Joel Rosenberg H

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vestri servant had brought in. "Time to get dressed;
we've been summoned."
"By whom? The Scion?"
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"I hardly think so. Darien del Darien has politely sent a squad of guards to
bring us to him."
"Valin?"
"I'm told he's being interrogated," Hosea said. "I think that Darien del
Darien meant that in an informal sense, but..." He shook his head.
But it's their ballpark, and their rules. "And whatever gratitude they may
have for my having exposed the fire giant masquerading as the Duke of the
House of Fire doesn't weigh very heavily against a suspicion that I'm this
Promised Warrior."
"Would it with you? Would gratitude for a past favor overwhelm your good
judgment in the present?"
Ian smiled as he belted Giantkiller around his waist. "Probably."
Hosea laughed. "I hope that is just a joke, Ian."
"Me, too."
Darien del Darien and party were waiting for them at the edge of one of the
circular piazzas that hung out over the white cloudscape below.
It would have been, perhaps, a nice time to have a parachute. Leap to the
railing and out into the mist, pulling the cord as he went, hoping that he
would break free of the cloud bank well enough to steer before he smashed into
the side of the mountain.
Then again, Ian had never gone skydiving nor had he ever had any desire to,
for that matter and he didn't have a parachute.
But it was something to think about.
Of the four men waiting for them and they were all men only Branden del
Branden was armed. Were there archers on one of the surrounding piazzas with
arrows nocked, waiting for Ian to make a threatening move?
Or was this chief butler of the Scion so sure of himself that he knew that Ian
wasn't stupid enough to draw his sword when all he could do with it was make
more trouble for himself?
Maybe this is what the bull in a bullfight felt like the guy facing him only
had a cape, after all. Ian would have rather the men of the Old Keep had a
squad of pikemen with them.
Ian recognized Branden del Branden and Darien del Darien. The third man,
however, he only recognized for what it he was.
He was six feet tall, covered with salt-and-pepper hair from his toes to the
top of his head, thick wiry hair that concealed neither his potbelly nor the
fleshy red penis peeking out from the dark fur below. The Son wore only three
items: an amber amulet on a golden chain around his thick neck and two rings
that looked like wedding bands, both worn on his right little finger.
His fingernails were laterally curved more than they .ought to be, but cut
short, and he eyed Ian with unconcealed loathing that, Ian hoped, masked fear.
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Ian's hand itched for Giantkiller's hilt. The sword could do in a Son, in
human form or lupine.
"My name," the Son said, his voice a deep growl, "is Herolf. I'm leader of the
Northern Pack of Packs, and it seems that you have been telling lies about me
and mine."
Well, the Dominioners had brought the two of them together to confront each
other, and that was fine with Ian.
"I've told no lies," he said, smiling broadly. For a wolf, a smile was the
baring of teeth. "There've been some of your cubs and bitches sent after my
friends before." He forced his grin to widen. "I even know where some of them
are buried."
If he had been expecting the Son to leap at him and he had been half-expecting
it he was surprised. Herolf tilted back his head and laughed. It wasn't a nice
laugh, but, then again, Sons weren't known for their niceness.
"Well done," Herolf said, sniffing the air, "although I'd certainly expect
courage from someone who smells like a Promised
Warrior."
Branden del Branden's eyes darted from Herolf to Ian, but Darien del Darien
merely raised a skeletal knuckle toward his lips.
"Please, O honored guest," he asked, his voic low, "tell me how would a Son of
Fenris, loyal to the Scion as you are, have had e the opportunity to know what
the Promised Warrior smells like?"
"There are some things," Herolf said, his voice rumbling, "that you know from
birth."
"The odor of the pack, perhaps," Hosea said, taking a step forward. "The scent
of fresh blood, of course," he went on. "But the smell of a legend? I rather
doubt that." He turned to Ian. "On the other hand, Ian, do remember who the
father of Fenris was."
Ian was sure he wasn't the real audience, but he picked up the cue anyway:
"Loki."
Hosea nodded. "Loki. He's been called the Father of Lies, but," he said,
raising a palm at Herolf's growl, "I always thought that something of an
overstatement, and that Brother Fox was far more complex than his reputation
allowed, and more unfortunate.
"After all, all the Aesir were liars and deceivers Loki and Odin were just [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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