fs.thefirstbookofswords-第11部分

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　Then　he　climbed；　heading　up　between　foothills；　following　a　dry　ravine；　moving　now　on　knees　that　quivered　from　his　need　for　food。　Once　he　was　moving；　he　was　no　longer　quite　sure　just　how　he'd　spent　the　night　just　past；　whether　he'd　slept　at　all　or　not。　It　seemed　to　him　quite　possible　that　he'd　been　walking　without　a　pause　since　yesterday。
　　　Shortly　he　came　upon　a　small　spring　that　gave　him　good　water　to　drink。　He　took　this　discovery　as　a　good　omen；　drank　deeply；　and　pressed　on。
　　　All　streams　were　behind　him　now；　as　far　as　he　could　tell。　He　kept　following　what　looked　like　an　ill…defined　trail　up　through　the　ravine。　Often　he　wasn't　sure　that　he　was　really　following　a　trail　at　all。　By　now　he　was　unarguably　on　the　slopes　of　the　mountain　itself；　but　so　far　the　climbing　was　not　nearly　as　difficult　as　he　had　feared　that　it　might　be。　There　were　no　sheer　cliffs　or　treacherous　rockslides　that　could　not　be　avoided。　Even　so；　the　going　soon　became　murderously　hard　because　of　sheer　physical　exhaustion。
　　　Mark　considered　ways　to　lighten　the　load　that　he　was　carrying。　But　it　consisted　of　only　a　few　things；　none　of　which　he　felt　willing　yet　to　leave　behind。　The　idea　that　he　might　be　able　to　discard　the　sword；　somehow；　along　the　way　had　itself　already　been　discarded。　The　sword　was　connected　with　his　goal；　and　it　would　go　with　him　to　the　end。　At　one　point；　with　his　head　spinning；　he　did　decide　to　divest　himself　of　bow　and　quiver。　But　he　changed　his　mind　and　went　back　for　them　before　he'd　gone　ten　steps。
　　　The　climb　became　a　blur　of　weariness　and　hunger。　At　some　timeless　bright　hour　near　the　middle　of　the　day　Mark　was　jarred　back　to　full　awareness　of　his　surroundings　by　the　realization　that　he'd　run　into　a　new　feature　of　the　mountain。　Just　ahead　was　the　bottom　of　a　cliff　face；　very　nearly　vertical；　a　surface　that　he　was　never　going　to　be　able　to　climb。。。　gradually　he　understood　that　there　was　no　need　for　him　to　try。
　　　He　was　standing　on　a　high；　irregular　shelf　of　black　rock；　with　the　wind　howling　around　him。　But　the　day　was　still　clear；　and　the　afternoon　sun　on　his　back　was　fortingly　warm。　The　sun　had　warmed　the　black　rocks　here　considerably；　even　if　the　deeper　shadows　still　held　patches　of　snow；　and　there　was　a　chill　in　the　wind　that　played　endlessly　in　the　fantastic　chimneys　of　the　cliff。　Mark　stood　still　for　a　time；　still　holding　the　sword　and　bearing　his　other　burdens；　slowly　getting　his　breath　back　after　the　long　climb。　In　some　of　the　chimneys　he　could　hear　a　roaring　that　was　deeper　than　the　wind；　a　noise　that　he　thought　was　ing　up　from　somewhere　far　below。
　　　Mark　was　wondering　which　of　the　chimneys　might　hold　fire；　when　his　attention　was　caught　by　a　place　he　saw　at　the　rear　of　the　rocky　shelf；　just　at　the　angle　where　the　clifface　went　leaping　up　again。　There　were　signs　of　old　occupancy　back　there。　Mark's　eye　was　caught　by　scattered；　head…sized　lumps　of　some　black　and　gnarled　substance。　The　lumps　were　of　an　unfamiliar；　off…round　shape。　He　went　to　one　and　prodded　it　with　the　soft　toe　of　his　hunter's　boot。　The　object　was　hard；　and　very　massive　for　its　size。　Mark　slowly　understood　that　the　lumps　were　metal　or　ore　that　had　been　melted　and　then　reformed　into　rough　blobs。
　　　He　stood　now　in　the　very　rear　of　a　shallow　half…cave　in　the　face　of　the　rising　cliff；　in　a　place　where　the　sun　struck　now　and　the　wind　was　baffled。　Here　there　were　old；　cold　ashes；　from　what　must　have　been　a　very　large　wood　fire。　The　ashes　looked　too　old；　Mark　thought；　to　have　any　connection　with　the　fires　he'd　seen　up　here　during　the　last　few　evenings。　Anyway；　he　d　assumed；　from　the　stories　he'd　heard；　that　what　people　called　the　lights　of　Vulcan's　forge　were　something　to　do　with　earthfire；　volcanic；　whether　or　not　it　was　the　god　in　person　who　raised　and　tended　them。　Yet　plainly　someone　had　once　built　a　large　blaze；　deliberately；　here　in　this　broad　depression　in　the　rock　floor　against　the　cliff。　The　stain　of　its　smoke　still　marked　the　natural　chumney　above。　The　tone　of　the　old　soot　was　a　different　darkness　from　that　of　the　rock　itself。
　　　In　front　of　the　abandoned　fireplace　Mark　slumped　to　his　knees；　then　let　himself　sink　back　into　a　sitting　position。　The　air　up　here　was　thin；　and　stank　of　sulphur。　It　frosted　the　lungs　and　gave　them　little　nourishment。　At　least　his　stomach　had　now　ceased　its　clamoring　for　food；　he　had　reached　an　internal　balance　with　his　hunger；　a　state　almost　of　fort。。。　with　a　mental　snap　he　came　back　to　full　alertness；　finding　himself　sitting　quietly　on　stone。　Had　he　just　started　to　fall　asleep　or　what？
　　　He　didn't　see　what　difference　it　would　make　if　he　did　doze　off　for　a　rest。　But　no；　there　was　something　to　do；　something　to　be　decided；　now　that　he　was　here。　He　ought　to　see　to　that　first；　think　about　it　a　little　at　least。　He'd　e　up　here　for　some　vital　reason。。。　ah　yes；　the　sword。　When　he　had　warmed　himself　a　little　more；　he'd　think　about　it。
　　　Still　sitting　in　the　faint　sun…warmth　of　the　high；　sheltered　place；　Mark　slowly　began　to　notice　how　much　unburned　wood　was　lying　about　nearby。　There　were　large　chips　and　roughly　broken　scraps；　and　the　half…burnt　ends　of　logs　that　must　once　have　been　too　big　for　a　man　to　lift。　He　realized　that　he　needed　heat。　He　wanted　a　fire；　and　so　he　painfully　began　to　gather　and　arrange　wood　in　the　old　fireplace。
　　　It　should　have　been　an　easy　matter　to　build　a　fire　using　this　available　material；　but　weakness　made　it　hard。　Drawing　his　hunter's　knife；　Mark　tried　to　shave　tinder　and　fine　kindling　but　his　hands　were　shaky；　and　the　blade　slipped　from　the　half…frozen　wood。　He　tried　the　sword　and　found　the　task　much　easier　despite　its　weight　and　size。　With　the　sword　held　motionless；　its　point　resting　on　the　ground　and　the　hilt　on　his　bent　knee；　Mark　could　draw　any　chunk　of　wood　against　the　edge　and　take　off　shavings　as　thin　and　fine　as　he　wanted。　Then　when　he　had　his　tinder　and　his　kindling　ready；　his　flint　struck　a　fat　spark　from　the　rough　flange　of　the　sword's　steel　hilt。
　　　The　fire　caught　from　that　first　spark。　It　burned　well…alrhost　magically　well；　Mark　thought。　Larger　fragments　soon　fed　it　into　respectable　size　and　crackling　strength。　Then；　after　he'd　rested　and　warmed　himself　a　little　more；　he　took　his　hunter's　cup　and　gathered　some　snow　from　a　shaded　crevice；　to　melt　and　heat　himself　some　water　for　a　drink。　Now；　if　only　he　had　a　little　food。。。　Mark　cut　that　thought　off；　afraid　the　hunger　pangs　would　start　again。
　　　He　sat　on　the　rocky　ground　with　the　unwrapped　sword　beside　him；　sipping　heated　water。　And　found　himself　staring　at　large　symbols；　markings　so　faint　that　he　hadn't　noticed　them　at　first；　painted　or　somehow　outlined　on　the　rock　of　the　shallow　caves　rear　wall。　Several　of　the　symbols　had　been　partially　obscured　by　the　old　stains　of　smoke。　There　were　in　all　about　a　dozen　of　the　signs；　all　of　them　drawn　with　inhumanly　straight；　geometrical　sides；　and　the　lines　of　one　of　them；　Mark　realized；　formed　the　same　design　that　appeared　on　the　hilt　of　the　sword。　He　took　up　the　sword　again　and　looked　at　it　carefully　to　make　sure。
　　　After　that　he　continued　to　stare　at　the　wall…signs；　with　the　feeling　that　he　was　on　the　verge　of　extracting　some　important　meaning　from　them；　until　he　was　distracted　by　a　sound。　It　was　not　the　wind；　or　his　own　fire；　but　the　deep　chimney…roaring；　louder　than　before；　rising　below　the　never…quite…ceasing　whine　of　wind。　It　was　too　breathlessly　prolonged　to　be　the　voice　of　any　animal　or　human。　The　furnaces　of　Vulcan；　Mark　thought。　The　forge…fires。　Whatever　they　really　were；　they　were　burning　still；　somewhere　near　to　where　he　was　sitting。　And　this　old　wood…fire　place　in　front　of　him　was。。。　that　thought　would　not　plete　itself。
　　　Mark's　sun…shadow　on　the　face　of　the　cliff　before　him　was　reaching　higher；　and　he　knew　that　behind　him　the　sun　was　going　down。　He　thought：　I　won't　live　through　this　night　up　here；　the　cold　if　nothing　else　will　kill　me。　But　in　spite　of　approaching　death　…　or　perhaps　because　of　it　…　he　felt　a　strong　and　growing　conviction　that　he　was　going　to　see　Vulcan　soon。　And　somehow　neither　death　nor　the　gods　were　terrible；　the　shock　of　watching　his　father　and　his　brother　die　still　numbed　Mark's　capacity　for　terror。　Now　he　understood　that　ever　since　he'd　picked　up　the　sword　from　the　village　street　he'd　been　meaning　to　confront　Vulcan　with　it。　To　confront　him；　and。。。　and　maybe　that　would　be　the　end。
　　　Trying　to　gain　strength；　Mark　built　up　his　fire　again；　with　larger　chunks　of　wood。　Then　he　curled　up　in　front　of　it；　as　if　he　could　absorb　its　radiant　energy　like　food。　Again　he　had　the　sword's　cloth　wrapped　round　his　own　body　as　a　blanket。
　　　The　next　time　he　awoke；　he　was　cold　and　stiff；　and　the　world　was　totally　dark　around　him　except　for　a　million　stars　and　the　brightly　winking　embers　of　his　fire。　Slowly　and　painfully　Mark　turned　over　on　his　bed　of　rock；　twisting　his　aching　body　to　get　the　nearlyfrozen　half　of　it　toward　the　fire。　His　face　and　the　backs　of　his　hands　felt　tender；　as　if　they'd　been　almost　scorched　when　the　flames　were　high。　But　they　began　to　freeze　as　soon　as　they　were　turned　away　from　the　remaining　warmth。　Mark　knew　he　ought　to　make　himself　stand　up；　move　his　arms　and　walk；　and　then　build　up　the　fire　again。　He　knew　it；　but