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first blood; this matter is ended." He turned and tossed his blade to a Vestri
servant, who neatly snagged it out of the air and scurried away with it.
"Well done, young killer," he said with a sneer.
Torrie shook his head. "I didn't mean, I mean he was trying to "
"Of course," Branden del Branden said, not bothering to conceal his sarcasm,
"he was trying to kill you, and the only way you could defend yourself against
so obviously inferior a swordsman was to run him through. You couldn't, after
all, merely take the touch on his arm and defend yourself if he committed an
error of honor, no, no, that would be too difficult."
"You don't understand," Torrie said. "He was trying to kill me. I was just
trying ..." He couldn't go on. Would
Branden del Branden possibly accept that Torrie was trying to lose? No. "I was
just trying not to get killed," he said.
Branden del Branden visibly fought for self-control, and found it. "I see," he
said, quietly. "Should I ever challenge you, Thorian del
Thorian the Younger, I'll be sure that it's to the death and not just to the
first blooding." His lip pulled back in a sneer. "I would wish to save you the
trouble of having to toy with me, play with me, until you can find a master
single stroke to kill me." He turned to Dad and bowed stiffly. "Thorian del
Thorian the Elder," he said, "I congratulate you on your son's skills,
although I do not congratulate you on the rest of his training." He turned to
the guards. "Their parole holds until the dawn. Have him chained again just
before."
Herolf, the pack leader, threw back his head and laughed.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Silvertop
Frida no, Freya was busying herself at the huge cast-iron stove in the
early-morning chill when Ian, eyes still full of sleep, staggered toward the
door, gathering his cloak about him.
"Is there some sort of problem?" she asked quietly. On their respective
sleeping pallets, Harbard and Hosea lay under thin blankets, although Ian
wouldn't have wanted to guess whether they were actually sleeping or simply
lying back with their eyes closed and resting. Old Ones, it seemed, didn't
snore, or toss and turn in the night.
He shook his head. "I just need the outhouse," he said.
She smiled. "It's "
"I know where it is." He stopped himself for a moment. "You didn't sleep?"
She shook her head. "I can do without, when need be," she said, quietly,
looking over at where Hosea and Harbard slept. "And there was much to do this
night. I've cut down some of Harbard's clothes for you, and there was the
cooking and no need to stand there listening to an old woman when you need to
void yourself, Ian."
He closed the huge door behind him as he stepped out into the gray, pallid
light just before the dawn.
There was no hint that anything had happened outside, if you ignored the way
the ground was torn up around the cabin. It was quiet, too quiet perhaps, save
for the occasional fluttering of feathers when one of the ravens perched on
the eaves would rouse for a moment, only to settle down.
"Good morning," he said.
"Thank you," the one on the left said.
Ian almost lost control of his drum-tight bladder. "And good morning to you,
Ian Silverstone," it went on, its voice raucous and far too loud in his ears.
"I think you slept well. Probably be the last time for a long time. Or
forever." It glared down at him or at least seemed to glare; Ian couldn't read
its expression, not really; ravens always seemed to glare balefully then
roused, shook itself all over, and leaped into the air, climbing in an
expanding circle as it vanished into the darkness.
The other raven let out a low caw. "Pay little attention to Munin, Ian
Silverstone; he always sees the dark side of things. A
splendid raven, really, with a deft beak for picking the lice out from my
neck, but it has been an old cynic for far too long." It dipped its beak. "I
am Hugin, and I bid you well, until we shall meet again." It spread its broad,
glossy wings, and leaped into a short, shallow glide before beating its wings
and lifting itself up and into the dark sky.
Wonderful, Ian thought. Last night a cold giant was trying to eat me, and
today I almost piss in my pants after being greeted by the
Tir Na Nog version of Heckle and Jeckle. And they still call me Ian
Silverstone, like I'm some sort of nonstick surface.
He made his way to the outhouse, and decided to pretend to himself that his
shivering was entirely from the predawn cold.
By the time he had returned, the grays of the distant trees had gone
gray-green, Harbard Ian found it impossible to think of him as
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