"Fiona McIntosh - The Quickening - 01 - Myrren's Gift" - читать интересную книгу автора (McIntosh Fiona)

All except one.

And it was that one man whom Fergys Thirsk had sworn to protect. The one he would give his life for.

As with the Thirsk Generals who had gone before him, Fergys had lived long, so the only regret that
surfaced as the killing blow came was his absence from the family he loved. Fergys was not at all used to
losing but it seemed Shar had asked more of him on this occasion; his god had asked for his life and he
had given what had been requested without hesitation. He had fought so many battles and rarely returned
with more than surface wounds.

And this battle had looked to be no exception until he had seen the danger, heard the man’s battle cry,
and deliberately stepped in front of that slashing sword. Up to that fateful moment only a thin line of dried
blood across one cheek marked the closest a blade had come to threatening him. Duty, however, came
first.

Fergys had not even paused to consider the implications of pushing aside King Magnus, knowing he
would have no time to block the inevitable blow. The only thing standing between the King and certain
death was Fergys’s own body. The blade struck, fate guiding it ingeniously beneath the breastplate.

He cried out at the pain from the sucking wound in his abdomen but did not falter, too intent was he on
dispatching the Briavellian and ensuring the life of his King. Only then did Fergys Thirsk fall, not yet dead
but commencing the longest journey of all.

As they had hurried him from the battleground and back over the Tague, he was still calling orders to his
captains. Once he had heard the full retreat sounded, he lay back on the canvas that would bear him
back to Morgravia’s camp. This journey seemed endless and he now used the time to reflect on his life.

There was little to complain about.

He was loved. That in itself should be enough for any man, he reasoned, but then there was so much
more. He commanded respect—had earned it too—and he had walked shoulder to shoulder with a King
whom he called friend. More than friend…blood brother.

That brother now walked in shock by his side, giving orders, fussing for his care, whispering to himself
that it was all his fault; his stupidity and recklessness had seen the great General felled. It was all
pointless. Fergys tried to tell the man this but there was insufficient strength in his voice to speak above
the din of the retreat. If he could have he would have hushed his blood brother and reminded him that
Shar’s Gatherers had spoken and whether any of them liked it or not he must now answer that call. No
regrets. Duty done.

Men were bowing their heads as the stretcher passed by. Fergys wished he could somehow convey his
thanks to each. The Legion produced exceptional soldiers, loyal to a man to his command. He spared an
anxious thought for how they would accept the new General, yearned for a last opportunity to beg their
tolerance. “Give the boy a chance.” he would beseech. “He will be all that I am and better still.” And he
hoped it would be true.

He thought of the youngster. Serious and a firm follower of tradition. Tarred by the same brush, as they
say, especially in looks. They were plain, stocky, fearless men, the Thirsks, and this boy was already
shaping up as a leader. The Morgravian Legion followed a curious tradition of handing down leadership
from father to son. Fergys wondered if it could last. The lad was so young. Would he have time to sire