世界之脊第十四章(页 1) - 文字翻译室 - 龙骑士城堡奇幻论坛奇幻文学,翻译,原创,龙与地下城,冰与火之歌

jarod 发表于 2005-7-8 13:17

世界之脊第十四章

第三部分 蛮荒之地的困惑   我一生中所发生的事经常让我去调查研究人天性中的善和恶。我曾见过纯粹的、重复性与独特性并存的邪恶。我生命中早期的全部时间都在这种邪恶中度过，在那里空气中的邪恶味道如此沉重，直让我感到窒息、必须离开。   直到最近，当声望开始在人类群体中为我赢得一些承认－－就算是那些并不欢迎我的城市也至少是容忍时－－我也开始目击到了相比在魔索布莱城所观察到的一些更为复杂的东西，那是光与暗转换中投射出的一道灰色阴影。那么多的人类－－有很大的数量－－都拥有他们天生的黑暗面，一种对死亡所带来的恐怖的渴望，一种为了满足自己而在他人的痛苦中不动声色的能力。   在其他所有以公正为借口而为所欲为的行为中，再没有什么比路斯坎举办的囚犯狂欢节还要明目张胆了。囚犯们，有时的确是有罪的，有时却是无辜的－－那几乎无关紧要－－都被拉到嗜血成性的民众面前进行游行，之后是毒打、折磨，最后以一种“华丽”的方式执行死刑。主持狂欢节的地方官异常努力工作的原因就是为了获得更多出于纯粹痛苦而发出的尖叫；他的工作就是通过制造痛苦来扭曲那些囚犯的表情，让他们的双眼中投射出无限的恐惧。   曾经有一次，同杜德蒙船长的海灵号一起来到路斯坎时，我斗胆来到狂欢节想目睹一下对几个海盗的审讯－－他们是我们追捕到的，将船击沉之后从海里捞了上来。而我所看到的是一千多个民众密密麻麻围在一个大圆台子前，快乐地吼叫着欣赏那些悲惨的海盗被逐一切成碎片，这景象差点就让我下定决心离开杜德蒙的船，几乎就要让我放弃一个海盗猎人的生活，找座森林或者高山过上隐居的日子。   当然，是凯蒂布莉尔提醒了我要看到事实的真相，她指出这些海盗本身也经常以相同的方法折磨自己那些无辜的犯人。尽管她也承认即便是这种真相也无法证明囚犯狂欢节是公正的－－只要想想这个地方凯蒂布莉尔就会感到那么惊悸恐惧，以至于她发誓决不愿再靠近那里一步，即便是附近的地方－－但她仍然认为如此对待海盗的确要比在远海就放他们自由好得多。   但是为什么？为什么会出现这样的现象呢？   这些年来这个问题一直困扰着我，使我不断地寻找探究着它的答案，可以用来解释那些被称为“人类”的不可思议的复杂生物这一侧面特征的答案。为什么这些平常时端正大方的亲切人们会在囚犯狂欢节的展出上堕落到如此一种地步？为什么连海灵号上的一些船员，我所知道的一些正派可敬的男女，都会为能看到如此恐怖血腥的折磨表演而兴高采烈？   这答案，也许（如果还有一种比本身天性的邪恶还要复杂难解的答案的话）需要通过对其他各种族的态度进行一个调查才能找到。在所有的善良种族里，人类是唯一用“狂欢节”这种形式来处死和折磨囚犯的。半身人社会没有这种展示－－半身人囚犯们的死刑是以著名的“吃到撑死”这种方式来执行的。矮人也没有，就像他们那种敢作敢为、闯劲十足的性格一样。在矮人社会里，囚犯的处死显得干净利落，既没有表演也没有公众的围观。一个犯了谋杀罪的矮人将以脖子上简单有效的一击来结束生命。我在囚犯狂欢节上也从没看到过精灵，除了有一次，有对精灵试着来看了一下，之后便带着明显厌恶的神情很快地离开了。我知道侏儒社会里没有死刑，取而代之的是将囚犯在一间精心设计的牢房里关上一辈子。   因此，为什么人类是这样？为什么人类的那种情感结构会允许他们创造出像囚犯狂欢节这样的事务？是邪恶？我想这样的答案太简单了。   黑暗精灵喜好折磨－－这我知道得很清楚！－－而他们的这种行为的确是基于虐待狂和邪恶之上的，还有就是为了满足蜘蛛神后那贪得无厌的恶魔欲望，但对于人类，考虑到人类方方面面的特征，答案就要变得更复杂一些了。可以确定的是这里肯定包括一些虐待狂的成份，特别是那些主持狂欢节的地方官和他的折磨助手们，但对于普通的民众，那些在围观群众中欢呼鼓掌的手无缚鸡之力的叫化子，我相信他们的快乐有三个来源。   第一，费伦的农民是一群最为弱势的群体，他们被经常有着奇怪念头、没有道德肆无忌惮的领主和地主们统治，受着仿佛永远也没有完结的入侵者的威胁，或者是地精、巨人，甚至是人类自己，那些随意无故践踏生命的人。囚犯狂欢节给这些不幸的人们提供了一种对力量的尝试，一种可以左右生死的力量。天长日久他们就感觉到好像可以控制自己的生活了似的。   第二，人类活得时间并不长－－同精灵和矮人相比；就算是半身人的寿命通常也要长过他们。那些农民面对着的是每天都有可能死亡的概率。一名生下两到三个孩子的足够幸运的母亲也有可能要目击到至少其中一个的死去。同死亡如此亲密的生活显然衍生出了一种对其的好奇和敬畏，甚至是恐惧。囚犯狂欢节上的那些人目睹了死亡以最为恐怖的形式出现，提供的是最可怕的处死方法，这样同实际生活中他们自身所面对哦死亡相比便为那些人带来了安慰，除非他们也变成被带到地方官面前的被告，否则是不大可能体会到那种真正的骇人的。我已经看到你最坏的一面了，可怕的死亡，所以我不再怕你了。   第三种呼吁囚犯狂欢节的解释是为了维护社会秩序而必须采用这种方法以示公正和处罚。这也是当我目击到那种惊骇后回到海灵号上展开辩论时法师罗毕拉所抱有的观点。不同的是，法师并没有兴致也很少去看狂欢节，但我所见到的罗毕拉为这种行为进行辩护时精神旺盛的样子同地方官自己的确有得一比。公众为这些人而蒙羞，公众正在展示他们的愤怒，这也能使其他人保持一种诚实的秉性，他是这么坚信的。因此那些农民围观者的欢呼和掌声无疑表示了他们对法律和社会秩序的非凡信任。   这是一个很难被驳倒的论点，特别是它的中心观点是这样的表演有着阻止未来犯罪的效果，但这样真的公正吗？   带着罗毕拉的观点，我来到路斯坎同某些较次要的地方官员商议海灵号如何更好地提交被俘海盗的草案，但实际上就是同他们讨论囚犯狂欢节。讨论得出的结果快速而明显：狂欢节本身对公正没有一点作用。到目前为止已有一些清白无辜的男女被送上了路斯坎的这个舞台，被野蛮的行为所强迫而做出了虚假的供罪，之后便以那些罪名被公开地处决。地方官知道这些，也乐于承认，他引用那些人的痛苦表情证明至少我们带去的那些俘虏确实是有罪的。   仅凭这个原因我就决不愿再回到囚犯狂欢节的现场了。衡量一个社会优秀与否的方法之一就是看其是如何处理那些步出公众道德进程之外的人的，而通过低劣的手法折磨这些犯罪者则无疑降低了整个社会的道德水准。   然而实际情况却是这种处理方式一直继续在费伦的一些城市中流行着，还有更多的乡村中也是如此，在那里，公正赖以生存的方式必定是更为粗糙和唯权是从。   许也关于狂欢节还有第四种解释。可能那些围观者充满热情地聚集在那里只是出于展示所带来的兴奋感。可能除了纯粹的娱乐之外没有其他任何深层次的原因或解释。很明确地讲，我不喜欢思考这种可能性，因为假如在生物中占有如此巨大数量比例的人类能够这么完全地抹除情感与同情心，而只是为了享受观看别人被可怕地折磨伤害的视觉盛宴的话，那么恐怕这才是恶魔的真正定义。   在经过数小时的调查、辩论、询问，还有数十个小时的思考，对于这些生活在我身边的人类的天性，我没有得出什么简单的答案，对那扭曲到早已超越了滑稽的囚犯狂欢节也是。   对此我一点都没有感到惊讶。凡是同人类有关的事我几乎都没有得出一个简单的答案过。也许，那就是在我日复一日的旅行和遭遇中为什么很少出现沉闷和无聊的原因。也许同样，那也是我一直爱他们的原因。 －－崔斯特·杜垩登 第十四章被偷走的血统   沃夫加站在路斯坎的城外，回头盯着这个城市，在那里他曾被错误地当成了被告，被折磨，并且被当众羞辱。但尽管如此，野蛮人对城里的那些人仍然没有一丝怒气，甚至是对那个恶毒的地方官也是。假如能碰巧遇见贾克海尔德，他很可能会把那家伙的脑袋扭下来，仅仅是为了对此事做个了结，而不是出于憎恨。沃夫加早就告别了憎恨，已经有很长一段时间了。早在碎木者来短弯刀找到他，而沃夫加将他给杀了时。早在他偶遇飞马部落，一个与他血统相似的部族时。野蛮人杀死了他们那个邪恶的萨满巫师，这是数年前他便立下的复仇誓言。不是出于仇恨，甚至没有一丝怒气，而是很简单地，沃夫加只是觉得需要这样将生活继续推进下去－－当无法再回忆恐怖的过去时。   沃夫加已经意识到自己一直没有前进了，当他回头盯着城市看时这一切都显得特别明显。他在原地绕圈，很小的圈子，这使他一次又一次地回到相同的地点，一个只能靠酒精来克服忍耐力的地方，只能只能通过混淆过去、抛弃未来来度过每一天的地方。   野蛮人一掌击向地面，从到路斯坎的数个月以来他第一次想搞清自己是怎么进入这个不断下坠的螺旋中的。他想起了远在北方冰风谷的故乡，在那里曾同朋友们分享过那么多的激动和快乐。他想起了布鲁诺，一个当他还是个孩子时便在战争中击败了他，却又向他显示出如此大仁慈的人。矮人待他就像自己的孩子，然后还拜托崔斯特教他真正的战斗方法。崔斯特也曾是他的一个朋友，是精灵引到着他步入盛大的冒险，每一场战斗不论成败都与沃夫加站在一起。而现在，他已经失去了崔斯特。   他又再次回忆起布鲁诺，矮人将自己最伟大的技术成就赠给了沃夫加，那就是神奇的艾吉斯之牙。是布鲁诺对他的爱的象征。而他现在不仅失去了布鲁诺，连艾吉斯之牙也丢了。   他想起了凯蒂布莉尔，或许这对野蛮人来说是最特殊的，这个姑娘偷走了他的心，这个姑娘是他最为赞美和尊重的。也许他们不能成为情侣，或者丈夫与妻子。也许她绝对无法忍受为他生孩子，但她是他的朋友，这一点绝对而真实。沃夫加想起了他们之间的最后一次争执，那时他懂得了两人之间那种友谊的真正含义。凯蒂布莉尔会一直给予他任何帮助，会同他一起分享最为亲密的时刻和感觉，但是沃夫加知道，她的心实际上却在另一个人那里。   这一事实并没有为野蛮人带来恼怒和嫉妒。他所感受到的只有敬重，因为不论凯蒂的感觉如何，她仍会尽自己全力来为他提供帮助。现在，他连凯蒂布莉尔也失去了。   沃夫加再次重击着地面。他同那些朋友根本没法比，不管是布鲁诺、崔斯特，还是凯蒂布莉尔。甚至包括瑞吉斯，尽管半身人的身高并不显著，也缺乏战斗能力，但他在危急时刻仍会站到沃夫加前面，仍会成为野蛮人的盾牌，会尽其所能，为他阻挡伤害。他是怎样把这些都丢失了的啊？   他的注意力突然又被拉回到了现实中－－有一辆四轮马车正从路斯坎的西门出来。尽管沃夫加的情绪很差，但当马车驶近时他仍然露出了一个微笑。车夫，一个丰满的中年妇女，进入了他的视线。   那是莫里克。他们两人在几天前就已被放逐了，但却一直在周界附近游荡。盗贼解释说如果想要在野外生存下去的话就必须回去弄些补给品，因此他又单独潜入了城市。从那两匹马谨慎的行进方式来看，从莫里克毕竟本来就拥有一辆马车和马这一事实来看，沃夫加知道他那鬼鬼祟祟的小个子朋友已经成功了。   盗贼将马车从宽阔的大路驶离，驶上了一条弯曲通向树林的小径，沃夫加是在那里等他的。莫里克步上野蛮人所坐的悬崖下方位置，之后弓着背站在那里。   “不是很困难的一件事。”他宣称。   “那些警卫没有认出你？”沃夫加问。   莫里克哼了哼，好像这个想法有多荒谬似的。“那还是我们被赶出城时的同一帮守卫呢。”他解释道，语气中充满自豪。   他们的在路斯坎高层官员手中的经历提醒了沃夫加他和莫里克只不过是扑腾在一个小水坑中的两个大家伙而已，相对与那些在这个犹如大泥塘的巨大城市背后闹腾的角色来说是无足轻重的－－但是就算是在他们这样的一个小角落里，莫里克也仍然是一个大角色！“我甚至在出城门的时候还掉了一个包，”盗贼继续道，“一个警卫为此还专门赶上我，为了将包放回马车上。”   沃夫加从悬崖上下来到马车旁边，将盖着货物的帆布拉开。下面是一包包的食物、绳索和用来搭盖避身处的材料，但让沃夫加的敏感程度达到高潮的是一箱箱瓶子，里面都是满满的那种令人兴奋有力的液体。   “我想你会满意的。”当大个子盯着货物看时莫里克边靠近他身边边说道，“离开这个城市并不表示必须离开那些令我们快乐的东西。我一直在想是不是该把黛丽·柯蒂也拉上。”   野蛮人愤怒的目光猛地盯了莫里克一眼。用如此猥亵的方式来描述这个姑娘令他感到深深的不愉快。   “来吧，”盗贼说道，他清了清喉咙明显地改变了话题，“让我们找一个僻静的地方来熄灭喉咙中的火焰吧。”他慢慢卸下了自己的伪装，忍着仍然弥留在关节间和被撕裂的腹部的疼痛。那些伤口，特别是他的膝盖，将会需要很长时间来治愈了。他的动作再次停了一会儿，举着那顶假发欣赏着自己令人叹为观止的手艺，随后才爬上驾驶座把缰绳握在了手里。   “这些马看上去不是很好。”沃夫加注意到了。那对牲畜看上去又老又憔悴的样子。   “我需要钱来买酒。”莫里克解释。   沃夫加重又看向货物，想着莫里克本该把钱都花在买两匹好马上的，想着他在酒瓶里度过的那些日子该是个头了。野蛮人刚要再次对马一事表示异议时，莫里克的招呼打断了他的话。   “路上有强盗，”盗贼提醒，“或者说我在城里得到的消息是这样的。强盗们在大路北端的森林里，通往世界之脊的一路上都是。”   “你害怕强盗？”沃夫加疑惑地问道。   “只害怕那些从没听说过我们的。”莫里克解释道，沃夫加懂得此中更深一层的含义。在路斯坎，莫里克的名声能使盗贼在一酒吧的流氓中间出入自由，但现在......   “我们最好为即将到来的麻烦做好准备。”盗贼说。他摸到驾驶座下面掏出一把巨斧，“看，”他笑着说道，当用手指着斧头表面时明显对自己十分自豪，“还粘着克里普·沙基的血呢。”   刽子手的斧头！沃夫加非常想问莫里克：他是如何在九层地狱般的地方成功将手握到这把武器上的，但最后还是决定不去知道的好。   “笔直走，”莫里克拍了拍旁边的座椅指示道。盗贼从最近的箱子里拉出一瓶酒。“让我们边走边喝边商讨以后的计划吧。”   爬上椅子时沃夫加一直盯着前方努力不起看那酒瓶。莫里克把瓶子递过去，但野蛮人却拉着脸磨着牙不理睬。耸耸肩后，盗贼自己先来了一大口，之后再次递过酒瓶。沃夫加则第二次拒绝了。这给莫里克的脸上带来了一丝困惑，但很快地，当他意识到沃夫加的拒绝会为他自己留下更多酒时，困惑便转变成了一道微笑。   “我们没必要生活得像原始人一样，因为我们还在行进的路上。”莫里克开始说道。   从一个如此狂灌酒精的人嘴里说出的带有讽刺意味的话沃夫加没法忽略不听。整个下午野蛮人都成功地抵御住了酒的诱惑，莫里克则一直在高兴地狂灌滥饮。保持马车以一种急速的步伐前进的同时，盗贼将空瓶子扔向每一块他们经过的石头，然后当它粉碎变成数千块碎片时发出快乐的大叫。   “对于正在尽量强盗的我们你正在制造巨大的噪音。”沃夫加嘟囔着抱怨。   “避开？”莫里克反问之余让指关节发出一阵响声，“不会这么做的。强盗们经常会有一些装备精良的野营地，在那其中我们也许可以找到些舒适的地方。”   “那些装备精良的野营地肯定是属于那些事业成功的强盗的，”沃夫加说道，“而那些事业成功的强盗都很有可能对他们的工作十分擅长。”   “就像碎木者一样，我的朋友，”莫里克提醒。当沃夫加看上去仍然不是很明白时，他补充道，“也许他们会接受提出的条件允许我们加入组织的。”   “我可不这样想。”沃夫加说。   莫里克耸耸肩膀，之后点点头。“那么我们就必须把他们赶走了。”他说得一副若无其事的样子。   “我们甚至还没有找到他们。”沃夫加嘀咕着。   “哦？”莫里克问，他突然将马车转到旁边的一条小路上，之后猛地刹住轮子使得沃夫加几乎掉下车来。   “怎么了？”野蛮人一跃而下后吼道。他的身材仅仅只能将就着蹲在灌木丛里，还有一根肮脏的树枝像鞭子般抽在了他的胳膊上。“莫里克！”   “安静，我的大个子朋友。”盗贼说道，“前头有一条河，但河上只有一座桥，一个收过桥费谋生的强盗毫无疑问会好好利用这里的。”两人突然冲出灌木丛，跳到河堤上。莫里克放慢了疲惫的马让它们慢慢走着，开始越过这座摇摇欲坠的腐朽木桥。令盗贼沮丧的是他们安全地通过了，没看到一个强盗。   “一群新手。”失望的莫里克咕哝着，决定往前走上几里后转过头来再过一次这座桥。这时盗贼突然停住了马车。有一个高大丑陋的男子从路中央迎面而来，手里的一把剑拦住了他们前进的方向。   “你们这两个家伙怎么能没经过本大爷允许就这么快快乐乐地在我的树林里闲逛？”那个强盗边说边将剑在肩膀上挥了挥。   “你的树林？”莫里克问，“为什么呢，好心的先生，我认为这片树林是旅行者们共有的。”随后他压低嗓子对沃夫加补充道，“是半兽人。”   “傻瓜，”沃夫加以只有莫里克能听到的声音回到，“我的意思是，你，而不是那个强盗，正在找麻烦......”   “我认为这样正好可以展示你英雄的一面，”盗贼回答，“此外，这个强盗有一个装满了补给品的舒适营地，毫无疑问。”   “你们在说什么？”那个坏蛋问。   “为什么呢，你，我的好先生，”莫里克迅速回答道，“我的朋友刚才是说他认为你只不过是一个小贼，而并不拥有这整片树林。”   那强盗的眼睛睁大了，结结巴巴地做出了一些失败的回答作为反击。他往地上吐了口唾沫。“我是说这是我的树林！”强盗阐明道，同时指了指自己的胸口，“多哥的树林！”   “那么通过这里的费用是多少呢，好多哥？”莫里克问。   “五个金币！”那坏蛋叫道，之后停下来想了想，补充道，“每人五个！”   “给他。”沃夫加咕哝着。   莫里克哈哈大笑，之后一枝箭飞了过来，从离他脸仅仅一寸的地方掠了过去。突然间这起抢劫变得那么有组织了，盗贼迅速改变了自己的想法，开始把手伸向钱包。   但是，沃夫加也已经改变了想法，他被这种近在咫尺的杀害企图给激怒了。在莫里克对这个价格表示同意之前，野蛮人就已经飞跃下车，赤手空拳冲向了多哥，但随后突然间他改变了主意和行动方向。有两枝箭横飞过他前进的道路。野蛮人转向了那个恐怖的弓箭手，那家伙躲在大路外十几步远的一棵高高的树上。沃夫加冲过了第一道草丛猛力撞上了根倒在地上的圆木。他以不能再快的动作举起那根木头扔到另一个正蹲伏着的人类脸上，然后继续冲向先前的目标。   当接近树底时有一枝箭铮地射进了他脚边的地面，沃夫加毫不理睬这近在咫尺的失误。他跳起到一根低矮的树枝上，之后以巨大的力量和极度的敏捷向上攀爬，几乎就可以说是在树干上跑了。撞断一些小树枝并越过其他些不规则的枝干后，野蛮人来到了与那弓箭手同一水平的位置。那只生物，一个比沃夫加还要大的豺狼人，正在拼命想搭好另一只箭。   “给你！”胆怯的豺狼人吼叫着，将弓扔向沃夫加并跳下了树枝，他宁可从二十尺的高度掉下去也不愿面对沃夫加的愤怒。   但对这只生物来说逃跑并没有那么容易。沃夫加飞快伸出一只手抓住了正在下落的他的领子。尽管有着全力的扭动和下落的冲击，还有现在所处的令人难受的位置以及这个豺狼人的自身重量，沃夫加仍然毫不困难地将他拖了上来。   这时他听到了莫里克求救的喊叫声。 *****   站在马车上的盗贼非常努力地猛烈挥舞着他那单薄的短剑，抵挡着从多哥和另一个刚刚冲出灌木丛的人类剑手的攻击。更糟的是，他听到了背后传来第三个靠近的声音，还有就是那些弓箭仍然在有规律地切割着周围的空气。   “我愿意付了！”他喊道，但是那个恐怖巨大的家伙只是在那里笑。   从眼角莫里克看到了一个弓箭手正在瞄准目标。当箭枝飞过来时他向后跳去，同时也闪过了面前那个灵活得令人惊讶的人类剑手的戳刺。但这一举动也令他付出了代价，因为他一个踉跄翻倒在了座椅后面，跌进了一箱酒瓶中，撞得稀里哗啦。莫里克跳起身来，为自己所受的羞辱而尖叫着，手中的剑则虚脱地架在了椅背上。   冲上来的多哥企图抢夺驾驶座的位置，但愤怒的莫里克动作还要快些，他猛地直冲上来，毫不顾及另一个剑士和弓箭手。多哥缩回胳膊准备横扫，但莫里克迅速地调整剑锋，先一步刺了出去，正中半兽人的手，影响了他对武器的控制。就在多哥的剑喀嚓一声砍中了木质的座椅时，躲在那背后的莫里克早已转动剑锋挡格了来自强盗同伴的攻击。他从腰带上掏出一把匕首，敏捷地用这把武器在多哥的腹部反复刺了数下。绝望中的半兽人尽力想要挡开这些攻击，用自己那赤裸的双手，但莫里克太快了，也太聪明了，他的戳刺一直绕着那双手进行，甚至是在他的剑正同多哥同伴的利刃绞在一起时。   多哥从椅子那里后翻下来掉到了地上。他仅简单地跑了几小步就虚脱地摔倒在地，手抓着自己已被撕裂的内脏。   莫里克听到了第三个袭击者正从马车的一边绕过来。此时前方传来一声恐怖的尖叫，然后正在靠近的那个敌人也尖叫起来。盗贼望向那个方向时正好及时地看到了沃夫加的战利品－－那个豺狼人弓箭手，双臂无助地拍打，高高地一路尖叫地飞了过来。这个肉体投射物击中了那第三个强盗，一个小个子人类妇女，被狠狠地撞了个四脚朝天，在马车旁边压成一堆。那女人呻吟着努力想蠕动着爬开，而弓箭手则躺在地上一动不动。   莫里克压制着剩下那个剑手的攻击，一边从车夫的位置移下来一边继续战斗着。但是在同伴都已经躺倒在自己周围的情况下那个剑手很明显已经没有什么心思在战斗上了。他闪避着莫里克的戳刺，在对阵过程中一直后退着，想要跳进路边的灌木中去。   莫里克在前进时用手中的剑同那强盗的武器反复交锋。他刺击，然后当那剑手想要挡格时快速地回撤，随后狡猾地翻滚着剑刃后再次前刺，就这样一直不与那家伙的剑锋接触。那人蹒跚着，血从一个肩膀流下来。他开始转身逃跑，但莫里克保持着脚步节奏，强迫他回转身来进行防御。   盗贼听到了身后传来另一声惊恐的喊叫，跟随着的是树枝噼啪折断的声音。他微笑着明白了声音带来的信息：沃夫加还在继续清理弓箭手。   “求求你，先生，”莫里克的手中的猎物一次又一次地哀嚎哼叫着，因为盗贼的每一次穿过他肌肤的刺击都证明了他才是更优秀的剑手，“我们只是想要您的钱。”   “那么你在拿了钱之后就不会伤害我和我的朋友了哦？”莫里克冷笑着问道。   那人用力地摇着头，而莫里克则利用他的分心娱乐般地再次用剑一划而过，在他脸颊上画出了一条红线。盗贼的俘虏大喊着跪倒在地，将剑扔到一旁，祈求宽恕。   “我真是以仁慈而著称的啊，”莫里克以带有讽刺的同情语气说道，他听见了沃夫加快速靠近的声音，“但是我的朋友，恐怕不是那样的人。”   沃夫加狂暴地冲过来一把叉住那个跪在地上的人的喉咙，将他提到空中后按到了一棵树上。只用了一只手－－另一只手则防御性地捂着肩膀上露出的一枝简陋箭杆－－沃夫加将那个强盗提离了地面，喉咙上的手几乎令他窒息。   “我可以让他停下来，”莫里克边解释边走上前去将手放到他那大朋友膨胀的前臂上。就在此时他注意到了沃夫加伤得有多严重，“你必须领我们到你的营地去。”   “没有营地！”那人气喘吁吁地说。沃夫加按得更加用力了，并开始绞扭他的身体。   “我会的！我会的！”强盗长声尖叫，而当沃夫加一把握紧时那声音嘎然而止，连同所有的空气。野蛮人的脸上凝固出了纯粹愤怒的表情，他开始用力。   “让他走。”莫里克说。   没有回答。那人在沃夫加的手掌中扭动挣扎，但既不能摆脱控制也无法畅通呼吸。   “沃夫加！”莫里克叫道，他用扳住大个子的手臂用力地拉着，“放开他，朋友！”   沃夫加什么都没听到，甚至都没有去注意盗贼。   “你会感谢我的。”莫里克发誓，尽管他自己也不是很确信这一点，当他握紧拳头猛击沃夫加的脑袋一侧时。   沃夫加放下了那个强盗，那家伙不省人事地畏缩在树根旁，但野蛮人这么做的原因是去反手攻击莫里克，那一下将盗贼打得踉跄着向后跌去，而沃夫加则已经做出了追击的动作。莫里克举起了剑，准备用它来刺穿大个子的心脏，如果有必要的话。但是最后一刻，沃夫加停了下来，眨了眨眼，就像他刚刚睡醒一样。莫里克明白过来，野蛮人方才是又回到了他以前所待过的那段时间和那个地方。   “他现在会带我们到营地去。”盗贼说道。   沃夫加默默地点点头，双眼还是那么模模糊糊好像罩着雾气。他冷冷地看了看钉在肩膀上的那支箭，野蛮人脸色苍白，转头迷惑地看向莫里克，之后一头栽倒在了尘土里。 *****   沃夫加在马车后部醒来，发现车正在一片旷野的边缘奔驰，另一旁则是参天的树木。他努力抬起头，几乎带着点惊慌。一个女人正在路上走着，是那伙强盗中的一个。发生了什么事？他们失败了？更多的恐惧即将涌入，但此时，他听到了莫里克那轻松快乐的声音，野蛮人想用力抬起身子，但当他将重量放到自己那受伤的胳膊上时疼痛令其缩了一下。沃夫加好奇地看看那边的肩膀：那支箭没有了，伤口被清洗过，并包扎着。   莫里克坐在远点的地方，正同另一个强盗，一个豺狼人一同亲切地喝着酒、聊着天，好像他们是多年地老朋友一样。沃夫加挪到马车尾翻身摇摇晃晃地坐起。眼前的世界让他感到晕晕乎乎的，视线中的那片旷野还不时掠过几个小黑点。但是，这种感觉很快就消失了，沃夫加小心翼翼地靠近莫里克。   “啊哈，你醒了啊。来一瓶，我的朋友？”盗贼抽出一个酒瓶问道。   沃夫加皱着眉摇了摇头。   “来吧，你应该喝一口。”那个坐在莫里克身边长着一副狗脸脏兮兮的豺狼人说道。他端着一大碗炖肉，每把一勺塞进自己嘴里，就有半勺落到地上，或者流到他的衣服前襟上。   沃夫加瞥了一眼莫里克那个肮脏的新伙伴。   “放轻松，我的朋友，”盗贼说道，他从这一瞥中看出了一些危险的预兆，“麦克尔斯现在是朋友了，他是多哥死后的领导者。”   “让他滚。”沃夫加说道，那个豺狼人下颚吃惊地都快掉下来了。   莫里克首先站了起来，走到沃夫加身边挽住他那只没受伤的胳膊。“他们是盟友，”他解释，“他们所有人都是。之前忠诚于多哥，现在忠诚于我。还有你。”   “让他们滚。”沃夫加狠狠地重复了一遍。   “我们现在在赶路，”莫里克辩解道，“我们需要更多的眼睛，去侦察那些未知的区域，也需要更多的剑来帮助我们抵御来自那些区域的威胁。”   “不需要。”沃夫加淡淡地说。   “你不懂这些危险的，我的朋友。”莫里克控制着适当的语气说道，希望能够平抚他那大朋友的怒气。   “让他们滚！”沃夫加突然大声吼道。看到自己并没有使莫里克有所动作时，野蛮人暴风般冲向麦克尔斯，“从这里滚开，滚出这片森林！”   麦克尔斯越过大个子看看莫里克。后者耸了耸肩摆了个听天由命的姿势。   麦克尔斯站起身来。“我要和他在一起。”他指着盗贼说道。   沃夫加一掌拍掉豺狼人手里的木碗，抓住他衬衣的前胸，把这家伙拉到自己脚趾跟前，“最后一次让你能够自己离开的机会。”大个子咆哮着将麦克尔斯推出去好几步。   “莫里克先生？”豺狼人首领抱怨道。   “哦，那就快消失吧。”莫里克不高兴地说。   “那我们剩下的这些人呢，也要走？”强盗帮里另一个人类问道，他站在旷野边缘一堆乱石后面，举着一张苗条的小弓。   “选择吧，他们或者我，莫里克。”沃夫加说道，他的语气中毫无辩驳的余地。野蛮人和盗贼同时回头瞥向那个弓箭手，那人已经在弓弦上搭上了一支箭。   沃夫加双眼里开始沸腾着怒气，他开始向弓箭手走去。“可以射一次，”他稳稳地喊道，“也许你有时间向我射出一箭。但你能射中目标吗？”   那弓箭手举起手中的弓。   “我不认为你会。”沃夫加微笑着说，“不，你会射不中。因为你自己知道。”   “知道什么？”弓箭手大胆问道。   “知道就算你的箭击中了我，它也没法杀死我，”沃夫加回答，继续故意昂首阔步地靠近他，“起码不会马上，不会在我的双手到达你的喉咙之前。”   那人向后拉开了弓弦，但沃夫加只是微笑得更为自信并继续向前。弓箭手紧张不安地环顾四周寻求支持者，但他谁也没找到。当明确无误地认识到自己所面对的敌人太为强大之后，他松开弓弦，转身，逃跑了。   沃夫加回转身。麦克尔斯也早已跑得远远的了。   “现在我们不得不连同他们一起提防小心了，”沃夫加转向他时莫里克显然闷闷不乐，“你使得我们失去了同盟军。”   “我不愿意同杀人的小贼结成同盟！”沃夫加简单地说道。   莫里克从他身前一步向后跳开：“那么我是什么？如果我不是个贼的话？”   沃夫加的表情缓和了。“好吧，也许只有一个例外。”他轻笑着更正道。   莫里克的笑容却不是很自在。“来吧，我的魁梧却不是很聪明的朋友，”他掏出另一瓶酒说道，“为我们俩干杯吧，两个强盗！”   “我们会走与刚才那些前辈同样的路？”沃夫加惊愕地大声问道。   “我们的那些前辈们不是很聪明，”莫里克解释道，“连我都知道在哪里能找到他们，因为他们的行动可预知性太强了。一个好强盗每次攻击后都会撤退到下一个目标区域。一个好强盗会看上去八面玲珑，他们总是能收集到足够的情报，从而抢在城市守卫之前，抢在那些骑着马准备进入城市的商人们之前，找到他们，击败他们。”   “你说得好像对这种生活很了解似的。”   “我都像这样做过不少次了，”莫里克承认道，“我们现在在荒郊野外并不表示我们必须像野人一样生活。”盗贼重复着这句正在变成他独有的咒语。莫里克向沃夫加举起酒瓶。   在盗贼看来野蛮人是聚集了他全部的毅力来拒绝那瓶酒的。他感到了肩膀的剧痛，而且他仍然在为刚才那些坏蛋而激动不安。此时撤退到一股半意识状态组成的漩涡中的确是一种非常吸引人的选择。   但是沃夫加还是通过从已经有点晕晕乎乎的莫里克身边走开来表达了抗拒。他挪到了那片地方的另一端，爬上一棵树，将自己放在了这么一个舒适的小环境里，坐在那里极目远眺着这片偏远荒芜的土地。   他的眉头在目光触及北方那些山脉时再次绷紧，那是世界之脊，阻隔他同冰风谷中另一个世界的屏障，那里的生活有些他可能已经了解了，有些可能还在了解之中。他再次想起了那些朋友们，想得最多的是凯蒂布莉尔。野蛮人沉入梦乡，他用双臂拥着她，她则温柔地吻着他，缓解着他在这个世界所受到的种种痛苦。   突然间凯蒂布莉尔后退开来，当沃夫加看过去时，她的前额像种子萌发一样地长出了两支象牙般的小角，背后则展开了一对蝙蝠般的巨大翅膀。一只魅魔，深渊的一种恶魔，他再次坠入了厄图为他设计的地狱般的折磨陷阱之中，那怪物正施展着自己优美舒适的外观引诱着他。   沃夫加的眼睛突然间睁大了，他的呼吸开始变得急促。野蛮人极力想去忽略眼前那可怕的形象，但是他们却并没有就此让他离开。这一次没有。眼前的景象那么痛苦、那么明显，使得野蛮人对这一切感到惊讶，对近来这几个月自己所经历的生活，他再次将这一切当成了厄图为了让他感受到希望而设计的一个陷阱，如此以来恶魔就可以随心所欲地停止它了。野蛮人看到了魅魔，这可怕的创造物正在诱惑着他......   “不！”沃夫加吼叫着，因为这段回忆太丑陋了，太令人惊恐了，因为他又要再次去对抗着它们。   我偷走了你的血统，那魅魔通过心灵感应对他说道，沃夫加无法抗拒这个声音。在折磨他的几年里恶魔们已经这样对他做过好几次了，带走他的精液，生下卵，其中包含着那些带着翅膀的小魔鬼，沃夫加的孩子们。自从他回到主位面后这是沃夫加第一次能够有意识地、清楚地回忆起这段过去，第一次感受到自己那些恶魔子孙们出现在眼前时的惊骇，仅凭这一点就以将他竖立起的精神屏障击垮。   他现在能看到他们，看到厄图将那些子孙中的一个带到他的面前，一个啼叫着的婴儿，他的魅魔母亲则站在那恶魔身后。他看到了厄图高高地举着孩子展示着，然后，就在沃夫加眼前，就在那嚎叫着的母亲眼前，大恶魔一口啃掉了孩子的脑袋。喷射的鲜血溅了沃夫加一身，他已经无法呼吸了，他也已无法领会到，厄图又找到了一个折磨他的方式，最坏的方式。   沃夫加半爬半跌地从树上下来，受伤的肩膀落到地上，再次撕裂了伤口。而对他，这些疼痛就像没有发生过一样，他疾跑过旷野找到谁倒在马车旁的莫里克。沃夫加跳到车后的那些箱子上疯狂地砸开其中一个。   他的孩子！拥有他被偷走的血统的孩子！   有力的液体一路燃烧着涌入，它的热力不断扩展、扩展，慢慢搅浑了沃夫加的感觉，模糊了那些可怕的景象。

jarod 发表于 2005-7-8 13:18

原文： Part 3 A WILD LAND MADE WILDER The course of events in my life have often made me examine the nature of good and evil. I have witnessed the purest forms of both repeatedly, particularly evil. The totality of my early life was spent living among it, a wickedness so thick in the air that it choked me and forced me away. Only recently, as my reputation has begun to gain me some acceptance among the human populations-a tolerance, at least, if not a welcome-have I come to witness a more complex version of what I observed in Menzoberranzan, a shade of gray varying in lightness and darkness. So many humans, it seems, a vast majority, have within their makeup a dark side, a hunger for the macabre, and the ability to dispassionately dismiss the agony of another in the pursuit of the self. Nowhere is this more evident than in the Prisoner's Carnival at Luskan and other such pretenses of justice. Prisoners, sometimes guilty, sometimes not-it hardly matters-are paraded before the blood-hungry mob, then beaten, tortured, and finally executed in grand fashion. The presiding magistrate works very hard to exact the most exquisite screams of the purest agony; his job is to twist the expressions of those prisoners into the epitome of terror, the ultimate horror reflected in their eyes. Once, when in Luskan with Captain Deudermont of the Sea Sprite, I ventured to the carnival to witness the "trials" of several pirates we had fished from the sea after sinking their ship. Witnessing the spectacle of a thousand people crammed around a grand stage, yelling and squealing with delight as these miserable pirates were literally cut into pieces, almost made me walk away from Deudermont's ship, almost made me forego a life as a pirate hunter and retreat to the solitude of the forest or the mountains. Of course, Catti-brie was there to remind me of the truth of it, to point out that these same pirates often exacted equal tortures upon innocent prisoners. While she admitted that such a truth did not justify the Prisoner's Carnival-Catti-brie was so horrified by the mere thought of the place that she would not go anywhere near it-she argued that such treatment of pirates was preferable to allowing them free run of the high seas. But why? Why any of it? The question has bothered me for all these years, and in seeking its answer I have come to explore yet another facet of these incredibly complex creatures called humans. Why would common, otherwise decent folk, descend to such a level as the spectacle of Prisoner's Carnival? Why would some of the Sea Sprite's own crew, men and women I knew to be honorable and decent, take pleasure in viewing such a macabre display of torture? The answer, perhaps (if there is a more complicated answer than the nature of evil itself), lies in an examination of the attitudes of other races. Among the goodly races, humans alone "celebrate" the executions and torments of prisoners. Halfling societies would have no part of such a display-halfling prisoners have been known to die of overeating. Nor would dwarves, as aggressive as they can be. In dwarven society, prisoners are dealt with efficiently and tidily, without spectacle and out of public view. A murderer among dwarves would be dealt a single blow to the neck. Never did I see any elves at Prisoner's Carnival, except on one occasion when a pair ventured by, then quickly left, obviously disgusted. My understanding is that in gnome society there are no executions, just a lifetime of imprisonment in an elaborate cell. So why humans? What is it about the emotional construct of the human being that brings about such a spectacle as Prisoner's Carnival? Evil? I think that too simple an answer. Dark elves relish torture-how well I know!-and their actions are, indeed, based on sadism and evil, and an insatiable desire to satisfy the demonic hunger of the spider queen, but with humans, as with everything about humans, the answer becomes a bit more complex. Surely there is a measure of sadism involved, particularly on the part of the presiding magistrate and his torturer assistants, but for the common folk, the powerless paupers cheering in the audience, I believe their joy stems from three sources. First, peasants in Faerun are a powerless lot, subjected to the whims of unscrupulous lords and landowners, and with the ever-present threat of some invasion or another by goblins, giants, or fellow humans, stomping flat the lives they have carved. Prisoner's Carnival affords these unfortunate folk a taste of power, the power over life and death. At long last they feel some sense of control over their own lives. Second, humans are not long-lived like elves and dwarves; even halflings will usually outlast them. Peasants face the possibility of death daily. A mother fortunate enough to survive two or three birthings will likely witness the death of at least one of her children. Living so intimately with death obviously breeds a curiosity and fear, even terror. At Prisoner's Carnival these folk witness death at its most horrible, the worst that death can give, and take solace in the fact that their own deaths, unless they become the accused brought before the magistrates, will not likely be nearly as terrible. I have witnessed your worst, grim Death, and I fear you not. The third explanation for the appeal of Prisoner's Carnival lies in the necessity of justice and punishment in order to maintain order in a society. This was the side of the debate held up by Robillard the wizard upon my return to the Sea Sprite after witnessing the horror. While he took no pleasure in viewing the carnival and rarely attended, Robillard defended it as vigorously as I might expect from the magistrate himself. The public humiliation of these men, the public display of their agony, would keep other folk on an honest course, he believed. Thus, the cheers of the peasant mob were no more than a rousing affirmation of their belief in the law and order of their society. It is a difficult argument to defeat, particularly concerning the effectiveness of such displays in dissuading future criminals, but is it truly justice? Armed with Robillard's arguments, I went to some minor magistrates in Luskan on the pretense of deciding better protocol for the Sea Sprite to hand over captured pirates, but in truth to get them talking about Prisoner's Carnival. It became obvious to and very quickly, that the carnival itself had little to do with justice. Many innocent men and women had found their way to the stage in Luskan, forced into false confession by sheer brutality, then punished publicly for those crimes. The magistrates knew this and readily admitted it by citing their relief that at least the prisoners we brought to them were assuredly guilty! For that reason alone I can never come to terms with the Prisoner's Carnival. One measure of any society is the way it deals with those who have walked away from the course of community and decency, and an indecent treatment of these criminals decreases the standards of morality to the level of the tortured. Yet the practice continues to thrive in many cities in Faerun and in many, many rural communities, where justice, as a matter of survival, must be even more harsh and definitive. Perhaps there is a fourth explanation for the carnival. Perhaps the crowds gather around eagerly merely for the excitement of the show. Perhaps there is no underlying cause or explanation other than the fun of it. I do not like to consider this a possibility, for if humans on as large a scale are capable of eliminating empathy and sympathy so completely as to actually enjoy the spectacle of watching another suffer horribly, then that, I fear, is the truest definition of evil. After all of the hours of investigation, debate, and interrogation, and many, many hours of contemplation on the nature of these humans among whom I live, I am left without simple answers to travesties such as the Prisoner's Carnival. I am hardly surprised. Rarely do I find a simple answer to anything concerning humans. That, perhaps, is the reason I find little tedium in my day-to-day travels and encounters. That, perhaps, is the reason I have come to love them. -Drizzt Do'Urden Chapter 14 STOLEN SEED Wulfgar stood outside of Luskan, staring back at the city where he had been wrongly accused, tortured, and publicly humiliated. Despite all of that, the barbarian held no anger toward the folk of the town, even toward the vicious magistrate. If he happened upon Jharkheld, he would likely twist the man's head off, but out of a need for closure on that particular incident and not out of hatred. Wulfgar was past hatred, had been for a long time. As it was when Tree Block Breaker had come hunting him at the Cutlass, and he had killed the man. As it was when he happened upon the Sky Ponies, a barbarian tribe akin to his own. He had taken vengeance upon their wicked shaman, an oath of revenge he had sworn years before. It was not for hatred, not even for unbridled rage, but simply Wulfgar's need to try to push forward in a life where the past was too horrible to contemplate. Wulfgar had come to realize that he wasn't moving forward, and that point seemed obvious to him now as he stared back at the city. He was going in circles, small circles, that left him in the same place over and over, a place made tolerable only through use of the bottle, only by blurring the past into oblivion and putting the future out of mind. Wulfgar spat on the ground, trying for the first time since he had come to Luskan months before to figure out how he had entered this downward spiral. He thought of the open range to the north, his homeland of Icewind Dale, where he had shared such excitement and joy with his friends. He thought of Bruenor, who had beaten him in battle when he was but a boy, but had shown him such mercy. The dwarf had taken him in as his own, then brought Drizzt to train him in the true ways of the warrior. What a friend Drizzt had been, leading him on grand adventures, standing by him in any fight, no matter the odds. He'd lost Drizzt. He thought again of Bruenor, who had given Wulfgar his greatest achievement in craftsmanship, the wondrous Aegis-fang. The symbol of Bruenor's love for him. And now he'd lost not only Bruenor, but Aegis-fang as well. He thought of Catti-brie, perhaps the most special of all to him, the woman who had stolen his heart, the woman he admired and respected above all. Perhaps they could not be lovers, or husband and wife. Perhaps she would never bear his children, but she was his friend, honest and true. When he thought of their last encounter he came to understand the truth of that friendship. Catti-brie would have given anything to help him, would have shared with him her most intimate moments and feelings, but Wulfgar understood that her heart was truly for another. The fact didn't bring anger or jealousy to the barbarian. He felt only respect, for despite her feelings, Catti-brie would have given all to help him. Now Catti-brie was lost to him, too. Wulfgar spat again. He didn't deserve them, not Bruenor, Drizzt, nor Catti-brie. Not even Regis, who, despite his diminutive size and lack of fighting prowess, would leap in front of Wulfgar in time of crisis, would shield the barbarian, as much as he could, from harm. How could he have thrown all that away? His attention shifted abruptly back to the present as a wagon rolled out of Luskan's western gate. Despite his foul mood, Wulfgar could not hold back a smile as the wagon approached. The driver, a plump elderly woman, came into view. Morik. The two had been banished only days before, but they had hung about the city's perimeter. The rogue explained that he was going to have to secure some supplies if he was to survive on the open road, so he'd reentered the city alone. Judging from the way the pair of horses labored, judging from the fact that Morik had a wagon and horses at all, Wulfgar knew his sneaky little friend had succeeded. The rogue turned the wagon off the wide road and onto a small trail that wove into the forest where Wulfgar waited. He came right up to the bottom of the bluff where Wulfgar sat, then stood up and bowed. "Not so difficult a thing," he announced. "The guards didn't notice you?" Wulfgar asked. Morik snorted, as if the notion were preposterous. "They were the same guards as when we were escorted out," he explained, his tone full of pride. Their experience at the hands of Luskan's authorities had reminded Wulfgar that he and Morik were just big players in a small pond, insignificant when measured against the larger pond that was the backdrop of the huge city-but what a large player Morik was in their small corner! "I even lost a bag of food at the gate," Morik went on. "One of the guards ran to catch up to me so that he could replace it on the wagon." Wulfgar moved down the bluff to the side of the wagon and pulled aside the canvas that covered the load. There were bags of food at the back, along with rope and material for shelter, but most prominent to Wulfgar's sensibilities were the cases of bottles, full bottles of potent liquor. "I thought you would be pleased," Morik remarked, moving beside the big man as he stared at the haul. "Leaving the city doesn't have to mean leaving our pleasures behind. I was thinking of dragging Delly Curtie along as well." Wulfgar snapped an angry glare at Morik. The mention of the woman in such a lewd manner profoundly offended him. "Come," Morik said, clearing his throat and obviously changing the subject. "Let us find a quiet place where we may quench our thirst," The rogue pulled off his disguise slowly, wincing at the pain that still permeated his joints and his ripped stomach. Those wounds, particularly in his knees, would be slow to heal. He paused again a moment later, holding up the wig to admire his handiwork, then climbed onto the driving bench, taking the reins in hand. "The horses are not so fine," Wulfgar noted. The team seemed an old, haggard pair. "I needed the gold to buy the drink," Morik explained. Wulfgar glanced back at the load, thinking that Morik should have spent the funds on a better team of horses, thinking that his days in the bottle had come to an end. He started up the bluff again, but Morik stopped him with a call. "There are bandits on the road," the rogue announced, "or so I was informed in town. Bandits on the road north of the forest, and all the way to the pass through the Spine of the World." "You fear bandits?" Wulfgar asked, surprised. "Only ones who've never heard of me," Morik explained, and Wulfgar understood the deeper implications. In Luskan, Morik's reputation served him well by keeping most thugs at bay. "Better that we are prepared for trouble," the rogue finished. Morik reached under the driver's bench and produced a huge axe. "Look," he said with a grin, obviously quite proud of himself as he pointed to the axe head. "It's still stained with Creeps Sharky's blood." The headsman's own axe! Wulfgar started to ask Morik how in the Nine Hells he'd managed to get his hands on that weapon but decided he simply didn't want to know. "Come along," Morik instructed, patting the bench beside him. The rogue pulled a bottle from the closest case. "Let's ride and drink and plot our defense." Wulfgar stared long and hard at that bottle before climbing onto the bench. Morik offered him the bottle, but he declined with gritted teeth. Shrugging, the rogue took a healthy swallow and offered it again. Again Wulfgar declined. That brought a puzzled look to Morik's face, but it fast turned into a smile as he decided that Wulfgar's refusal would leave more for him. "We needn't live like savages just because we're on the road," Morik stated. The irony of that statement from a man guzzling so potent a drink was not lost on Wulfgar. The barbarian managed to resist the bottle throughout the afternoon, and Morik happily drained it. Keeping the wagon at a swift pace, Morik tossed the empty bottle against a rock as they passed, then howled with delight when it shattered into a thousand pieces. "You make a lot of noise for one trying to avoid highwaymen," Wulfgar grumbled. "Avoid?" Morik asked with a snap of his fingers. "Hardly that. Highwaymen often have well-equipped campsites where we might find some comfort." "Such well-equipped campsites must belong to successful highwaymen," Wulfgar reasoned, "and successful highwaymen are likely very good at what they do." "As was Tree Block Breaker, my friend," Morik reminded. When Wulfgar still didn't seem convinced, he added, "Perhaps they will accept our offer to join with them." "I think not," said Wulfgar. Morik shrugged, then nodded. "Then we must chase them off," he said matter-of-factly. "We'll not even find them," Wulfgar muttered. "Oh?" Morik asked, and he turned the wagon down a side trail so suddenly that it went up on two wheels and Wulfgar nearly tumbled off. "What?" the barbarian growled as they bounced along. He just barely ducked a low branch, then got a nasty scratch as another whipped against his arm. "Morik!" "Quiet, my large friend," the rogue said. "There's a river up ahead with but one bridge across it, a bridge bandits would no doubt guard well." They burst out of the brush, bouncing to the banks of the river. Morik slowed the tired horses to a walk, and they started across a rickety bridge. To the rogue's dismay they crossed safely with no bandits in sight. "Novices," a disappointed Morik grumbled, vowing to go a few miles, then turn back and cross the bridge again. Morik abruptly stopped the wagon. A large and ugly man stepped onto the road up ahead, pointing a sword their way. "How interesting that such a pair as yourselves should be walking in my woods without my permission," the thug remarked, bringing the sword back and dropping it across his shoulder. "Your woods?" Morik asked. "Why, good sir, I had thought this forest open for travel." Under his breath to Wulfgar, he added, "Half-orc." "Idiot," Wulfgar replied so that only Morik could hear. "You, I mean, and not the thief. To look for this trouble. . . ." "I thought it would appeal to your heroic side," the rogue replied. "Besides, this highwayman has a camp filled with comforts, no doubt." "What're you talking about?" the thug demanded. "Why, you, good sir," Morik promptly replied. "My friend here was just saying that he thought you might be a thief and that you do not own this forest at all." The bandit's eyes widened, and he stuttered over several responses unsuccessfully. He wound up spitting on the ground. "I'm saying it's my wood!" he declared, poking his chest. "Togo's wood!" "And the cost of passage through, good Togo?" Morik asked. "Five gold!" the thug cried and after a pause, he added, "Each of you!" "Give it to him," Wulfgar muttered. Morik chuckled, then an arrow zipped past, barely an inch in front of his face. Surprised that this band was so well organized, the rogue abruptly changed his mind and started reaching for his purse. However, Wulfgar had changed his mind as well, enraged that someone had nearly killed him. Before Morik could agree on the price, the barbarian leaped from the wagon and rushed at Togo barehanded, then suddenly changed his mind and direction. A pair of arrows cut across his initial path. He turned for the monstrous archer he'd spotted perched high in a tree a dozen feet back from the road. Wulfgar crashed through the first line of brush and slammed hard into a fallen log. Hardly slowing, he lifted the log and threw it into the face of another crouching human, then continued his charge. He made it to the base of the tree just as an arrow thunked into the ground beside him, a near miss Wulfgar ignored. Leaping to a low branch, he caught hold and hauled himself upward with tremendous strength and agility, nearly running up it. Bashing back small branches, scrambling over others, he came level with the archer. The creature, a gnoll bigger than Wulfgar, was desperately trying to set another arrow. "Keep it!" the cowardly gnoll yelled, throwing the bow at Wulfgar and stepping off the branch, preferring the twenty-foot drop to Wulfgar's rage. Escape wasn't that easy for the gnoll. Wulfgar thrust out a hand and caught the falling creature by the collar. Despite all the wriggling and punching, the awkward position and the gnoll's weight, Wulfgar had no trouble hauling it up. Then he heard Morik's cry for help. ***** Standing on the driver's bench, the rogue worked furiously with his slender sword to fend off the attacks from both Togo and another human swordsman who had come out from the brush. Worse, he heard a third approaching from behind, and worse still, arrows regularly cut the air nearby. "I'll pay!" he cried, but the monstrous thugs only laughed. Out of the corner of his eye Morik spotted an archer taking aim. He leaped backward as the missile came on, dodging both it and the thrust from the surprisingly deft swordsman in front of him. The move cost him, though, for he tumbled over the back of the bench, crashing into a case of bottles, shattering them. Morik leaped up and shrieked his outrage, smashing his sword impotently across the chair back. On came Togo, gaining the bench position, but angry Morik matched his movements, coming ahead powerfully without regard for the other swordsman or archers. Togo retracted his arm for a swing, but Morik, quick with the blade, stabbed first, scoring a hit on Togo's hand that cost the thug his grip. Even as Togo's sword clanged against the wooden bench Morik closed in, turning his sword out to fend off the attacks from Togo's partner. He produced a dagger from his belt, a blade he promptly and repeatedly drove into Togo's belly. The half-orc tried desperately to fond off the attacks, using his bare hands, but Morik was too quick and too clever, stabbing around them even as his sword worked circles about Togo's partner's blade. Togo fell back from the bench to the ground. He managed only a single running step before he collapsed, clutching his torn guts. Morik heard the third attacker coming in around the side of the wagon. He heard a terrified scream from above, then another from the approaching enemy. The rogue glanced that way just in time to see Wulfgar's captured gnoll archer flying down from on high, arms flailing, screaming all the way. The humanoid missile hit the third thug, a small human woman, squarely, smashing both hard against the wagon in a heap. Groaning, the woman began trying to crawl away; the archer lay very still. Morik pressed the attack on the remaining swordsman, as much to get down from the open driver's bench as to continue the fight. The swordsman, though, apparently had little heart remaining in the battle with his friends falling all around him. He parried Morik's thrust, backing all the while as the man leaped down to the road. On Morik came, his sword working the thug's blade over and under. He thrust ahead and retracted quickly when the swordsman blocked, then came forward after a subtle roll of his slender sword that disengaged the thug's blade. Staggering, the man retreated, blood running from one shoulder. He started to turn and flee, but Morik kept pace, forcing him to work defensively. Morik heard another cry of alarm behind him, followed by the crack of breaking branches. He smiled with the knowledge that Wulfgar continued to clear out the archers. "Please, mister," Morik's prey grunted as more and more of the rogue's attacks slipped through with stinging results and it became clear that Morik was the superior swordsman. "We was just needing your money." "Then you wouldn't have harmed me and my friend after you took our coin?" Morik asked cynically. The man shook his head vigorously, and Morik used the distraction to slip through yet again, drawing a line of red on the man's cheek. Morik's prey fell to his knees with a yelp and tossed his sword to the ground, begging for mercy. "I am known as a merciful sort," Morik said with mock sympathy, hearing Wulfgar approaching fast, "but my friend, I fear, is not." Wulfgar stormed by and grabbed the kneeling man by the throat, hoisting him into the air and running him back into a tree. With one arm-the other tucked defensively with a broken arrow shaft protruding from his shoulder-Wulfgar held the highwayman by the throat off the ground, choking the life out of him. "I could stop him," Morik explained, walking over and putting his hand on his huge friend's bulging forearm. Only then did he notice Wulfgar's serious wound. "You must lead us to your camp." "No camp!" the man gasped. Wulfgar pressed and twisted. "I will! I will!" the thug squealed, his voice going away as Wulfgar tightened his grip, choking all sounds and all air. His face locked in an expression of the purest rage, the barbarian pressed on. "Let him go," Morik said. No answer. The man in Wulfgar's grasp wriggled and slapped but could neither break the hold nor draw breath. "Wulfgar!" Morik called, and he grabbed at the big man's arm with both hands, tugging fiercely. "Snap out of it, man!" Wulfgar wasn't hearing any of it, didn't even seem to notice the rogue. "You will thank me for this," Morik vowed, though he was not so sure as he balled up his fist and smashed Wulfgar on the side of the head. Wulfgar did let go of the thug, who slumped unconscious at the base of the tree, but only to backhand Morik, a blow that sent the rogue staggering backward, with Wulfgar coming in pursuit. Morik lifted his sword, ready to plunge it through the big man's heart if necessary, but at the last moment Wulfgar stopped, blinking repeatedly, as if he had just come awake. Morik recognized that Wulfgar had returned from wherever he had gone to this time and place. "He'll take us to the camp now," the rogue said. Wulfgar nodded dumbly, his gaze still foggy. He looked dispassionately at the broken arrow shaft poking from his wounded shoulder. The barbarian blanched, looked to Morik in puzzlement, then collapsed face down in the dirt. ***** Wulfgar awoke in the back of the wagon on the edge of a field lined by towering pines. He lifted his head with some effort and nearly panicked. A woman walking past was one of the thugs from the road. What happened? Had they lost? Before full panic set in, though, he heard Morik's lighthearted voice, and he forced himself up higher, wincing with pain as he put some weight on his injured arm. Wulfgar looked at that shoulder curiously; the arrow shaft was gone, the wound cleaned and dressed. Morik sat a short distance away, chatting amiably and sharing a bottle with another of the gnollish highwaymen as if they were old friends. Wulfgar slid to the end of the wagon and rolled his legs over, climbing unsteadily to his feet. The world swam before his eyes, black spots crossing his field of vision. The feeling passed quickly, though, and Wulfgar gingerly but deliberately made his way over to Morik. "Ah, you're awake. A drink, my friend?" the rogue asked, holding out the bottle. Frowning, Wulfgar shook his head. "Come now, ye gots to be drinkin'," the dog-faced gnoll sitting next to Morik slurred. He spooned a glob of thick stew into his mouth, half of it falling to the ground or down the front of his tunic. Wulfgar glared at Morik's wretched new comrade. "Rest easy, my friend," Morik said, recognizing that dangerous look. "Mickers here is a friend, a loyal one now that Togo is dead." "Send him away," Wulfgar said, and the gnoll dropped his jaw in surprise. Morik came up fast, moving to Wulfgar's side and taking him by the good arm. "They are allies," he explained. "All of them. They were loyal to Togo, and now they are loyal to me. And to you." "Send them away," Wulfgar repeated fiercely. "We're out on the road," Morik argued. "We need eyes, scouts to survey potential territory and swords to help us hold it fast." "No," Wulfgar said flatly. "You don't understand the dangers, my friend," Morik said reasonably, hoping to pacify his large friend. "Send them away!" Wulfgar yelled suddenly. Seeing he'd make no progress with Morik, he stormed up to Mickers. "Be gone from here and from this forest!" Mickers looked past the big man. Morik gave a resigned shrug. Mickers stood up. "I'll stay with him," he said, pointing to the rogue. Wulfgar slapped the stew bowl from the gnoll's hand and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him up to his tiptoes. "One last chance to leave of your own accord," the big man growled as he shoved Mickers back several steps. "Mister Morik?" Mickers complained. "Oh, be gone," Morik said unhappily. "And the rest of us, too?" asked another one of the humans of the bandit band, standing amidst a tumble of rocks on the edge of the field. He held a strung bow. "Them or me, Morik," Wulfgar said, his tone leaving no room for debate. The barbarian and the rogue both glanced back to the archer to see that the man had put an arrow to his bowstring. Wulfgar's eyes flared with simmering rage, and he started toward the archer. "One shot," he called steadily. "You will get one shot at me. Will you hit the mark?" The archer lifted his bow. "I don't think you will," Wulfgar said, smiling. "No, you will miss because you know." "Know what?" the archer dared ask. "Know that even if your arrow strikes me, it will not kill me," Wulfgar replied, and he continued his deliberate stalk. "Not right away, not before I get my hands around your throat." The man drew his bowstring back, but Wulfgar only smiled more confidently and continued forward. The archer glanced around nervously, looking for support, but there was none to be found. Realizing he had taken on too great a foe, the man eased his string, turned, and ran off. Wulfgar turned back. Mickers, too, had sprinted away. "Now we'll have to watch out for them," Morik observed glumly when Wulfgar returned to him. "You cost us allies." "I'll not ally myself with murdering thieves!" Wulfgar said simply. Morik jumped back from him. "What am I, if not a thief?" Wulfgar's expression softened. "Well, perhaps just one," he corrected with a chuckle. Morik laughed uneasily. "Here, my big and not so smart friend," he said, reaching for another bottle. "A drink to the two of us. Highwaymen!" "Will we find the same fate as our predecessors?" Wulfgar wondered aloud. "Our predecessors were not so smart," Morik explained. "I knew where to find them because they were too predictable. A good highwayman strikes and runs on to the next target area. A good highwayman seems like ten separate bands, always one step ahead of the city guards, ahead of those who ride into the cities with information enough to find and defeat him." "You sound as if you know the life well." "I have done it from time to time," Morik admitted. "Just because we're on the wild road doesn't mean we must live like savages," the rogue repeated what was fast becoming his mantra. He held the bottle out toward Wulfgar. It took all the willpower he could muster for Wulfgar to refuse that drink. His shoulder ached, and he was still agitated about the thugs. Retreat into a swirl of semiconsciousness was very inviting at that moment. But he did refuse by walking away from a stunned Morik. Moving to the other end of the field, he scrambled up a tree, settled into a comfortable niche, and sat back to survey the outlying lands. His gaze was drawn repeatedly to the mountains in the north, the Spine of the World, the barrier between him and that other world of Icewind Dale, that life he might have known and might still know. He thought of his friends again, mostly of Catti-brie. The barbarian fell asleep to dreams of her close in his arms, kissing him gently, a respite from the pains of the world. Suddenly Catti-brie backed away, and as Wulfgar watched, small ivory horns sprouted from her forehead and great bat wings extended behind her. A succubus, a demon of the Abyss, tricking him again in the hell of Errtu's torments, assuming the guise of comfort to seduce him. Wulfgar's eyes popped open wide, his breath coming in labored gasps. He tried to dismiss the horrible images, but they wouldn't let him go. Not this time. So poignant and distinct were they that the barbarian wondered if all of this, his last months of life, had been but a ruse by Errtu to bring him hope again so that the demon might stomp it. He saw the succubus, the horrid creature that had seduced him . . . "No!" Wulfgar growled, for it was too ugly a memory, too horrible for him to confront it yet again. I stole your seed, the succubus said to his mind, and he could not deny it. They had done it to him several times in the years of his torment, had taken his seed and spawned alu-demons, Wulfgar's children. It was the first time Wulfgar had been able to consciously recall the memory since his return to the surface, the first time the horror of seeing his demonic offspring had forced itself through the mental barriers he had erected. He saw them now, saw Errtu bring to him one such child, a crying infant, its mother succubus standing behind the demon. He saw Errtu present the infant high in the air, and then, right before Wulfgar's eyes, right before its howling mother's eyes, the great demon bit the child's head off. A spray of blood showered Wulfgar, who was unable to draw breath, unable to comprehend that Errtu had found a way to get at him yet again, the worst way of all. Wulfgar half scrambled and half tumbled out of the tree, landing hard on his injured shoulder, reopening the wound. Ignoring the pain, he sprinted across the field and found Morik resting beside the wagon. Wulfgar went right to the crates and frantically tore one open. His children! The offspring of his stolen seed! The potent liquid burned all the way down, the heat of it spreading, spreading, dulling Wulfgar's senses, blurring the horrid images.

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龙骑士城堡奇幻论坛's Archiver

世界之脊第十四章