[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
travelers out onto a view of the panorama below, where the gray river Gilfi
twisted through the patchwork valley floor, the fast-moving waters catching
and shimmering in the golden light like the scales of a writhing fish.
It was all in green and black and gold: The green of the forested land that
rimmed most of the valley, broken only in places where roads cut through and
wound their way down toward the river, as though they were streams of brown
that had been frozen; black, where the inky soil spoke of fresh plantings; and
golden, where fields of grain rippled in the breeze, like lakes of gold.
"Well," Arnie said, setting the front of the stretcher down in now-practiced
timing with Ivar del Hival at the other end, "I'd have to say that was worth
looking at, all things considered," he said, nodding in agreement with
himself. "And I'd also have to say that it looks a bit clearer, a little
brighter than colors ought to be." He ran stubby fingers through his thinning
gray hair, his mouth twisted into a frown.
Perhaps a mile down the slope, the river curved around an outcropping where
several log buildings stood, like something made from a Lincoln Logs set the
old, good wooden kind, not the modern plastic ones.
One of the buildings stood almost at the water's edge, and from it a dock
projected out to where the flat barge rocked gently, held by its hawsers
against the current; to one side, the corral, with its horse-drawn windlass,
stood empty.
Ian almost fancied he could see the ferry's cable that ran across the river
to the far shore, but probably not.
"And why are you smiling so?" Ivar del Hival asked. He rubbed his thick hands
together, as though to clean his palms.
"I'm... rather fond of the ferryman's wife, Frida," Ian said.
"Ah," Ivar del Hival said, and made a sound halfway between a grunt and a
groan. "Ah, to be young again, and to have no greater concern than seeking a
quick dance in the bedding with a ferryman's young wife."
"It's not that."
Her name wasn't really Frida; it was Freya. It was her gift that had given
him the courage to face off against the Fire Duke, and her blessing that had
given Ian the clue as to how to beat him. And it was Freya to whom he had
entrusted the Brisingamen ruby.
But he couldn't say that. You didn't just go and bare your soul in front of
people.
"She makes a great stew," Ian finally said, "and a better pie."
Page 49
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Arnie Selmo kept his rucksack on his back while Ian knocked again on the old
oak door, this time more loudly.
No answer. Arnie shook his head. There was something about this place that he
just plain didn't like, and he couldn't put his finger on it.
Shit, boy,he thought,you're just getting old. That wasn't it, though. Truth
to tell, he felt younger than he had in twenty, thirty years. He had woken in
the morning with little stiffness and no pain, and he couldn't remember how
long it had been since he had felt that way. He could remember not caring on
those mornings when he would wake up next to Ephie during her last months,
watching her toss and turn in what little sleep the Demerol/Vistoril cocktail
could give her. His pain just plain didn't matter then.
But here, it didn't just not matter; it was gone.
Here, he had slept on a couple of blankets on the cold .ground all night, and
then walked for hours, more than half the time carrying half of Hosea's
stretcher, and he felt...
Just fine. Shit, he hadn't even thought about how much he missed Ephie for a
couple of minutes after waking. That thought made him feel vaguely guilty.
"Hello," Ian called out. "Anybody home?"
No answer.
"Could try the door, I suppose," Arnie said, only half-seriously. He wouldn't
have opened that door uninvited for anything.
"No." Ian shook his head.
Back home, no answer at a closed door might mean there was a problem. Back
home, he would stick his head in and shout, "Anybody home?"
Different place. This wasn't Hardwood, where almost nobody ever locked their
doors what if a neighbor needed to get in? "I guess that wouldn't be a good
idea," he said.
Ivar del Hival nodded in quick agreement. "Enter a house of an Old One
without permission? Surely there are cleaner ways to kill oneself."
He had finished unstrapping Hosea from the stretcher, and helped him to his
feet. Hosea stood unsteadily, rocking gently, as though he was compensating
for the ground moving underneath him. He reached out his good hand, rested it
against the wall of the cottage.
"No," he said. "There's no one home." His eyes seemed to have trouble
focusing. "Ian please check the corral; you can see if Silvertop and Sleipnir
are there."
"Sleipnir?" Arnie grinned. Now, that was funny. "You mean this Harbard guy
named his horse after Odin's horse?"
"Not exactly." Ian said, grinning. "But close."
"This I've got to see."
He followed Ian as they took the path from the house, downslope to where the
Page 50
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
arc of corral curved against the riverbank.
"Pretty silly thing open on the river?" he said.
"It wouldn't stop either Silvertop or Sleipnir from escaping by river, but,
then again, it's not there to keep either of them in. Not that it could."
The ground inside the corral was hard-chewed by dinner-plate-sized
hoofprints, except for one area near the river's edge that looked freshly
raked but for a few hoofprints and a few piles of suspiciously large pieces of
horse shit that were drawing flies.
No horse was visible, but there was a cave down the shoreline, hidden by the
riverbank; perhaps
"Silvertop, Sleipnir!" Ian called out, rewarded almost immediately by a
chorus of dopping hooves that sounded like a stampede.
But it wasn't a herd of horses. It was just one animal, huge, easily larger
than a Percheron or Clydesdale. Its coat was dark gray mottled with darker
gray, and its long mane was uncombed and uneven, knotted beyond combing.
And it had eight legs. They should have been all tangled up with each other,
but somehow or other, they all seemed to work together, in a funny four-staged
rhythm. It cantered towards them, coming to a stop just feet away from the
corral fence.
Arnie had already taken one step back; he took another. "Holymother
ofChrist," Arnie said.
"Yeah." Ian turned to the horse. Its huge eyes weren't gentle and soft, the
way a horse's eyes were supposed to be. They were too active, too cold, too
knowing.
"Hello, Sleipnir," Ian said, trying to sound more relaxed and confident than
he felt. "We've come to see her and him, too. But mainly her."
The horse snorted; it sounded like a thunderclap.
"So?" A voice screeched from behind him. "Should that be a surprise?
"Should I question my vision,
"Should I doubt my eyes?"
Arnie spun around.
A raven sat on a tree stump, glossy wings folded back, eyeing them
skeptically.
Ian just smiled at the raven, as though recognizing an old friend. "Hugin or [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl aikidobyd.xlx.pl
travelers out onto a view of the panorama below, where the gray river Gilfi
twisted through the patchwork valley floor, the fast-moving waters catching
and shimmering in the golden light like the scales of a writhing fish.
It was all in green and black and gold: The green of the forested land that
rimmed most of the valley, broken only in places where roads cut through and
wound their way down toward the river, as though they were streams of brown
that had been frozen; black, where the inky soil spoke of fresh plantings; and
golden, where fields of grain rippled in the breeze, like lakes of gold.
"Well," Arnie said, setting the front of the stretcher down in now-practiced
timing with Ivar del Hival at the other end, "I'd have to say that was worth
looking at, all things considered," he said, nodding in agreement with
himself. "And I'd also have to say that it looks a bit clearer, a little
brighter than colors ought to be." He ran stubby fingers through his thinning
gray hair, his mouth twisted into a frown.
Perhaps a mile down the slope, the river curved around an outcropping where
several log buildings stood, like something made from a Lincoln Logs set the
old, good wooden kind, not the modern plastic ones.
One of the buildings stood almost at the water's edge, and from it a dock
projected out to where the flat barge rocked gently, held by its hawsers
against the current; to one side, the corral, with its horse-drawn windlass,
stood empty.
Ian almost fancied he could see the ferry's cable that ran across the river
to the far shore, but probably not.
"And why are you smiling so?" Ivar del Hival asked. He rubbed his thick hands
together, as though to clean his palms.
"I'm... rather fond of the ferryman's wife, Frida," Ian said.
"Ah," Ivar del Hival said, and made a sound halfway between a grunt and a
groan. "Ah, to be young again, and to have no greater concern than seeking a
quick dance in the bedding with a ferryman's young wife."
"It's not that."
Her name wasn't really Frida; it was Freya. It was her gift that had given
him the courage to face off against the Fire Duke, and her blessing that had
given Ian the clue as to how to beat him. And it was Freya to whom he had
entrusted the Brisingamen ruby.
But he couldn't say that. You didn't just go and bare your soul in front of
people.
"She makes a great stew," Ian finally said, "and a better pie."
Page 49
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Arnie Selmo kept his rucksack on his back while Ian knocked again on the old
oak door, this time more loudly.
No answer. Arnie shook his head. There was something about this place that he
just plain didn't like, and he couldn't put his finger on it.
Shit, boy,he thought,you're just getting old. That wasn't it, though. Truth
to tell, he felt younger than he had in twenty, thirty years. He had woken in
the morning with little stiffness and no pain, and he couldn't remember how
long it had been since he had felt that way. He could remember not caring on
those mornings when he would wake up next to Ephie during her last months,
watching her toss and turn in what little sleep the Demerol/Vistoril cocktail
could give her. His pain just plain didn't matter then.
But here, it didn't just not matter; it was gone.
Here, he had slept on a couple of blankets on the cold .ground all night, and
then walked for hours, more than half the time carrying half of Hosea's
stretcher, and he felt...
Just fine. Shit, he hadn't even thought about how much he missed Ephie for a
couple of minutes after waking. That thought made him feel vaguely guilty.
"Hello," Ian called out. "Anybody home?"
No answer.
"Could try the door, I suppose," Arnie said, only half-seriously. He wouldn't
have opened that door uninvited for anything.
"No." Ian shook his head.
Back home, no answer at a closed door might mean there was a problem. Back
home, he would stick his head in and shout, "Anybody home?"
Different place. This wasn't Hardwood, where almost nobody ever locked their
doors what if a neighbor needed to get in? "I guess that wouldn't be a good
idea," he said.
Ivar del Hival nodded in quick agreement. "Enter a house of an Old One
without permission? Surely there are cleaner ways to kill oneself."
He had finished unstrapping Hosea from the stretcher, and helped him to his
feet. Hosea stood unsteadily, rocking gently, as though he was compensating
for the ground moving underneath him. He reached out his good hand, rested it
against the wall of the cottage.
"No," he said. "There's no one home." His eyes seemed to have trouble
focusing. "Ian please check the corral; you can see if Silvertop and Sleipnir
are there."
"Sleipnir?" Arnie grinned. Now, that was funny. "You mean this Harbard guy
named his horse after Odin's horse?"
"Not exactly." Ian said, grinning. "But close."
"This I've got to see."
He followed Ian as they took the path from the house, downslope to where the
Page 50
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
arc of corral curved against the riverbank.
"Pretty silly thing open on the river?" he said.
"It wouldn't stop either Silvertop or Sleipnir from escaping by river, but,
then again, it's not there to keep either of them in. Not that it could."
The ground inside the corral was hard-chewed by dinner-plate-sized
hoofprints, except for one area near the river's edge that looked freshly
raked but for a few hoofprints and a few piles of suspiciously large pieces of
horse shit that were drawing flies.
No horse was visible, but there was a cave down the shoreline, hidden by the
riverbank; perhaps
"Silvertop, Sleipnir!" Ian called out, rewarded almost immediately by a
chorus of dopping hooves that sounded like a stampede.
But it wasn't a herd of horses. It was just one animal, huge, easily larger
than a Percheron or Clydesdale. Its coat was dark gray mottled with darker
gray, and its long mane was uncombed and uneven, knotted beyond combing.
And it had eight legs. They should have been all tangled up with each other,
but somehow or other, they all seemed to work together, in a funny four-staged
rhythm. It cantered towards them, coming to a stop just feet away from the
corral fence.
Arnie had already taken one step back; he took another. "Holymother
ofChrist," Arnie said.
"Yeah." Ian turned to the horse. Its huge eyes weren't gentle and soft, the
way a horse's eyes were supposed to be. They were too active, too cold, too
knowing.
"Hello, Sleipnir," Ian said, trying to sound more relaxed and confident than
he felt. "We've come to see her and him, too. But mainly her."
The horse snorted; it sounded like a thunderclap.
"So?" A voice screeched from behind him. "Should that be a surprise?
"Should I question my vision,
"Should I doubt my eyes?"
Arnie spun around.
A raven sat on a tree stump, glossy wings folded back, eyeing them
skeptically.
Ian just smiled at the raven, as though recognizing an old friend. "Hugin or [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]