Last Sword of Power

Informationen zum Autor David Gemmell was born in London, England, in the summer of 1948. Expelled from school at sixteen for organizing a gambling syndicate, he became a laborer by day, and at night his six-foot-four-inch, 230-pound frame allowed him to earn extra money as a bouncer working 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. At eighteen this gift led to a job as a trainee journalist, and he eventually worked as a 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. David lives with wife, Valerie, and his two children, Kate and Luke, in Hasting, England. Klappentext BLOOD KING The Goths followed a bloodthirsty new leader, one who sought to open the Gates of Hell: Wotan. His immortal power stemmed from human sacrifice and dark sorcery, and no sword could touch him. He rode the winds on a leather-winged steed, while his armies cut a deadly swath across the northern kingdoms. Even death's icy hand could not stop them. Only Uther Pendragon could save Britannia. To do so he must wield his birthright--Cunobelin's blade, the legendary Sword of Power. But Uther was chained in Hell, the sword lost in swirling Chaos. All hope lay with the warrior known as Revelation, with the magic of the Sipstrassi Stones, and with Anduine, a blind girl possessed of arcane powers. Only if these unlikely allies united could they hope to stop the invincible foe before the world plunged into darkness.1 GRYSSTHA WATCHED AS the boy twirled the wooden sword, lunging and thrusting at the air around him. Feet, boy; think about your feet! The old man hawked and spit on the grass, then scratched at the itching stump of his right wrist. A swordsman must learn balance. It is not enough to have a quick eye and a good armto fall is to die, boy. The youngster thrust the wooden blade into the ground and sat beside the old warrior. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his sky-blue eyes sparkled. But I am improving, yes? Of course you are improving, Cormac. Only a fool could not. The boy pulled clear the weapon, brushing dirt from the whittled blade. Why is it so short? Why must I practice with a Roman blade? Know your enemy. Never care about his weaknesses; you will find those if your mind has skill. Know his strengths. They conquered the world, boy, with just such swords. You know why? No. Grysstha smiled. Gather me some sticks, Cormac. Gather me sticks you could break easily with finger and thumb. As the boy grinned and moved off to the trees, Grysstha watched him, allowing the pride to shine now that the boy could not see him closely. Why were there so many fools in the world? he thought as pride gave way to anger. How could they not see the potential in the lad? How could they hate him for a fault that was not his? Will these do? asked Cormac, dropping twenty finger-thin sticks at Grysstha's feet. Take one and break it. Easily done, said Cormac, snapping a stick. Keep going, boy. Break them all. When the youngster had done so, Grysstha pulled a length of twine from his belt. Now gather ten of them and bind them together with this. Like a beacon brand, you mean? Exactly. Tie them tight. Cormac made a noose of the twine, gathered ten sticks, and bound them tightly together. He offered the four-inch-thick brand to Grysstha, but the old man shook his head. Break it, he ordered. It is too thick. Try. The boy strained at the brand, his face reddening and the muscles of his arms and shoulders writhing under his red woolen shirt...

Autorentext
David Gemmell was born in London, England, in the summer of 1948. Expelled from school at sixteen for organizing a gambling syndicate, he became a laborer by day, and at night his six-foot-four-inch, 230-pound frame allowed him to earn extra money as a bouncer working 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. At eighteen this gift led to a job as a trainee journalist, and he eventually worked as a 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. David lives with wife, Valerie, and his two children, Kate and Luke, in Hasting, England.

Klappentext

BLOOD KING
The Goths followed a bloodthirsty new leader, one who sought to open the Gates of Hell: Wotan. His immortal power stemmed from human sacrifice and dark sorcery, and no sword could touch him. He rode the winds on a leather-winged steed, while his armies cut a deadly swath across the northern kingdoms. Even death's icy hand could not stop them.
Only Uther Pendragon could save Britannia. To do so he must wield his birthright--Cunobelin's blade, the legendary Sword of Power.
But Uther was chained in Hell, the sword lost in swirling Chaos. All hope lay with the warrior known as Revelation, with the magic of the Sipstrassi Stones, and with Anduine, a blind girl possessed of arcane powers. Only if these unlikely allies united could they hope to stop the invincible foe before the world plunged into darkness.

Leseprobe
1
 
GRYSSTHA WATCHED AS the boy twirled the wooden sword, lunging and thrusting at the air around him. “Feet, boy; think about your feet!”
 
The old man hawked and spit on the grass, then scratched at the itching stump of his right wrist. “A swordsman must learn balance. It is not enough to have a quick eye and a good arm—to fall is to die, boy.”
 
The youngster thrust the wooden blade into the ground and sat beside the old warrior. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his sky-blue eyes sparkled.
 
“But I am improving, yes?”
 
“Of course you are improving, Cormac. Only a fool could not.”
 
The boy pulled clear the weapon, brushing dirt from the whittled blade. “Why is it so short? Why must I practice with a Roman blade?”
 
“Know your enemy. Never care about his weaknesses; you will find those if your mind has skill. Know his strengths. They conquered the world, boy, with just such swords. You know why?”
 
“No.”
 
Grysstha smiled. “Gather me some sticks, Cormac. Gather me sticks you could break easily with finger and thumb.” As the boy grinned and moved off to the trees, Grysstha watched him, allowing the pride to shine now that the boy could not see him closely.
 
Why were there so many fools in the world? he thought as pride gave way to anger. How could they not see the potential in the lad? How could they hate him for a fault that was not his?
 
“Will these do?” asked Cormac, dropping twenty finger-thin sticks at Grysstha’s feet.
 
“Take one and break it.”
 
“Easily done,” said Cormac, snapping a stick.
 
“Keep going, boy. Break them all.”
 
When the youngster had done so, Grysstha pulled a length of twine from his belt. “Now gather ten of them and bind them together with this.”
 
“Like a beacon brand, you mean?”
 
“Exactly. Tie them tight.”
 
Cormac made a noose of the twine, gathered ten sticks, and bound them tightly together. He offered the four-inch-thick brand to Grysstha, but the old man shook his head.
 
“Break it,” he ordered.
 
“It is too thick.”
 
“Try.”
 
The boy strained at the brand, his face reddening and the muscles of his arms and shoulders writhing under his red woolen shirt.
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