冰与火之歌·卷五·魔龙的狂舞（上）

角落有故事

“Be wary o’ that lot, Jon Snow,” Tormund warned him. “A savage folk. The men are bad, the women worse.” He took a skin off his saddle and offered it up to Jon. “Here. This will make them seem less fearsome, might be. And warm you for the night. No, go on, it’s yours to keep. Drink deep.”


Within was a mead so potent it made Jon’s eyes water and sent tendrils of fire snaking through his chest. He drank deep. “You’re a good man, Tormund Giantsbabe. For a wildling.”


“Better than most, might be. Not so good as some.”


On and on the wildlings came, as the sun crept across the bright blue sky. Just before midday, the movement stopped when an oxcart became jammed at a turn inside the tunnel. Jon Snow went to have a look for himself. The cart was now wedged solid. The men behind were threatening to hack it apart and butcher the ox where he stood, whilst the driver and his kin swore to kill them if they tried. With the help of Tormund and his son Toregg, Jon managed to keep the wildlings from coming to blood, but it took the best part of an hour before the way was opened again.


“You need a bigger gate,” Tormund complained to Jon with a sour look up at the sky, where a few clouds had blown in. “Too bloody slow this way. Like sucking the Milkwater through a reed. Har. Would that I had the Horn of Joramun. I’d give it a nice toot and we’d climb through the rubble.”


“Melisandre burned the Horn of Joramun.”


“Did she?” Tormund slapped his thigh and hooted. “She burned that fine big horn, aye. A bloody sin, I call it. A thousand years old, that was. We found it in a giant’s grave, and no man o’ us had ever seen a horn so big. That must have been why Mance got the notion to tell you it were Joramun’s. He wanted you crows to think he had it in his power to blow your bloody Wall down about your knees. But we never found the true horn, not for all our digging. If we had, every kneeler in your Seven Kingdoms would have chunks o’ ice to cool his wine all summer.”

角落有故事

Jon turned in his saddle, frowning. And Joramun blew the Horn of Winter and woke giants from the earth. That huge horn with its bands of old gold, incised with ancient runes … had Mance Rayder lied to him, or was Tormund lying now? If Mance’s horn was just a feint, where is the true horn?


By afternoon the sun had gone, and the day turned grey and gusty. “A snow sky,” Tormund announced grimly.


Others had seen the same omen in those flat white clouds. It seemed to spur them on to haste. Tempers began to fray. One man was stabbed when he tried to slip in ahead of others who had been hours in the column. Toregg wrenched the knife away from his attacker, dragged both men from the press, and sent them back to the wildling camp to start again.


“Tormund,” Jon said, as they watched four old women pull a cartful of children toward the gate, “tell me of our foe. I would know all there is to know of the Others.”


The wildling rubbed his mouth. “Not here,” he mumbled, “not this side o’ your Wall.” The old man glanced uneasily toward the trees in their white mantles. “They’re never far, you know. They won’t come out by day, not when that old sun’s shining, but don’t think that means they went away. Shadows never go away. Might be you don’t see them, but they’re always clinging to your heels.”


“Did they trouble you on your way south?”


“They never came in force, if that’s your meaning, but they were with us all the same, nibbling at our edges. We lost more outriders than I care to think about, and it was worth your life to fall behind or wander off. Every nightfall we’d ring our camps with fire. They don’t like fire much, and no mistake. When the snows came, though … snow and sleet and freezing rain, it’s bloody hard to find dry wood or get your kindling lit, and the cold … some nights our fires just seemed to shrivel up and die. Nights like that, you always find some dead come the morning. ’Less they find you first. The night that Torwynd … my boy, he …” Tormund turned his face away.

角落有故事

“I know,” said Jon Snow.


Tormund turned back. “You know nothing. You killed a dead man, aye, I heard. Mance killed a hundred. A man can fight the dead, but when their masters come, when the white mists rise up … how do you fight a mist, crow? Shadows with teeth … air so cold it hurts to breathe, like a knife inside your chest … you do not know, you cannot know … can your sword cut cold?”


We will see, Jon thought, remembering the things that Sam had told him, the things he’d found in his old books. Longclaw had been forged in the fires of old Valyria, forged in dragonflame and set with spells. Dragon-steel, Sam called it. Stronger than any common steel, lighter, harder, sharper … But words in a book were one thing. The true test came in battle.


“You are not wrong,” Jon said. “I do not know. And if the gods are good, I never will.”


“The gods are seldom good, Jon Snow.” Tormund nodded toward the sky. “The clouds roll in. Already it grows darker, colder. Your Wall no longer weeps. Look.” He turned and called out to his son Toregg. “Ride back to the camp and get them moving. The sick ones and the weak ones, the slugabeds and cravens, get them on their bloody feet. Set their bloody tents afire if you must. The gate must close at nightfall. Any man not through the Wall by then had best pray the Others get to him afore I do. You hear?”


“I hear.” Toregg put his heels into his horse and galloped back down the column.


On and on the wildlings came. The day grew darker, just as Tormund said. Clouds covered the sky from horizon to horizon, and warmth fled. There was more shoving at the gate, as men and goats and bullocks jostled each other out of the way. It is more than impatience, Jon realized. They are afraid. Warriors, spearwives, raiders, they are frightened of those woods, of shadows moving through the trees. They want to put the Wall between them before the night descends.


A snowflake danced upon the air. Then another. Dance with me, Jon Snow, he thought. You’ll dance with me anon.

角落有故事

On and on and on the wildlings came. Some were moving faster now, hastening across the battleground. Others—the old, the young, the feeble—could scarce move at all. This morning the field had been covered with a thick blanket of old snow, its white crust shining in the sun. Now the field was brown and black and slimy. The passage of the free folk had turned the ground to mud and muck: wooden wheels and horses’ hooves, runners of bone and horn and iron, pig trotters, heavy boots, the cloven feet of cows and bullocks, the bare black feet of the Hornfoot folk, all had left their marks. The soft footing slowed the column even more. “You need a bigger gate,” Tormund complained again.


By late afternoon the snow was falling steadily, but the river of wildlings had dwindled to a stream. Columns of smoke rose from the trees where their camp had been. “Toregg,” Tormund explained. “Burning the dead. Always some who go to sleep and don’t wake up. You find them in their tents, them as have tents, curled up and froze. Toregg knows what to do.”


The stream was no more than a trickle by the time Toregg emerged from the wood. With him rode a dozen mounted warriors armed with spears and swords. “My rear guard,” Tormund said, with a gap-toothed smile. “You crows have rangers. So do we. Them I left in camp in case we were attacked before we all got out.”


“Your best men.”


“Or my worst. Every man o’ them has killed a crow.”


Amongst the riders came one man afoot, with some big beast trotting at his heels. A boar, Jon saw. A monstrous boar. Twice the size of Ghost, the creature was covered with coarse black hair, with tusks as long as a man’s arm. Jon had never seen a boar so huge or ugly. The man beside him was no beauty either; hulking, black-browed, he had a flat nose, heavy jowls dark with stubble, small black close-set eyes.


“Borroq.” Tormund turned his head and spat. “A skinchanger.” It was not a question. Somehow he knew.


Ghost turned his head. The falling snow had masked the boar’s scent, but now the white wolf had the smell. He padded out in front of Jon, his teeth bared in a silent snarl.

角落有故事

“No!” Jon snapped. “Ghost, down. Stay. Stay!”


“Boars and wolves,” said Tormund. “Best keep that beast o’ yours locked up tonight. I’ll see that Borroq does the same with his pig.” He glanced up at the darkening sky. “Them’s the last, and none too soon. It’s going to snow all night, I feel it. Time I had a look at what’s on t’other side of all that ice.”


“You go ahead,” Jon told him. “I mean to be the last one through the ice. I will join you at the feast.”


“Feast? Har! Now that’s a word I like to hear.” The wildling turned his garron toward the Wall and slapped her on the rump. Toregg and the riders followed, dismounting by the gate to lead their horses through. Bowen Marsh stayed long enough to supervise as his stewards pulled the last carts into the tunnel. Only Jon Snow and his guards were left.


The skinchanger stopped ten yards away. His monster pawed at the mud, snuffling. A light powdering of snow covered the boar’s humped black back. He gave a snort and lowered his head, and for half a heartbeat Jon thought he was about to charge. To either side of him, his men lowered their spears.


“Brother,” Borroq said. “You’d best go on. We are about to close the gate.”


“You do that,” Borroq said. “You close it good and tight. They’re coming, crow.” He smiled as ugly a smile as Jon had ever seen and made his way to the gate. The boar stalked after him. The falling snow covered up their tracks behind them.


“That’s done, then,” Rory said when they were gone.


No, thought Jon Snow, it has only just begun.


Bowen Marsh was waiting for him south of the Wall, with a tablet full of numbers. “Three thousand one hundred and nineteen wildlings passed through the gate today,” the Lord Steward told him. “Sixty of your hostages were sent off to Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower after they’d been fed. Edd Tollett took six wagons of women back to Long Barrow. The rest remain with us.”


“Not for long,” Jon promised him. “Tormund means to lead his own folk to Oakenshield within a day or two. The rest will follow, as soon as we sort where to put them.”

角落有故事

“As you say, Lord Snow.” The words were stiff. The tone suggested that Bowen Marsh knew where he would put them.


The castle Jon returned to was far different from the one he’d left that morning. For as long as he had known it, Castle Black had been a place of silence and shadows, where a meagre company of men in black moved like ghosts amongst the ruins of a fortress that had once housed ten times their numbers. All that had changed. Lights now shone through windows where Jon Snow had never seen lights shine before. Strange voices echoed down the yards, and free folk were coming and going along icy paths that had only known the black boots of crows for years. Outside the old Flint Barracks, he came across a dozen men pelting one another with snow. Playing, Jon thought in astonishment, grown men playing like children, throwing snowballs the way Bran and Arya once did, and Robb and me before them.


Donal Noye’s old armory was still dark and silent, however, and Jon’s rooms back of the cold forge were darker still. But he had no sooner taken off his cloak than Dannel poked his head through the door to announce that Clydas had brought a message.


“Send him in.” Jon lit a taper from an ember in his brazier and three candles from the taper.


Clydas entered pink and blinking, the parchment clutched in one soft hand. “Beg pardon, Lord Commander. I know you must be weary, but I thought you would want to see this at once.”


“You did well.” Jon read:


At Hardhome, with six ships. Wild seas. Blackbird lost with all hands, two Lyseni ships driven aground on Skane, Talon taking water. Very bad here. Wildlings eating their own dead. Dead things in the woods. Braavosi captains will only take women, children on their ships. Witch women call us slavers. Attempt to take Storm Crow defeated, six crew dead, many wildlings. Eight ravens left. Dead things in the water. Send help by land, seas wracked by storms. From Talon, by hand of Maester Harmune.


Cotter Pyke had made his angry mark below. “Is it grievous, my lord?” asked Clydas. “Grievous enough.” Dead things in the wood. Dead things in the water. Six ships left, of the eleven that set sail. Jon Snow rolled up the parchment, frowning. Night falls, he thought, and now my war begins.

角落有故事

59　被抛弃的骑士（巴利斯坦二）


    “伟大的希兹达尔·佐·洛拉克陛下，高贵的第十四代坎达克、弥林之王，吉斯神的化身、安达尔及先民之王、斯卡扎丹河之主、龙之母，驾到，全体行礼！”传礼官吼道。他的声音在大理石地面和石柱间回响。


    巴利斯坦·赛尔弥爵士收剑回鞘单手挽袍。国王面前除守卫外禁止刀械。尽管已被解职，但似乎他仍被默认为守卫之一。起码，他的剑还在。


    丹妮莉丝·坦格利安喜欢坐在锃亮的乌檀木长椅上上朝，平和又简单，铺满巴利斯坦认为用来便于舒适的软垫。斯卡哈兹王却把长椅换成两把镀金的高大木王座，王座背后被雕成龙形。陛下坐在右手边的王座，头戴黄金宝冠，手持宝石权杖。另一个王座却空空如也。


    那个更重要，巴利斯坦想着，在精巧的龙椅也取代不了真龙。


    王座右侧站着巨人戈哈（Goghor），一个满脸伤疤的残暴的庞然大物。左侧是斑点猫，一袭豹皮披肩。他们之后是碎骨者贝拉乔和冷眼卡拉兹。都是些老道的杀手，赛尔弥总结道，但找出隐藏的杀手并行动，与在竞技场下迎击伴着号角与战鼓而来袭的敌人是两码事。


    虽然时间还很早，但他却疲惫入骨，仿佛他奋战过一夜。岁数增长着，但睡眠却减少着。当侍从的岁月里，他一夜要睡十个钟头，却依然在步入操练场时哈欠连天。然而63岁得他却发觉，5个小时用于睡眠都绰绰有余。昨夜，他压根没有睡。他的寝室紧邻女王寝宫，本是奴隶营房。他的家具不过一张床、夜壶、衣柜，以及一把他从未坐过的椅子。在床头柜上，他放着蜡烛和战士的小雕像。虽然他不虔诚，但这雕像能让他在这异乡少点孤独，这也是他值夜岗的缘由。让我免于被滋生的怀疑所扰吧，他祈求道，赐予我力量去做正义之事。但无论是祈祷还是黎明都没有给予他信心。


   


    大厅里从未这么拥挤过，但那些确实的面孔才是巴利斯坦·赛尔弥最怀念的：弥桑黛、贝沃斯、灰虫子、阿戈和乔戈以及卡拉洛，伊莉和姬琪，达里奥·纳哈里斯。站在剃头者位置的是个带着狮面塑形胸甲的胖子他沉重的腿几乎撑破了皮带；马哈兹·莫·坎达克，国王的表亲，铜盔野兽的新指挥官，打从赛尔弥看见他的第一眼就对他产生了轻蔑的印象。在君临他就如此，媚上欺下这套他做不到，不仅出于骄傲，更出于自豪。


    斯卡哈兹应该也在厅内，赛尔弥意识到，他那臭脸隐藏在面具之后。四十个铜盔野兽站在柱子间，火炬之光在他们的面具上闪耀。那个剃头者可能是他们中的任意一个。


    大厅内齐声响起数百个低鸣，回响在大理石板和石柱之间。这使预兆之音变得愤恼。这让赛尔弥联想到成群的大黄蜂来到前的那一只警戒蜂的轰鸣，而他在聚集的人群脸上看见了愤怒、悲哀、怀疑、恐惧。

角落有故事

    在这丑陋开始前，国王的传礼官差点来不及肃静厅堂。一个女子为她在达兹纳卡竞技场里死去的兄弟哀嚎，还有她的轿子。一个胖子揭开绷带展示依旧鲜血淋漓的烧伤。当一个戴着蓝金色托卡的家伙说着英雄的哈戈兹时，他身后的一位自由民将他推倒。花了六个铜盔野兽将他们分开带离厅堂。狐狸、老鹰、海豹、蝗虫、狮子、蟾蜍。赛尔弥不禁设想面具和面具之后的人是否有关联。他们是成天戴着一种面具，还是每天早上换一个？


    “安静下”雷兹纳克·莫·雷兹卡恳求着，“行么！我将挨个解决如果...”


    “是不是真的？”一个自由民呼喊道“我们的母亲真的死了？”


    “不，不，不”雷兹纳克尖叫道，“丹妮莉丝女王将带着她的威仪和权势在她认为合适的时候回归弥林。在那以前，希兹达尔陛下将——”


    “他可不是我们的王。”一个自由民高喊道。


    人群开始推搡。“女王陛下没死”管家强调道，“她的血盟卫已经散布于斯卡扎丹河两岸寻觅她，将她带回给她挚爱而忠诚的王。每队都有十个精挑细选的骑手，每个骑手都有三匹备马，以备于尽快找到陛下。丹妮莉丝陛下必将回来”


    一个高个身着棉袍的吉斯人接着说，声调高到冰凉。希兹达尔王挪了挪王座，他面无表情，尽力做着关心的样子，但事实上却毫不在意。又一次，他的管家做出了裁决。


    巴利斯坦无视了雷兹纳克的油滑。他的御林铁卫的岁月造就了他听而不闻的能力，尤其是当说话的专心证明话语如风。在厅堂后方，他发现了那个多恩王子和他的两个伙伴。他们不该来。昆汀没意识到他的危险。在这庭上丹妮莉丝是他唯一的的朋友。而她却不在。他怀疑他们对于所听的语言究竟能理解几分。即使是他也不完全理解这些奴隶所说的混杂的吉斯腔调，尤其当他们语速如飞的时候。


    至少昆汀王子在专心听。简直就是他父亲的翻版。矮小精壮，长相朴实，看着是个正直的小伙，冷静、敏感、本分......却不能让那女孩一见钟情。而丹妮莉丝·坦格利安，无论名讳如何，仍旧是少女怀春，就如她天真烂漫的那面一样。作为女王她把她的子民放在首位——否则她也不会嫁给希兹达尔·佐·洛拉克——但她内心依旧渴望浪漫、激情与爱意。她想要热情似火，可多恩人却给她送来沉稳如泥。


    你可以从泥沼里提取药膏治疗热病，你也可以在泥土里植下种子生长成庄家来滋养你的孩童，泥土会滋养你，而烈火只会烧尽你。但是傻子、孩子和少女却总被热情所误导。


    王子背后，杰瑞斯·德林克沃在朝克莱特·伊伦伍德低语。杰瑞斯爵士和他的王子长的迥然相反：高大精瘦标志，有着军人的威仪和政客的智慧。赛尔弥毫不怀疑再多恩，少女轻抚滑过那黄金的顺发，亲吻在那戏谑笑容的嘴唇上。如果他是王子，事情就简单多了，他不经意的想......但德林克沃特在塔看来有点可爱过头了。劣币，老骑士寻思着，他接触过这类人。

角落有故事

    他窃语了不知什么趣事，引得他的高个秃顶家伙突然笑出了声，响到足以把国王的注意也吸引了去。而他看见多恩王子，立即皱了皱眉。


    巴利斯坦对眉头感觉不妙。而国王召唤他侄子马格哈兹近前弯头低语，他预感到更糟糕了。


    我对多恩没有誓言，巴利斯坦对自己说。但多恩亲王勒文·马泰尔曾是他的誓言兄弟，在那个御林铁卫里手足情谊还浓厚的岁月。在三叉河畔我辜负了勒文亲王，但今天我能帮他的侄子以赎过。那个马泰尔在赴鸿门宴，却对危险视而不见。他不断的求见，即使在丹妮莉丝在众神和大庭广众之下出走消失之后，必将激起任何丈夫的怒火，而昆汀又没了女王做挡箭牌。虽然......


    忽然一个念头窜上他的脑海。昆汀是土生土长的多恩人。诡计和毒药对他来说在熟悉不过，他叔叔勒文亲王亦是如此。他还是红毒蛇的亲戚。丹妮莉丝已经有了配偶，但一旦希兹达尔死了，她又从婚姻中解放了出来。难道剃头者是错的？谁能保证那蝗虫是给丹妮莉丝的？那是在国王自己的盒子里。如果他才是受害者？希兹达尔的死必将打破脆弱的和平。鹰身女妖之子必将寻求报复，还有渊凯人的战争。丹妮莉丝别无选择只能接受昆汀他的婚姻。


    巴利斯坦还在猜疑寻思中，却听到厅堂之后石阶传来沉重的靴步声。渊凯人来了。三个善主带着队伍从黄色之城而来，每位都有自己的武装随侍，一个奴隶穿着镶金边的栗色丝绸托卡，一个是橘色条纹鸭皮，第三个穿着华丽的胸甲，上面用墨黑、翡翠及珍珠母绘着情色之景。红胡子的佣兵团长紧随之后，肩披巨大的皮质口袋，面露杀戮的快感。


   


    没有破烂王，赛尔弥注意到。没有布朗·本·普拉姆。巴利斯坦冷眼看着红胡子。给我


半点理由来回回你，看谁能笑到最后。


雷兹纳克挪步向前。“善主大人们，您的嫁到蓬荜生辉。尊贵的希兹达尔陛下必然期待着渊凯而来的贵客。我们理解……”


“理解这个！”红胡子从麻袋里丢出个头颅在总管面前。


雷兹纳克惊恐地躲闪开来。头颅擦过他，在王室厅大理石地面上弹跳着滚到希兹达尔王的龙座前，留下一路血迹。整个大厅里，铜盔野兽都握起长矛。巨人戈哈沉步上前挡在王座之前，斑点猫和卡拉兹紧随他旁组成人墙。


红胡子笑道：“他死了，死人才不会动。”


小心翼翼，颤颤巍巍地，总管靠近了头颅，从头发拎起。“格罗莱船长。”


巴利斯坦瞟了眼王座。他伺奉过不少帝王，这样的挑衅引起的反应让他好奇猜测。伊里斯该会惊恐地退缩，估计又要被铁王座的倒刺划伤，然后尖呼侍卫砍翻这些渊凯人。劳勃估计会拿起大锤直接招呼上红胡子。即使公认懦弱的杰赫里斯二世，也会下令逮捕红胡子和这些渊凯人。

角落有故事

希兹达尔傻坐在王座上，呆若木鸡。雷兹纳克放下个滑枕在国王脚下，就惊惶跑开，满是厌恶恶心的表情。几尺之外巴利斯坦就能闻到管家熏鼻的香水味。


那个死人头满眼责备。他棕色的胡须上还有血块，但颈脖上仍渗出血滴。从这惨样来看，看下这家伙的头费了不止一刀。大厅后部，请愿人群开始散去。一个铜盔野兽摘下自己的鹰面具，呕吐起早饭。


巴利斯坦对这死人不陌生。这个就是……它穿越了半个世界和这老水手，从潘托斯到魁尔斯再到阿斯塔波。格罗莱是个好人。他不该就这样死去。他所想的不过是回家。骑士感到紧张，等待着。


“这，”希兹达尔王终于说话，“这不是……我们不能接受，这……这什么意思？这……”


栗色昆卡的那个善主递上一张羊皮纸，“我很荣幸传达善主议会的决议。”他铺开纸卷。“都写在这：‘有七位弥林签署和平条约并出席达兹纳卡竞技场的纪念仪式。为了他们的安全，必须交换七名人质给我们。渊凯为它高贵子民尤卡哈兹·桌·云扎卡哀悼，他来弥林作客却被冷酷杀害。血债必须血偿。’”


格罗莱在潘托斯还有老婆孩子孙子。为什么是他？在这些人质中，乔戈，哈洛，和达里奥·纳哈里斯都是战士，但格罗莱不过是个水手。他们难道是抓阄，还是他们认为格罗莱对我们最没价值，最不可能引起报复？骑士问着自己……但提问却比解答轻松。我对此毫无头绪。


“陛下，”巴利斯坦大声说，“不知您还记得否，高贵的云扎卡死于意外。他在逃离巨龙时被石阶绊倒，摔在他自己的随从和奴隶中。这些，再加上他被惊吓心跳过速，他已年长。”


“谁能未经陛下的允许发言？”渊凯的条纹托卡的善主问道，一个矮子有着窄下巴和龅牙。他让赛尔弥想起了兔子。“渊凯的善主要和侍卫瞎扯了么？”他摇了摇托卡流苏上的珍珠。


希兹达尔·佐·洛拉克还呆盯着头颅。当雷兹纳克在他耳边低语了几句才缓过神来。“尤卡·哈兹·卓·云扎卡曾是你们的执政官，”他说，“现在谁来为渊凯做决定？”


“我们所有的，”兔子接口，“善主议会。”


希兹达尔突然来了精神，“那么你们都要为和平的破裂负责。”


穿胸铠的渊凯人说道：“我们的和平没被违背。以血还血，以命换命。为了展现我们的善意，我们将释放三名人质。”他身后的卫士散开。三个弥林人被推上来，抓住他们的托卡——两女一男。


“姐妹，”希兹达尔·佐·洛拉克生硬地说道，“侄子。”他指了指流血的头颅。“把那擦干净吧。”


“船长是属于海洋的。”巴利斯坦提醒说。“尊请陛下能向渊凯人要回他的遗体，以便我们将他葬于大海。”