide to remove the blindfold.
As expected, there is no light. The subterranean darkness is complete. It
covers me like a second skin, so close as to be part of me. Though I am blind
still, my senses are alive and tingling with anticipation - or, more probably,
the strange substances I have imbibed are beginning to work in me somehow. I
feel as if I am flying.
I continue with my inspection. The walls of the vestibule, I discover, are
rounded and smooth, cut, as I have surmised, into the walls of the cave. There
is no impediment to my movement as I work my way around what I perceive to be
the back wall of the vestibule, feeling with my hands. And then . . .
I brush the edge of the opening with my fingers. I feel the curved lip of a
ledge, and quickly trace the opening in the wall with my hands. It is a niche,
wider than it is high, and with a slightly projecting shelf. I reach in. It is
not deep. I feel the back of the niche, and then begin running my fingers
along the shelf.
My fingertips brush something cold and hard.
The object has been placed in the niche precisely. Indeed, I presume the niche
and shelf have been constructed especial to hold the object it contains. Could
this be what I was meant to find?
I continue my investigation of the object. It is long and thin, with a
hardness and coldness that can only be metal. I take it into my hand and
carefully remove it from its resting place, holding it lengthwise across my
palms to judge its heft. From the weight, I suspect bronze, or iron; and from
the length and shape, I imagine a rake handle. But no, it is too thin - the
circumference is too small for any common tool or implement of that sort - and
it is too heavy. The surface is rough, pitted, and without marking or
ornamentation that I can discern.
Running my hand along the length of the metal rod, I perceive that it is not
entirely straight - the metal bows and turns slightly as it gradually thickens
towards its blunt, rounded end. I turn my attention to the opposite end, and
find that the cylindrical shaft thins as it nears what I imagine to be the
top, its roundness squared beneath a short, triangular-shaped head. There are
three - what shall I call them? protrusions? - on the head: small vanes, if
you will. These vanes are thin, and . . .
As I stand puzzling over the nature of the object I have found, I hear the
whoosh of air, great volumes of air moving, yet I feel not the slightest
movement on my skin. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.
All at once, it seems as if the floor beneath me is tilting. I reel forwards,
clutching the metal rod. With my free hand, I grab for the edge of the niche,
miss, and lurch awkwardly into the wall. The cavern is booming now, and I
realize the sound is in my head - it is the rush of blood through my ears.
Bracing myself against the wall, I try to turn, but find I can no longer
stand.
I am panting like a dog. My breath comes in quick bursts and gasps, as if I
have run ten miles. Sweat is pouring from my face. I hold to the wall, leaning
against it, afraid to move lest I fall from the raised vestibule to the floor.
Instead, keeping my back to the wall, I slide down slowly into a sitting