JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 208 из 213Harper left with him, mounted on one of Hogan’s spare horses, and for the second time that day Sharpe found himself on the Roman Bridge. He looked up at Harper. “Good luck.”
“We’ll see you soon, sir?”
“Very soon.” Sharpe touched his stomach. “It hardly hurts.”
“You’ve got to be careful, sir. I mean it killed that Frenchman.”
Sharpe laughed. “He wasn’t careful.”
Hogan bent down and shook Sharpe’s hand. “Take your time, Richard! There won’t be another battle.”
“No, sir.”
Hogan smiled at him. “And how long are you going to wear two swords, eh? You look ridiculous!”
Sharpe grinned and unclasped the Kligenthal. He offered it to Hogan. “You want it?”
“Good Lord, no! It’s yours, Richard. You won it.”
But a man only needs one sword. Harper watched Sharpe, he knew how Sharpe had craved after the Kligenthal, he had seen Sharpe hold the sword last night. The Kligenthal had been forged by a genius, shaped by a master, a weapon of contained beauty. To look at it was to fear it, to see it in the hands of a man who could use it, like Sharpe, was to understand the mind that had made this sword. It seemed to weigh nothing in Sharpe’s hand, so perfectly balanced was the steel, and the Rifleman drew it out now, slowly, so the steel shone like oiled silk in the sun.
The sword at his side, the sword that Harper had given him, was crude and ill-balanced. It was too long for an infantryman, it was clumsy, and it was stamped out with hundreds more in an ill-lit Birmingham factory. Beside the Kligenthal it was raw, cheap, and crude.
Yet Harper had worked the cheap sword as a talisman against Sharpe’s death. Something more than friendship had gone into the blade. It did not matter that it was cheap. The cheap sword had beaten the Kligenthal, the expensive sword, and there was luck in the blade. Dozens of similar swords had simply been left at Garcia Hernandez after the charge, not worth the bother of picking up, and the peasants would fashion them into long knives. Yet Sharpe’s sword was lucky. There was a soldiers’ goddess and her name was Fate and she had liked the sword Harper made for Sharpe. The Kligenthal was stained with the blood of friends, with the torture of flayed priests, and the beautiful sword contained not luck, but evil.
Harper watched as Sharpe drew his arm back, checked for a second, and then threw. The Kligenthal wheeled up into the sunlight, circling, dazzling with quick flashes as the steel caught the light.
“We’ll see you soon, sir?”
“Very soon.” Sharpe touched his stomach. “It hardly hurts.”
“You’ve got to be careful, sir. I mean it killed that Frenchman.”
Sharpe laughed. “He wasn’t careful.”
Hogan bent down and shook Sharpe’s hand. “Take your time, Richard! There won’t be another battle.”
“No, sir.”
Hogan smiled at him. “And how long are you going to wear two swords, eh? You look ridiculous!”
Sharpe grinned and unclasped the Kligenthal. He offered it to Hogan. “You want it?”
“Good Lord, no! It’s yours, Richard. You won it.”
But a man only needs one sword. Harper watched Sharpe, he knew how Sharpe had craved after the Kligenthal, he had seen Sharpe hold the sword last night. The Kligenthal had been forged by a genius, shaped by a master, a weapon of contained beauty. To look at it was to fear it, to see it in the hands of a man who could use it, like Sharpe, was to understand the mind that had made this sword. It seemed to weigh nothing in Sharpe’s hand, so perfectly balanced was the steel, and the Rifleman drew it out now, slowly, so the steel shone like oiled silk in the sun.
The sword at his side, the sword that Harper had given him, was crude and ill-balanced. It was too long for an infantryman, it was clumsy, and it was stamped out with hundreds more in an ill-lit Birmingham factory. Beside the Kligenthal it was raw, cheap, and crude.
Yet Harper had worked the cheap sword as a talisman against Sharpe’s death. Something more than friendship had gone into the blade. It did not matter that it was cheap. The cheap sword had beaten the Kligenthal, the expensive sword, and there was luck in the blade. Dozens of similar swords had simply been left at Garcia Hernandez after the charge, not worth the bother of picking up, and the peasants would fashion them into long knives. Yet Sharpe’s sword was lucky. There was a soldiers’ goddess and her name was Fate and she had liked the sword Harper made for Sharpe. The Kligenthal was stained with the blood of friends, with the torture of flayed priests, and the beautiful sword contained not luck, but evil.
Harper watched as Sharpe drew his arm back, checked for a second, and then threw. The Kligenthal wheeled up into the sunlight, circling, dazzling with quick flashes as the steel caught the light.