Meine Filiale

The Iron Druid Chronicles 4. Tricked

The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Four

Chronik des Eisernen Druiden / Iron Druid Chronicles Band 4

Kevin Hearne

Buch (Taschenbuch, Englisch)
Buch (Taschenbuch, Englisch)
inkl. gesetzl. MwSt.
inkl. gesetzl. MwSt.
Sofort lieferbar Versandkostenfrei
Sofort lieferbar

Weitere Formate


ab 6,99 €

Accordion öffnen

eBook (ePUB)

7,49 €

Accordion öffnen


Druid Atticus O'Sullivan hasn't stayed alive for more than two millennia without a fair bit of Celtic cunning. So when vengeful thunder gods come Norse by Southwest looking for payback, Atticus, with a little help from the Navajo trickster god Coyote, lets them think that they've chopped up his body in the Arizona desert.

But the mischievous Coyote is not above a little sleight of paw, and Atticus soon finds that he's been duped into battling bloodthirsty desert shapeshifters called skinwalkers. Just when the Druid thinks he's got a handle on all the duplicity, betrayal comes from an unlikely source. If Atticus survives this time, he vows he won't be fooled again. Famous last words.

Don't miss any of Kevin Hearne's phenomenal Iron Druid Chronicles novels:

"[Kevin] Hearne is a terrific storyteller with a great snarky wit. . . . Neil Gaiman's American Gods meets Jim Butcher's Harry Dresden."-SFF World, on Hounded

"[Atticus is] a strong modern hero with a long history and the wit to survive in the twenty-first century. . . . A snappy narrative voice . . . a savvy urban fantasy adventure."-Library Journal, on Hounded


Einband Taschenbuch
Seitenzahl 368
Erscheinungsdatum 01.04.2012
Sprache Englisch
ISBN 978-0-345-53362-3
Verlag Random House LCC US
Maße (L/B/H) 17,5/10,8/3 cm
Gewicht 188 g
Verkaufsrang 45712

Weitere Bände von Chronik des Eisernen Druiden / Iron Druid Chronicles


1 Bewertungen

Iron Druid #4
von einer Kundin/einem Kunden am 06.06.2012

Tricked ist der vierte Band der Iron Druid Chronicles von Kevin Hearne. Atticus ist tot - zumindest glauben das die fünf Donnergötter, die sein Double umgebracht haben. Der echte Atticus hat unter falschem Namen die Stadt verlassen, um in Ruhe seine Schülerin Granuaile zum Druiden ausbilden zu können. Dumm nur, dass er vorhe... Tricked ist der vierte Band der Iron Druid Chronicles von Kevin Hearne. Atticus ist tot - zumindest glauben das die fünf Donnergötter, die sein Double umgebracht haben. Der echte Atticus hat unter falschem Namen die Stadt verlassen, um in Ruhe seine Schülerin Granuaile zum Druiden ausbilden zu können. Dumm nur, dass er vorher noch eine Schuld bei Coyote begleichen muss: der braucht Hilfe im Navajo-Reservat. Eigentlich kein Problem, wären da nicht eine angepisste nordische Göttin, ein Höllenhund, zwei wütende Skinwalker und mehrere Vampire, die Atticus so richtig tot sehen wollen... Nach dem etwas schleppenden dritten Band zeigt Kevin Hearne in Tricked wieder, was er kann: eine interessante, komplexe Story so erzählen, dass der Leser einen Heidenspaß dabei hat. Atticus bezieht auch wieder von allen Seiten Prügel, aber der Druide wäre nicht so alt geworden, wenn er dem nichts entgegen zu setzen hätte. Allerdings stößt er diesmal (beinahe) an seine Grenzen. Atticus' treuer Wolfshund Oberon ist natürlich wieder mit von der Partie und sorgt mit seinen clever-naiven Kommentaren für Heiterkeit. Leider werde ich bei Tricked jedoch das Gefühl nicht los, dass es sich "nur" um einen Füllband handelt, der die letzten losen Fäden zusammenbringen soll. Trotzdem, nach dem durchwachsenen letzten Band macht Tricked wieder richtig Spaß. Die Iron Druid Chronicles: Hounded, Hexed, Hammered, Tricked, Trapped (erscheint Ende 2012)

  • Artikelbild-0
  • Chapter 1

    The best trick I ever pulled off was watching myself die. I did a respectable job of it too-the dying, I mean, not the watching.

    The key to dying well is to make a final verbal ejaculation that is full of rage and pain but not tainted in the least by squeals of terror or pleas for mercy. This was my father's wisdom-about the only shred of it that has managed to lodge firmly in my mind all these years. He died while trying to steal somebody else's cows.

    It would be an ignominious end today, but before the common era in Ireland, it was honorable and manly to die in a cattle raid, as such theft was called. Before he left to meet his doom, my father must have had some dark premonition about it, because he shared with me all his opinions about dying properly, and I will never forget his final words: "A man's supposed to shit himself after he dies, son, not before. Try to remember that, lad, so that when your time comes, you won't make a right girly mess of it. Now fuck off and go play in the bog."

    Like many silly codes of bravery and manliness, the meat of my father's instruction on how to die well can be distilled to a simple slogan: Die angry at maximum volume. (Dying silently is out of the question; the world's last Druid should not go gentle into that good night.)

    During infrequent spates of morbidity, I used to speculate on my eventual manner of death. I figured it would happen on a city street somewhere, cut off from the power of the earth, unable to summon a magical mulligan that would let me see the sunrise. But at the same time, I hoped it would be in a cool city with a bitchin' name, like Kathmandu or Bangkok or maybe Climax, Michigan. I never thought it would be in a dried-up place called Tuba City.

    Situated in the southwestern portion of the Navajo Nation in Arizona, Tuba City rests on a red sandstone mesa with no visible means of economic support. The first question I asked when I saw it-besides "Where are all the tubas?"-was, "Why is anybody living here?" The red rocks may have a stark beauty to them, but beyond that Tuba City is nearly treeless, dusty, and notably lacking in modern amenities of dubious worth, like golf courses and cafeteria-style dining. It does have a reservoir and some pastures nestled into a canyon, but otherwise it's puzzling why nine thousand souls would adopt an address there.

    On the north end of town, where the BIA Road intersects with Indian Route 6220, a large white water tower juts out of the desert. It overlooks a few dilapidated trailers on the very edge of the city, and then there is naught but a rocky mesa with scattered shrubs gamely trying to make a living in a few inches of sandy soil. I'd flown to the top of the tower as an owl, carrying a wee pair of binoculars in my talons, and now I was camouflaged in my human form, lying flat, and peering northeast into the barren waste where I was about to die.

    The dying had to be done. The Morrigan had seen it in a lucid vision, and she doesn't get those unless it's really dire and inevitable, like James Earl Jones telling you in his Darth Vader voice, "It is your desss-tiny." And, frankly, I probably deserved it. I'd been very naughty recently and, in retrospect, epically stupid. Because I couldn't bear to break my word, I'd taken Leif Helgarson to Asgard to kill Thor and he managed to pull it off, but we killed a few extra Æsir in the process and turned Odin into a drooling vegetable. Now the remaining Æsir were slavering for me to shuffle off my mortal coil, as were several other thunder gods who took Thor's demise as a personal affront to all things thundery.

    After building flaming funeral ships for their dead and resolving to avenge them-for some people approach vengeance like an all-you-can-eat buffet-the Æsir sent Týr and Vidar after the surviving members of our company. I had no idea where Perun or Zhang Guo Lao were hiding, and I hadn't an inkling of whether Hrym