fs.thefirstbookofswords-第10部分

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　　　The　killing　of　Jord　and　of　Kyril　had　probably　been　pletely　accidental；　just　because　they'd　been　standing　in　the　bandits'　way。　And　the　bandits　had　attacked　Kenn　only　because　he　was　holding　the　sword；　and　had　gone　on　holding　it。　Mark；　struggling　now　against　tears；　recalled　how　his　brother　had　looked　like　he　wanted　to　throw　the　weapon　down；　and　couldn't。　The　sword　had　taken　over；　and　once　that　happened　there　had　been　nothing　that　Kenn　could　do　about　it。
　　　So；　if　the　sword　hadn't　entered　into　it；　Mark's　brother　and　father　would　both　be　still　alive。　And　the　Elder　Kyril　too。　And　probably　even　the　Duke's　cousin　would　be　alive　and　well　cared　for　in　his　abductors　hands；　to　be　sent　home　as　soon　as　a　ransom　was　paid　…　or；　perhaps　more　likely；　released　with　abject　apologies　as　soon　as　the　kidnappers　found　out　who　he　was。　Yes；　the　sword　had　destroyed　warbeasts　and　bandits。　But　it　had　also　brought　ruin　upon　the　very　town　and　people　that　its　name　suggested　it　might　have　saved。。。
　　　On　top　of　all　the　other　deeper　and　more　terrible　problems　that　it　caused；　it　was　also　a　damned　awkward　thing　to　carry。　And　the　more　time　that　Mark　spent　carrying　it；　the　more　maddening　this　paratively　minor　difficulty　became。　He　continually　tried　to　find　a　safe　and　fortable　way　to　hold　the　thing　while　he　walked　with　it。　In　a　way　his　mind　weled　this　challenge；　as　an　escape　from　the　consideration　of　difficulties　infinitely　worse。
　　　After　he　washed　the　sword　he　tried　for　a　little　while　carrying　it　unwrapped；　but　that　quickly　became　unfortable　too。　The　only　halfway　reasonable　way　to　carry　a　naked　sword；　particularly　one　as　keen…edged　as　this；　was　in　hand；　as　if　you　were　ready　to　fight　with　it。　Mark　wasn't　ready　to　fight；　and　didn't　want　to　pretend　he　was。　More　importantly；　the　weight　borne　that　way　soon　made　his　wrist　and　fingers　ache。
　　　Careful　testing　assured　him　that　the　edges　were　still　sharper　than　those　of　any　other　blade；　knife　or　razor　that　he'd　ever　held；　if　he　were　to　try　to　carry　this　weapon　stuck　through　his　belt；　his　pants　would　soon　be　down　around　his　ankles。　And；　to　Mark's　vague；　unreasonable　disappointment；　it　was　soon　obvious　that　the　sword　was　not　going　to　rust　because　of　its　immersion　in　the　river。　The　brilliant　steel　dried　quickly；　and　in　fact　to　Mark's　fingertip　felt　very　slightly　oily。　With　a　mixture　of　despair　and　admiration　he　stared　at　the　finely　mottled　pattern　that　seemed　to　lead　on　deeper　and　deeper　into　the　metal；　under　the　shiny　surface　smoothness。
　　　Before　he'd　walked　very　far　after　the　washing；　he　had　paused　to　rewrap　the　sword　in　the　still…wet　cloth；　and　tied　it　up　again；　leaving　a　loop　of　cord　for　a　carrying　handle。　Mark　slogged　on；　shifting　his　burden　this　way　and　that。　If　he　hung　it　from　one　hand；　it　banged　against　his　legs；　if　he　put　it　over　one　shoulder　like　a　shovel；　he　could　feel　it　threatening　to　cut　him；　right　through　its　wrapping　and　his　shirt。　Of　course；　with　the　sword　tied　up　like　this；　he　wouldn't　be　able　to　use　it　quickly　if　he　had　to。　That　really　didn't　bother　Mark。　He　didn't　want　to　try　to　use　it　anyway。
　　　Mark　kept　fighting　against　the　memory　of　how　Kenn　had　used　the　sword　…　or　how　it　had　used　Kenn；　who　was　as　innocent　as　Mark　of　any　training　with　such　a　weapon。　In　the　militia　exercises；　Kenn　had　always　practiced　with　the　lowly　infantry　weapon；　a　cheap　spear。　Swords　of　even　the　most　ordinary　kind；　let　alone　a　miraculous　blade　like　this　one；　were　for　the　folk　who　lived　in　manorhouse　and　castle。
　　　And　yet。。。　this　one　had　certainly　been　given　to　Mark's　father。　Given　deliberately；　by　a　being　who　was　surely　of　higher　rank　than　any　merely　human　lord。
　　　Gods　and　goddesses　were。。。　well；　what　were　they？　It　struck　Mark　forcibly　now　that　he'd　never　met　anyone　but　his　own　father　who'd　claimed　convincingly　to　have　any　such　direct　contact　with　any　deity。
　　　Nor；　it　occurred　to　Mark　now；　could　he　remember　meeting　anyone　who　had　sincerely　envied　Jord　his　treasure；　considering　the　price　that　Mark's　father　had　had　to　pay　for　it。
　　　All　this　and　much　more　kept　churning　uncontrollably　through　Mark's　mind　as　he　trudged　the　riverbank　and　waded　in　the　stream；　meanwhile　listening　for　pursuers。　From　the　time　of　Mark's　earliest　understanding；　the　sword；　and　the　way　his　father　had　acquired　it；　had　been　among　the　given　facts　of　life　for　him。　Never　until　today　had　he　been　confronted　with　the　full　marvel　and　mystery　of　those　facts。　Always　the　sword；　with　its　story；　had　simply　hung　there　on　the　wall；　like　a　candlesconce　or　a　mon　dish；　until　everyone　who　lived　in　the　house　had　grown　so　used　to　it　that　it　had　almost　been　forgotten。　Visitors　asking　about　the　odd　bundle　had　received　a　matter…of…fact　answer；　one　they'd　perhaps　not　always　believed。　And　the　visitors　repetitions　of　the　story　elsewhere；　Mark　supposed　now；　had　probably　been　believed　even　less　often。
　　　And　Vulcan　had　said　it　was　called　Townsaver。。。　thinking　again　of　the　town's　saving；　Mark　had　to　fight　back　tears　again。　Now；　as　in　some　evil　dream　or　story；　the　cursed　burden　of　the　sword　had　revealed　itself　for　the　curse　it　truly　was；　and　now　it　had　e　down　to　him。　He　was　the　heir；　the　only　surviving　son；　now　that　Kenn　was　dead。。。　he　knew　that　Kenn　was　dead。　The　sword　was　Mark's　now；　and　Mark　had　to　run　with　it；　to　at　least　get　the　burden　of　it　away　from　his　mother　and　his　sister。
　　　Mark　didn't　want　to　let　himself　think　just　yet　about　where　he　might　be　running　to。
　　　His　eyes　were　blurred　with　tears　again。　That　was　bad；　because　now　it　was　starting　to　get　dark　anyway；　and　he　was　very　tired；　so　tired　that　his　feet　were　dragging　and　stumbling　at　best；　even　when　he　could　see　clearly　where　to　put　them　down。
　　　Mark　stopped　for　a　rest　in　a　small　clearing；　a　few　steps　from　the　main　riverbank　path。　Here　he　ate　most　of　the　food　that　he'd　brought　along；　and　then　went　to　get　a　drink　from　the　brisk　rapids　nearby。　Already　he'd　e　far　enough　upstream　to　start　encountering　rapids；　a　fact　that　made　Mark　feel　even　more　tired。　He　went　back　to　his　small　clearing　and　sat　down　again。　He　was　simply　too　weary　to　go　on　any　farther；　at　least　not　until　he'd　had　a　little　rest。。。
　　　Mark　woke　with　a　start；　to　early　sunlight　mottling　its　way　through　leaves　to　reach　his　face。　At　once　he　started　to　call　Kenn's　name；　and　to　look　around　him　for　his　brother；　because　he'd　wakened　with　the　halfformed　idea　that　he　must　have　e　out　with　Kenn　on　some　kind　of　hunting　or　fishing　expedition。　But　reality　returned　as　soon　as　Mark's　eyes　fell　on　the　sword；　which　lay　beside　him　in　its　evilly　stained　wrapping。　He　jumped　up　then；　a　stiff…muscled　movement　that　startled　nearby　birds。　When　the　birds　had　quieted　there　was　nothing　to　be　heard　but　the　murmur　of　the　rapids。　There　were　no　indications　of　pursuit　as　yet。
　　　Mark　finished　off　what　little　food　he　had　left；　and　too　another　long　drink　from　the　stream。　About　to　push　on　again；　he　hesitated；　and；　without　quite　knowing　why；　once　more　unwrapped　the　blade。　Some　part　of　his　mind　wanted　to　look　at　it　again；　as　if　the　morning　sunlight　on　the　sword　might　reveal　something　to　negate　or　at　least　explain　the　horror　of　yesterday。
　　　There　was　still　no　trace　of　rust　to　be　seen；　and　the　sword　and　its　wrappings　were　now　pletely　dry。　How　should　he　try　to　carry　the　thing　today？　When　Mark　stood　the　weapon　upright　on　the　path；　point　down；　and　stood　himself　beside　it；　the　sword's　pommel　reached　as　high　as　his　ribcage。　The　weapon　was　just　too　long　for　him　to　carry　about　handily；　and　far　too　sharp。。。　Mark　was　momentarily　distracted　when　he　looked　at　the　decorations　going　round　the　hilt　and　handle；　white　on　black。　He　could　remember　sleepy　evenings　at　home；　in　the　dwelling…rooms　beside　the　creaking　mill；　when　Jord　had　sometimes　allowed　the　children　to　take　the　sword　down　from　the　wall　and　in　his　presence　look　it　over。　Sometimes　the　children　and　their　mother；　interested　also；　had　speculated　on　what　the　pattern　of　the　decorations　might　mean。　Mark's　father　had　never　speculated。　He'd　never　spoken　much　about　the　sword　at　all；　even　at　those　relaxed　times。　Nor　had　Jord　ever；　not　in　Mark's　hearing　anyway；　said　anything　directly　about　the　great　trial　through　which　the　sword　had　e　to　him。　Nothing　about　how　Vulcan　had　taken　his　right　arm　off；　or　with　what