Lord of the Silver Bow

Начало книги

To sleep is to die.

So he clung to the driftwood as the raging seas hurled him high, then plunged him deep into the storm-dark valleys between the waves. Lightning flashed, followed by deafening thunderclaps. Another wave lashed him, spinning the driftwood, almost tearing him clear. Sharp splinters pierced his bleeding hands as he tightened his grip. Salt spray stung his swollen eyes.

Earlier in the night, after ferocious winds had swept the galley against hidden rocks, splintering the hull, four men had grasped this length of shattered deck.

One by one the storm had leeched away their strength then plucked them loose, their despairing death cries swept away by the wind.

Now only the man called Gershom remained – thanks to arms and shoulders strengthened by months of labour in the copper mines of Kypros, wielding pick and hammer, and bearing on his back sacks of ore. Yet even his prodigious strength was failing.

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