fs.thefirstbookofswords-第2部分

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in　which　it　had　been　born。
　　　At　one　neck　in　this　crevice　the　rocks　on　either　side　pinched　in　too　much　to　let　pass　the　Smith　and　his　log　together。　He　set　down　the　log；　and　laid　hands　on　the　rocks　and　raged　at　them。　This　was　another　kind　of　work　in　which　his　hands　were　clumsy。　Their　enormous　hairless　fingers；　like　his　sandalled　feet；　were　splayed　and　leathery。　His　skin　was　everywhere　gray；　the　color　of　old　smoke　from　a　million　forge…fires。　Now；　with　his　effort　against　the　rocks；　the　sandals　on　his　huge　feet　pressed　down　on　other　rocks；　dug　into　pockets　of　old　drifted　snow；　crunched　and　shattered　ancient　ice。　Presently　the　rocks　that　had　narrowed　the　crevice　gave　way　to　the　pressure　of　his　hands；　splitting　and　booming　and　showering　fragments。
　　　With　a　satisfied　grunt；　Vulcan　the　Smith　took　up　his　log　again。　One　final　time　he　paused；　looking　up　at　what　could　be　seen　from　here　of　the　day's　clear　skyonly　a　narrow　tracery　of　blue。　Then　he　went　quickly　on　his　way。
　　　When　he　pushed　one　end　of　his　log　into　the　roaring　chimney；　the　earthfire　caught　promptly　and　deeply　in　the　wood。　The　log　became　a　blazing　torch　when　the　Smith　pulled　it　back　from　the　inferno…fissure　and　tossed　it　spinning　in　the　shadowed　air。　Its　rosin　popped　and　snapped　with　hot；　perfumed　bustion。　Vulcan　laughed；　pleased　with　the　forge…fire　he　had　caught；　then　he　tucked　the　log　under　his　arm　and　quickly　climbed　again。
　　　He　built　up　his　forge…fire　quickly　on　the　spot　he　had　prepared　for　it。　Now　his　anvil；　a　tabletop　of　ancient　and　enchanted　iron；　had　to　be　positioned　levelly　and　solidly　in　just　the　right　spot　relative　to　the　fire。　This　took　time。　As　he　worked　with　the　anvil；　adjusting　its　position　in　small　increments；　the　Smith　decided　that　he'd　have　to　make　at　least　one　more　trip　downslope　for　fuel　before　he'd　be　able　to　start　his　real　work。　After　he'd　begun　that　in　earnest；　he'd　want　no　interruptions。
　　　His　eye　fell　on　the　waiting　bellows。　The　sight　made　him　frown。　Yes；　it　would　be　very　good；　perhaps　essential；　to　have　some　helpers。
　　　The　more　he　thought　about　it　the　more　obvious　it　seemed。　Yes；　human　help　would　be　necessary　at　some　stage；　given　the　peculiar　nature　of　this　job。　He　now　had　earthfire　burning　in　earth…grown　wood；　with　the　clean　upper　air　of　earth　to　lend　its　spirit　to　the　flame。　Opposed　to　this；　in　a　sense；　was　the　unearthly　metal　that　he　was　going　to　work。　At　one　side　of　the　grotto；　sky…iron　waited；　a　lump　of　it　the　size　of　a　barrow。　It　was　so　heavy　that　the　Smith　grunted　when　he　took　it　up　into　his　arms　to　look　it　over　carefully。　He　could　feel　the　interior　energies　of　it　waiting；　poised　in　their　crystalline　layers；　eager　to　be　shaped　by　his　art。　He　could　feel　the　ethereal；　unearthly　magic　of　the　stuff…yes；　even　crude…looking　as　it　was；　slagged　and　pitted　on　all　sides　by　the　soft　fist　of　air　that　had　caught　and　eased　the　madness　of　its　fall；　slowing　the　fall　until　mere　crashing　instead　of　vaporization　had　resulted　when　the　mass　struck　earthly　rock　at　last。　Yes；　the　metal　itself　would　bring　enough；　maybe　more　than　enough；　of　the　unearthly　to　the　project。
　　　Human　sweat　and　human　pain　were　going　to　be　indispensible。　The　catalyst　of　human　fear　would　help　to　refine　the　magic　too。　And　even　human　joy　might　be　put　to　use…if　the　Smith　could　devise　any　means　by　which　that　rare　essence　might　be　extracted。
　　　And　when　the　twelve　blades　had　been　forged　at　last；　when　he　could　raise　them　straight　and　glowing　from　the　anvil…why；　for　their　quenching；　human　blood　would　doubtless　be　best。。。
　　　The　keening　pipe…music　and　the　slow　drum　were　borne　to　Mala's　ears　by　the　cool　night　breeze；　well　before　the　few　dim　lights　of　Treefall　village　came　into　her　view　between　the　trees　ahead。　The　sounds　of　mourning　warned　her　that　at　least　some　part　of　the　horrible　tale　that　had　reached　her　at　home　was　probably　true。　She　murmured　one　more　distracted　prayer　to　Ardneh；　and　once　again　impatiently　lashed　with　the　ends　of　the　reins　at　the　flanks　of　the　old　riding…beast　she　straddled。　Her　mount　was　an　elderly　creature；　unused　to　such　harsh　treatment；　and　to　long　night　journeys　in　general。　When　it　felt　the　sting　of　the　reins　it　skipped　a　step；　then　slowed　down　in　irritation。　Mala　in　her　impatience　thought　of　leaping　from　its　back　and　running　on　ahead；　groping　her　own　way　along　the　lightless　and　unpaved　road。　But　already　she　had　almost　reached　her　destination；　now　she　could　hear　the　cackling　of　the　village　fowl　ahead　as　they　sensed　her　approach。　And　now　the　first　lighted　windows　were　ing　into　view　amid　the　trees。
　　　Presently；　on　a　main　street　every　bit　as　small　and　narrow　as　the　only　street　of　her　own　town；　Mala　was　dismounting　under　a　million　stars；　whose　light　made　gray　and　ghostly　giants　of　the　Ludus　Mountains　looming　just　a　few　kilometers　to　the　east。　Autumn　nights　in　this　high　country　grew　cold；　and　she　was　wearing　a　shawl　over　her　regular　garb；　a　workingwoman's　homespun　trousers　and　loose　blouse。
　　　The　music　of　mourning　was　ing　from　a　building　that　had　to　be　the　village　hall；　for　it　was　the　largest　structure　in　sight；　and　one　of　the　few　lighted。　Mala　tied　up　her　animal　at　a　public　hitching　rack　that　was　already　crowded。　Moving　lightly；　though　her　joints　felt　stiff　from　the　long　ride；　she　trotted　the　few　steps　to　the　hall。　Her　hair　was　long；　dark；　and　curly；　the　loveliest　thing　about　her　physical　appearance。　Her　face　was　somewhat　too　broad　to　be　judged　beautiful　by　most　peoples　standards；　her　body　also　was　broad　and　strong；　vibrant　with　youth　and　exercise。
　　　Her　quick　step　carried　her　onto　the　shadowed　porch　of　the　hall　before　she　realized　that　a　man　was　standing　there　already。　He　was　in　shadows；　not　far　from　the　curtained　doorway　through　which　candlelight　and　music　came　out；　along　with　the　murmur　of　many　voices　and　the　soft　thump　of　dancing　feet。　His　bearded　face　was　unfamiliar　to　Mala；　but　he　had　a　certain　look　of　importance；　he　must；　she　thought；　be　one　of　the　elders　here。
　　　To　simply　rush　past　an　elder　without　acknowledging　his　presence　would　have　been　impolite；　and　Mala　halted；　one　foot　in　the　shadow　cast　by　the　rising　moon。　〃Sir；　please；　can　you　tell　me　where　Jord　the　blacksmith　is？〃　Since　courtesy　required　speech　of　her；　she　would　not　waste　the　words。　but　instead　try　to　use　them　to　acplish　her　urgent　search。
　　　The　man　did　not　answer　her　immediately。　Instead；　he　only　looked　in　her　direction　as　if　he　had　not　clearly　heard；　or　understood。　As　he　turned　his　face　more　fully　toward　Mala；　she　saw　that　he　was　stunned　by　some　great　pain　or　grief。
　　　She　spoke　to　him　again。　〃I'm　looking　for　Jord；　the　smith。　We　were…we　are　to　be　married：〃
　　　Understanding　grew　in　the　tormented　face。　〃lord？　He　still　breathes；　child。　Not　like　my　son…but　both　of　them　are　in　there。〃
　　　Mala　put　aside　the　curtain　of　hides　that　half…closed　the　doorway；　and　went　through；　to　enter　the　most　crowded　room　that　she　had　ever　seen　in　her　seventeen　years　of　life。　She　guessed　wildly　that　forty　people；　perhaps　even　more；　were　gathered　here　in　one　place　tonight。　Yet　the　hall　was　big　enough　for　the　crowd；　even　big　enough　to　have　at　its　center　a　sizable　area　free　of　crowding。　In　that　central　area　stood　five　rude　biers；　each　covered　with　black　fabric；　expensive　candles　burning　at　the　head　and　foot　of　each。　On　each　bier　a　dead　man　lay　draped　with　ritual　cloths；　on　several　of　the　bodies　the　cloths　were　not　enough　to　hide　the　marks　of　violence。
　　　Near　the　foot　of　the　central　bier　was　a　single　chair。　Jord　was　sitting　in　it。　Mala's　first　glance　at　him　made　her　gasp；　confirming　as　it　did　another　aspect　of　the　story　that　had　reached　her　in　her　own　village：　the　right　arm　of　her　betrothed　now　ended　a　few　centimeters　below　the　shoulder。　The　stump　was　tightly　wrapped；　in　fresh；　well…tended　bandages；　lightly　spotted　with　the　bleeding　from　beneath。　Jord's　beardstubbled　face　was　aged　and　shrunken；　making　him　look　in　Mala's　eyes　like　his　own　father。　In　his　light　hair　there　was　a　gray　streak　that　she　had　never　noticed　before。　His　blue　eyes　were　downcast；　staring　almost　witlessly　at　the　plank　floor；　and　the　dancers'　feet　that　trod　it　slowly　a　pace　or　two　away　from　him。　The　ring　of　village　women　who　danced　so　slowly　to　the　dirge　went　round　the　biers　and　chair；　their　feet　hitt