against his finger.
The Sons stopped, and backed away, tails between legs, whimpering in pain and
fear.
Ian unbuttoned the Tarnkappe, and wrapped it around Arnie's shoulders. With
the tiniest of shimmers, Arnie vanished.
"Sorry, kid," came a faint whisper from the air. "I told you I wasn't much
good."
It didn't matter.
"Hear me," Ian said, letting his voice ring out. "Fear me." Harbard's ring
gripped his finger like a vice as the growling and snarling first faded, then
died.
"I am Ian Silver Stone," he said, "friend of Freya and of the Thunderer. Fear
me, Sons of Fenris."
The Sons whimpered, and the pack surrounding Freya fell away. She was
surrounded by pieces of wolves, and covered with blood, but her helm had been
torn away, as had portions of her armor. One of the scaled leggings had been
torn open from hip to ankle, and shreds of the armor hung freely from her hip,
leaving her bloodied leg bare.
All eyes were on him, and he held them by force of will as he sheathed
Giantkiller and raised his hands.
"Fear me," he said, again, as he stalked into the pack. It seemed like the
right thing to say.
They parted like the Red Sea, some wolves walking awkwardly, almost comically
backwards through the sea of bodies and body parts. Ian had forgotten that
half of the Sons were werewolves, and the other half werehumans, and that the
werehumans reverted to their human form when their abilities to maintain
another shape failed in death, regardless of what form they were in when they
died.
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It reminded him of something out of Hieronymus Bosch: in the unsteady light of
the spitting, flickering torches, bodies and pieces of wolves and humans lay
scattered across the hilltop, fragments of white bones projecting out from the
mess of foul flesh like broken shells on a beach of meat.
One head lay intact near his feet, that of a woman with long, dark hair, and a
face that reminded him of Veronica Lake, dead, dirty, eyes staring upwards
into his. Half of the Sons were humans in death; it would have been easier to
look at if they'd all been wolves.
The largest Son, the one with the torn ear, stood alone in his path,
whimpering, its long teeth bared. "Fear me," Ian said.
It did; it pissed down its own leg in fright but it held its ground, snarling
and panting.
"I am Ian Silverstein," he said, "slayer of Sons. The Son that so much as
comes near me dies," he said, his voice low. "You, dog,
file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis.../spaar/Joel%20Rosenberg%
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Hidden Ways 3.htm you are dying right now. You can't draw breath "
The panting stopped, as did the snarling.
" and your legs have turned to water "
It slumped to the ground, and Ian circled to the left to reach Freya's side.
The Son again lifted his head, its teeth bared. It was trying to snarl, but it
believed Ian when he told it that it couldn't breathe, and all it could do was
try to snap at him.
" and your heart refuses to "
"No." Valin's voice cut through the whimpering. "Enough, please, enough."
Valin stood on the porch, one hand raised. He shook his head. "You have won;
you've killed many Sons and you've frightened the rest away. Let him live,
please. There's no point in it, not any more." The dwarf walked down from the
porch, tongue clicking against his teeth as he did so. "Please, Ian."
Ian felt Freya by his side. "If you wish, my Silver Stone; I can see no harm
in it." She was leaning on him, hard. "Not now."
Ian looked down at the Son. "You can breathe, and your legs will work but only
while you run from me. So run away all of you
run away, while you can.
Run
."
Unhurt Sons scattered and ran, the injured ones limping after.
Valin nodded. "Thank you, Ian."
It finally hit Ian: he wasn't talking in Dwarvish or Bersmal, but in English,
and all the obsequiousness had vanished from his manner.
"Very cleverly done, Brother Fox," Freya said. "I had no idea."
Valin chuckled. "You must have had some idea. I was so hoping that you would
lend one of the jewels to Ian, here. He means so well, after all." His mouth
twitched into a smile. "You do have them or perhaps just one? around here, of
course. I had thought that you'd seize it for power or for safekeeping if the
situation presented itself correctly." He shook his head. "I'd look around for
it, but I don't think that would be entirely safe, would it?"
"Of course it would be," she said, her smile cold and thin. "Go right ahead
and look. Perhaps you'll find it. I don't think that we could stop you.
No, Arnie, don't. I don't know what will happen if you throw Mjolnir at him,
but he's thought that through."
"Alternately," Valin said, "it's possible that I'm bluffing, and could no more
deflect Mjolnir than I could grow wings and fly." He stooped to tsk over the
body of one dead Son.
"But you could grow wings and fly," she said. "Of all the Aesir, you've always
been the best shapeshifter." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]