Verwandte Artikel zu Sword in the Storm: Book One of The Rigante

Sword in the Storm: Book One of The Rigante - Softcover

Buch 1 von 4: Rigante

Gemmell, David

 
9780345432346: Sword in the Storm: Book One of The Rigante
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0345432347 ISBN 13: 9780345432346
Verlag: Del Rey, 2001

Inhaltsangabe

Fierce and proud, the Rigante dwell deep in the green mountain lands, worshiping the gods of air and water, and the spirits of the earth.  Among them lives a warrior who bears the mark of fate. Born of the storm that slew his father, he is Connavar, and tales of his courage spread like wildfire.

The Seidh--a magical race as old as time--take note of the young warrior and cast a malignant shadow across his life. For soon a merciless army will cross the water, destroying forever the timeless rhythms of life among the Rigante.

Swearing to protect his people, Connavar embarks on a quest that will take him into the heart of the enemy. Along the way, he receives a gift: a sword as powerful and deadly as the Seidh who forged it. Thus he receives a name that will strike fear into the hearts of friend and foe alike--a name proclaiming a glorious and bitter destiny . . .

Demonblade.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

David Gemmell was born in London, England, in the summer of 1948. Expelled from school at sixteen, he became a bouncer, working at nightclubs in Soho. Born with a silver tongue, Gemmell rarely needed to bounce customers, relying on his gift of gab to talk his way out of trouble. This talent eventually led to a job as freelancer for the London Daily Mail, Daily Mirror, and Daily Express. His first novel, Legend, was published in 1984 and has remained in print ever since. He became a full-time writer in 1986.

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Fierce and proud, the Rigante dwell deep in the green mountain lands, worshiping the gods of air and water, and the spirits of the earth.  Among them lives a warrior who bears the mark of fate. Born of the storm that slew his father, he is Connavar, and tales of his courage spread like wildfire.

The Seidh--a magical race as old as time--take note of the young warrior and cast a malignant shadow across his life. For soon a merciless army will cross the water, destroying forever the timeless rhythms of life among the Rigante.

Swearing to protect his people, Connavar embarks on a quest that will take him into the heart of the enemy. Along the way, he receives a gift: a sword as powerful and deadly as the Seidh who forged it. Thus he receives a name that will strike fear into the hearts of friend and foe alike--a name proclaiming a glorious and bitter destiny . . .

Demonblade.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

On the night of the great man's birth a fierce storm was moving in from
the far north, but the lowering black clouds still were hidden behind
the craggy, snow-capped peaks of the Druagh mountains. The night air
outside the birthing hut was calm and still and heavy. The bright stars
of Caer Gwydion glittered in the sky, and the full moon was shining like
a lantern over the tribal lands of the Rigante.

All was quiet inside the lamp-lit hut as Varaconn, the soft-eyed horse
hunter, knelt at his wife's side, holding to her hand. Meria, the pain
subsiding for a moment, smiled up at him. "You must not worry," she
whispered. "Vorna says the boy will be strong."

The blond-haired young man cast his gaze across the small, round hut to
where the witch woman was crouched by an iron brazier. She was breaking
the seals on three clay pots and measuring out amounts of dark powder.
Varaconn shivered.

"It is time for his soul-name," Vorna said without turning from her
task.

Varaconn reluctantly released his wife's hand. He did not like the
stick-thin witch, but then, no one did. It was difficult to like that
which one feared, and black-haired Vorna was a fey creature with bright
blue button eyes that never seemed to blink. How was it, Varaconn
wondered, that an aging spinster with no personal knowledge of sex or
childbirth could be so adept at midwifery?

Vorna rose and turned, fixing him with a baleful glare. "This is not the
time to consider questions born of stupidity," she said.

Varaconn jerked. Had he asked the question aloud? Surely not.

"The soul-name," said Vorna. "Go now."

Taking his wife's hand once more, he raised it to his lips. Meria
smiled, then a fresh spasm of pain crossed her face. Varaconn backed
away to the door.

"All will be well," Vorna told him.

Varaconn swirled his blue and green checkered cloak around his slender
shoulders and stepped out into the night.

It was warm, the air cloying, and yet, for a moment at least, it was
cooler than the hut and he filled his lungs with fresh air. The smell of
mountain grass and pine was strong there, away from the settlement, and
mixed with it he could detect the subtle scent of honeysuckle. As he
grew accustomed to the warmth of the summer night, he removed his cloak
and laid it over the bench seat set around the trunk of the old willow.

Time for the soul-name, Vorna had said.

In that moment, alone under the stars, Varaconn felt like an adult for
the first time in his nineteen years. He was about to find the soul-name
for his son.

His son!

Varaconn's heart swelled with the thought.

Following the old goat trail, he stepped out onto the green flanks of
Caer Druagh, the Elder Mountain, and began to climb. As he journeyed
high above the valley, his thoughts were many. He recalled his own
father and wondered what he had been thinking as he had climbed this
slope nineteen years before. What dreams had he nurtured for the infant
about to be born? He had died from wounds taken in a fight with the
Pannones when Varaconn was six. His mother had passed over the Dark
Water a year later. Varaconn's last memories of her were of a skeletal
woman, hollow-eyed, coughing up blood and phlegm.

The orphan Varaconn had been raised by an irascible uncle who had never
married and loathed the company of people. A kind old man, he had tried
hard to be a good father to the boy but had managed--among many good
lessons--to pass on to his ward his own wariness of fellowship. As a
result Varaconn never courted popularity and found intimacy difficult.
He was neither popular nor unpopular with the other young men of the
Rigante, and his life had been largely undistinguished except for two
things: his friendship with Ruathain the First Warrior and his marriage
to the beautiful Meria.

Varaconn paused in his climb and stared down at Three Streams settlement
far below. Most of the houses were dark, for it was almost midnight and
the Rigante were a farming community whose people rose before the dawn.
But lamplight was flickering in some of the windows. Banouin the
Foreigner would be checking his tallies and preparing his next journey
to the sea, and Cassia Earth Maiden would be entertaining a guest,
initiating some young blood in the night-blessed joys of union.

Varaconn walked on.

His marriage to Meria had surprised many, for her father had entertained
a score of young men seeking her hand--even Ruathain. Meria had rejected
them all. Varaconn had not been one of the suitors. A modest man, he had
considered her far above him in every way.

Then one day, as he was gentling a mare in the high meadow paddock, she
had come to see him. That day was bathed in glory in the hall of his
fondest memories. Meria had leaned on the fence rail as Varaconn had
moved around the paddock. At first he had not known she was there, so
intent was he on the bond with the mare. He loved horses and spent much
of his early life observing them. He had noticed that herd leaders were
always female and that they disciplined errant colts by driving them
away from the safety of the herd. Alone, the colt would become fearful,
for predators would soon descend on a single pony. After a while the
mare would allow the recalcitrant beast back into the fold. Thus
chastened, it would then remain obedient. Varaconn used a similar
technique in training ponies. He would isolate a wild horse in his
circular paddock, then, with a snap of his rope, set it running around
the inner perimeter of the fence. The instinct of a horse was always to
run from danger and only when it was safe to look back to see what had
caused its fear. Varaconn kept the pony running for a while; then, not
knowing Meria was watching him, he dipped his shoulder and turned away
from the mare. The pony dropped her head and moved in close to him.
Varaconn continued to walk, slowly changing direction. The mare followed
his every move. As he moved, he spoke to the mare in a soft voice and
finally turned to face her, rubbing her brow and stroking her sleek
neck.

"You talk to horses more easily than you talk to women," said Meria.

Varaconn blushed deep red. "I'm . . . not a talker," he said. Trying to
ignore her, he continued to work with the pony and within an hour was
riding it slowly around the paddock. Occasionally he would glance toward
Meria. She had not moved. Finally he dismounted, took a deep breath, and
walked to where she waited. Shy and insular, he did not look into her
eyes. Even so, he saw enough to fill his heart with longing. She was
wearing a long green dress and a wide belt edged with gold thread. Her
long dark hair, except for a top braid, was hanging loose to her
shoulders, and her feet were bare.

"You want to buy a pony?" he asked.

"Perhaps. Why did the mare suddenly start to obey you?" she asked.

"She was frightened. I made her run, but she didn't know what the danger
was. Did you see her snapping her mouth as she ran?"

"Yes. She looked very angry."

"That was not anger. Foals do that. She was reverting to infant
behavior. She was saying to me, 'I need help. Please be my leader.' So I
dropped my shoulder and gently turned away. Then she came to me and
joined my herd."

"So you are her stallion now?"

"In truth that would make me the lead mare. Stallions do the fighting,
but a mare will command the herd."

"Ruathain says you are a great fighter and a good...

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Verlag
Del Rey
Erscheinungsdatum
2001
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0345432347
ISBN 13 
9780345432346
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
448
Kontakt zum Hersteller
preigu GmbH & Co. KG
mail@preigu.de

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