Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

Titel: Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six) Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Kevin Hearne

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Druid, it’s a sort of challenge.”
    “Do you know the answer?”

    Oberon had a point (Why are we here? Bacon), but that wasn’t the kind of answer Herne needed. He wanted to hear the name of an old hunting partner with a legendary libido, so I said, “Whether in bedde or in feeld do ye meet, Flidais awaiteth your limbes to greet.”
    At this, laughter erupted from the ghosts to the point where one of the hunters started coughing uncontrollably, which I thought completely bizarre since he no longer had a pulmonary system.
    “Wait,” Granuaile said. “Flidais isn’t funny. I missed the joke. Why was that funny?” The easy grins of the hunters faded, replaced with a look of discomfort.
    “If I explain it to you, then it won’t be.”
    Granuaile noticed that the hunters now looked a bit embarrassed. “Do it anyway.”
    “In Middle English, when referring to a man, a limb was a euphemism for a penis, and the verb
gretan
didn’t simply mean
hello
—it had a rather strong connotation of a sexual embrace. So I’m sorry to say I was being a bit crude.”
    “Ooooohhh.”
    “Perhaps more than a bit.”
    Granuaile’s mouth tightened in prim disapproval, and she turned narrowed eyes on the hunters. One began to inspect his boots, and the other found something fascinating up in the sky. Herne abruptly decided that now would be a good time to pet his horse. They might speak Middle English, but it appeared they could follow Modern well enough, and Granuaile’s body language needed no translation. “I know all you boys are old school,” she said, waving her finger around to include me while looking at the hunters, “but let’s try to remember what century this is, shall we? Any ass you can kick, I can kick better, and so can Flidais.”
    “Aye!” Herne barked, and glared at his men as if they had been the only ones laughing. Then he turned to us, smiled, and said, “Honored Druids, you are welcome to my forest.” His old diction sloughed away. “I have learned to speak Modern English over the years, so be at ease. You are my guests. Hunt or rest as it pleases you.”
    Once he called us his guests, I finally understood what the Morrigan intended. Herne would take little to no convincing to join our side. His honor—his
raison d’être
—demanded that he protect both his forest and his guests.
    “Is my hound a guest as well? He likes to hunt with us.”
    “Aye, he is.”
    I thanked him and said, “It is more likely that we will be hunted than have time to hunt anything else.”
    Herne’s friendly smile disappeared. “Hunted? By whom?”
    “Olympians. At least one is plaguing Albion even now—either Pan or Faunus.”
    “The goat-footed god? He has passed through here recently.”
    “And because of that we cannot shift to Tír na nÓg. He spreads pandemonium and upsets the order of Gaia, distresses the forest. He keeps us here so that Artemis and Diana can slay us.”
    Herne scowled, and the cobalt eyes flared brighter for a moment. He dismounted and squatted, pressing the fingers of one hand into the earth. I noted that this process made no noise whatsoever—no creak of leather, no thump of foot on the forest floor. He and his companions made noise only when they wished to. After a few seconds of contemplation, Herne said, “It’s true. It’s not visible, but it can be felt. The goat disturbs my forest.” He looked up at me. “And they come to hunt my guests?”
    “Aye. And it is not only your forest they disturb but all forests in Albion.”
    “It shall not stand,” Herne vowed, rising. “My guests are few, and none have dared trespass on my goodwill for some time. No one attempts to hunt my forest anymore.”
    That was more likely due to protections laid down by the Crown Estate than anything else, but if Herne wished to believe it was due to his badassery, I wouldn’t disabuse him of the notion.
    “If any attempt it now, they shall feel my wrath. Rest now and recover your strength. Should Olympians appear to despoil my forest, day or night, we will ride.”
    “My thanks. Um … forgive my ignorance, but do you have power to wound the corporeal?”
    Herne stared at me in silence for a time, unable to believe I’d asked him, but then withdrew a knife from a sheath at his belt. It was barely visible, and its outlines were suggested only by reflected light. Stepping forward slowly, he raised it casually and