ikoloki: переводы

→<p class="fmtx1">And Mort’s eyes snapped open in sudden, startled shock.</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">Spectral guns blazed. Immaterial knives, hatchets, and arrows flew. Ectoplasm splashed in buckets.</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">You hear a lot of stories of honor and chivalry from soldiers. Most people assume that such tales apply primarily to men who lived centuries ago. But let me tell you something: People are people, no matter which century they live in. Soldiers tend to be very practical and they don’t want to die. I think you’d find military men in any century you cared to name who would be perfectly okay with the notion of shooting the enemy in the back if it meant they were more likely to go home in one piece. Sir Stuart’s guardians were, for the most part, soldiers.</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">The dead protectors of Chicago’s resident ectomancer let out a bloodcurdling chorus of battle cries and blurred toward the foe.</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">“Get ’em!” I howled.</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">The sound that came out of all those spirit throats, including mine, seemed to feed upon itself, wavelengths building and building like seas before a rising storm. Our voices weren’t additive, bunched so closely like that, but multiplicative. When we shouted, the sound went out in a wave that was almost tangible. It hit the backs of the gathered lemurs and bumped them forward half a step. It slammed into the walls of the underground chamber and brought dust and mold cascading down.</p>

→<p class="fmhT"><b class="calibre6">Chapter Forty-one</b></p>

→<p class="fmtx1">I bowed my head, focusing intently, drawing on the memories of the hundreds of spells and dozens of conflicts of my life, and as I did the symbols on the staff pulsed with opalescent energy that reminded me of Sir Stuart’s bullets in flight. Power hummed through the spectral wood so that it shook in my hand and flickered sharply, sending pulses of weirdly colored light, light I sensed would be visible even to mortal eyes, surging through the mist. There was a rushing sound, something almost like a sudden strike upon an unimaginably large and deep drum, an impact that rippled out from me and passed throughout the city and the surrounding lands. It sent a shiver of energy through me, and for an instant I felt the warmth of the southern wind, the close, muggy dampness of the air, the wet, slushy cold of the snow beneath my insubstantial feet. I smelled the stench of Morty’s burned home on the air, and for a single instant, for the first time since the tunnel, I felt the rumble of hunger in my belly.</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">As I spoke, the gun shifted and changed, elongating abruptly. The wood of its grip and stock swelled out, becoming knife-planed oak and, as it did, I reached into my memory. Runes and sigils carved themselves in a tight spiral down the length of the staff. I took a deep breath and once more felt the solid power of my wizard’s staff, six feet of oak as big around as my own circled thumb and finger, the foremost symbol of <i class="calibre7">my</i> power, gripped steadily in my hand.</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">“I’m looking out for my friend,” I said. “He’s going to be all right. Your services are not required.”</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">“Hello,” I said, “angel of death. Grim Reaper. Ring any bells?”</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">“Hello,” I said, “angel of death. Grim Reaper. Ring any bells?”</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">I spun to face the speaker, the words of a spell on my tongue, ghostly power kindling in the palm of my right hand.</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">“It is better not to let such thoughts occupy your mind,” said a very calm, very soothing voice.</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">I swallowed. The single truly redeeming factor of the Sidhe, Winter or Summer, is that they can’t knowingly speak a lie. They are, in fact, completely incapable of it. That’s not the same thing as saying that they can’t deceive—they are past masters of deceit, after all. But they can’t do it by directly speaking words that aren’t true.</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">“Be patient,” purred the creature’s disembodied voice. “You will understand it before the end.”</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">“Children,” she said, her tone full of contempt, “beware: The dawn approaches. To your sanctums, all.” She turned to the Big Hoods. “Mortal dears. Mother is pleased with you. Keep safe the prisoner until nightfall. His life is worth the world to me. Guard him with your own.”</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">“Go in peace, Listen,” Lady Shade said without so much as glancing at Evil Bob. “Inform your lord that I anticipate that we will be able to move against the Rag Lady and her allies in the fortress sometime tomorrow evening.”</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">Evil Bob popped up into sight over Listen’s shoulder again. “Are you sure you do not wish this creature to be <i class="calibre7">departed</i>, my lady?”</p>

→<p class="fmtx1">But a monitoring spell wouldn’t be the kind of thing that could lie dormant. It had to actually be “looking” around all the time. That meant a constant, modest expenditure of energy, which would in turn be exposed and vulnerable to sunrise. Land mine–type spells were a lot easier, like my protective spells, only with more kaboom in them. I wasn’t surprised that I didn’t find any of those outside the hideout. Few people would host a picnic underneath the overpass, but it <i class="calibre7">was</i> Chicago, and all sorts of folks would be through this area during the day. Random people being horribly incinerated would certainly draw the attention of the local authorities, and possibly that of the White Council. The Grey Ghost didn’t seem to be an idiot. No death traps were left lying around where some schoolkid or bum might stumble into them.</p>