Jump to content
模组网
icedream

【书籍搬运】Last Scabbard of Akrash 阿克拉什的最后剑鞘

Recommended Posts

原文地址:http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Skyrim:Last_Scabbard_of_Akrash

中文翻译:

阿克拉什的最后剑鞘

——塔巴尔·温齐兹

在第三纪元407年的连续几个温暖夏日里,一个年轻漂亮的丹莫女子头戴面纱,总在固定的时间来拜访泪城(泪城)的一位盔甲匠大师。本地人是从她的身形姿态来判定她年轻貌美的,但并没有人亲眼见过她的脸孔。她和盔甲匠会去到商店的后台,而盔甲匠则会在之后几个小时里临时歇业,还把所有的学徒都轰出去。然后,在下午过半之后,她就会离去,然后在下一天的分毫不差的相同时刻再次现身。流言传得飞快,虽然内容很贫瘠,但那个老家伙能同一位穿着华美魅力绝伦的女性发生什么关系却也滋养了几个粗鲁笑话。几周之后,这种拜访停止了,而泪城的贫民窟生活也回归了正轨。

而直到拜访结束的一两个月之后,一个年轻的本地裁缝在附近许多酒馆中的某一个里面,因为听了太多爆料,于是就向盔甲匠问道:“你的那位贵妇女友到底怎么了?你伤她的心了?”

盔甲匠也知道流言里都在说些什么,就简简单单回答道:“她可是一名高贵且举止得体的年轻小姐。她和我这类的人不会发生什么的。”

“那她每天都跑去你的商店干什么?”酒馆女郎早就想挑开天窗说亮话,于是就问了。

“你真想知道的话,”盔甲匠回答道,“我在把我的技艺传授给她。”

“你骗人。”裁缝大笑着说。

“不,那位小姐就是对我这项特殊工艺有一种特殊的迷恋。”盔甲匠带着一丝骄傲说道,然后就陷入了回忆之中,“我特别教会了她如何修理剑,从豁口到断裂到裂纹,无论在柄端在锷叉还是在剑柄上。最开始的时候她完全不知道怎么把剑柄固定在刀剑的柄角上……嗯,最开始她当然是新手,谁不是呢?不过她倒不怕把手弄脏。我教她如何在剑上镶嵌金银细丝装饰,就像你在真正的好剑上见到的那些,还教她如何把剑面磨光得像镜子一样,就好像这剑是众神自己从天堂神砧上取下的。”

酒馆女郎和裁缝狂笑不已。不管盔甲匠怎么解释,他谈起那位小姐的训练来就仿佛其他人说起昔日旧欢。

本来酒馆的本地人里去听盔甲匠单相思故事的人数应该再多些,但另一条更为重要的流言吸引了更多的注意力。镇中心又发生了一桩奴隶贩子的谋杀案,受害人直接被前后戳穿了。在短短两周里这已经是第六个被害人了。有人管杀手叫做“解放者”,但这类废奴狂热在老百姓中间也挺罕见的。他们反倒愿意把他称为“砍头手”,因为最初几个受害人完全被砍头了。尽管后面的被害人只是简单被穿孔、被割喉或者被戳穿,但“砍头手”这个绰号倒保留下来了。

那些乐得看热闹的小阿飞们都在打赌下一个奴隶贩子的尸体会是什么状况,不过与此同时几十个从事这种交易却还活着的商人都聚集在了德莱斯·米奈高尔先生(S厄吉o 德拉司 Minegaur)的大宅里。米奈高尔是德莱斯家族的一个次等仆从,但却是奴隶贸易同僚会的高级成员。也许他的黄金岁月早就过去了,但他的同僚依旧要仰仗他的智慧。

“我们要把关于这个‘砍头手’的情报进行汇总,然后依此寻找目标。”米奈高尔坐在他熊熊燃烧的壁炉前说,“我们知道他对奴隶和奴隶贩子有一种缺乏理性的恨意。我们知道他是个用剑好手。我们知道他行事隐蔽而灵活,能在我们兄弟最安全住所的重重护卫之下杀死他们。这在我听起来像是个冒险者,一个异邦人。没有晨风的居民能这样对我们造成打击。”

奴隶贩子们点点头表示赞同。他们麻烦的源头最有可能就是个异邦人,总是这样。

“要是我再年轻五十岁,我就要从壁炉中抽出我的阿克拉什之剑。”米奈高尔挥手指了指那件闪闪发光的武器,“然后和你们一起把这个恐怖杀手掀出来。在冒险者通常会聚会的地方把他找出来——酒馆或者是公会大厅,然后给他看看咱们自己的砍头艺术。”

奴隶贩子们礼貌地大笑出来。

“我猜您不会允许我们借用您的剑来实施这次处刑吧,先生?”一个年轻又喜欢拍马屁的奴隶主索隆·杰莱斯热心问道。

“这是个使用阿克拉什的好理由。”米奈高尔叹了口气,“但在我退出江湖时,我立誓说要雪藏这把剑了。”

米奈高尔把她的女儿佩莉娅(Peliah)叫上来,让她给奴隶主们满上弗林酒(Flin),但他们摆摆手让姑娘离开。今天晚上是要用来商讨猎杀“砍头手”的,可没时间让他们把烦恼一饮而尽。米奈高尔衷心赞许他们的热情投入,尤其是考虑到那酒能有多贵的情况下。

在所有奴隶主都离开之后,老人亲了亲女儿的额头,朝阿克拉什最后一次充满爱惜地看了一眼后就上床睡觉了。他刚一睡熟佩莉娅就把剑取下,带着它向大宅后的田野飞奔而去。她知道卡扎(Kazagh)一定已经在马厩等了她好几个小时了。

他从阴影下跳到她面前,用那双健壮又多毛的手臂紧紧环住她,同她长久又甜蜜地亲吻起来。尽其所能地紧抱住他,她最终还是挪开,然后把剑交给了他。他试了试剑锋。

“最好的虎人剑匠也磨不出这么锐利的剑锋。”他充满自豪地看着他的爱人,“我知道昨晚我肯定在上面弄出裂痕了。”

“确实如此。”佩莉娅回答说,“你一定用它刺穿铁护甲了。”

“奴隶主们现在都采取预防措施了。”他回应道,“他们开会都说了些什么?”

“他们以为这是一个异邦冒险者干的。”她笑了出来,“在他们看来,一个虎人奴隶才不会拥有实行所有这些‘砍头’的技巧。”

“你父亲也没怀疑刺入压迫心脏的正是他心爱的阿克拉什?”

“要是他发现这剑每天都崭新如故,他又为什么要去怀疑呢?现在我必须要回去了,在有人注意到我逃出来之前。我的奶妈有时回来问我婚礼的细节准备如何,就好像我在这件事上有任何选择权一样。”

“我向你保证。”卡扎十分认真地说,“你绝不会只为巩固你家的贩奴王朝就被别人强娶为妻子。阿克拉什的最后剑鞘就是你父亲的心脏。而一旦你变成了孤儿,你就可以解放那些奴隶,搬到更文明的省份去,然后嫁给你真正喜欢的人。”

“我倒想知道那人会是谁。”佩莉娅开玩笑似的说,然后冲出了马厩。

晨光未明之时,佩莉娅就悄悄起床,然后溜入花园,在苦绿(bittergreen)藤下找到了藏在那里的阿克拉什。剑锋相对而言依旧锐利,但剑面上却多了几条垂直的划痕。又一个被砍头了,她取出浮石耐心打磨剑面的时候想,最后她用盐和醋给剑面剖光。在她父亲走入客厅吃饭的时候,宝剑正以与先前分毫不差的状况挂在披风之上。

当消息传来,说佩莉娅的未婚夫凯米利思·托罗姆(Kemillith 托罗姆)被人发现倒在城区之外,他的头用长枪刺着插在几尺之外,佩莉娅到不用故作悲伤。她父亲知道她并不想嫁给他。

“真是可惜。”他说,“这年轻人是个挺不错的奴隶主。不过想要和咱们家结亲的年轻人还有很多。年轻的索隆·杰莱斯怎么样?”

两天之后,索隆·杰莱斯就被“砍头手”拜访了。索隆的挣扎并没有持续很长时间,但他却为了自卫武装了自己——把一根在毒草败液中浸过的针藏在了袖中。在承受了致命一击之后,他向前倒去,用独针刺中了卡扎的小腿。在卡扎回到米奈高尔大宅之时,他已经濒临死亡了。

在模糊的视线下,他爬上佩莉娅的屋檐,敲击着她的窗户。佩莉娅并没有立刻回应他,因为她睡得正香,正做着同她虎人情郎共渡未来的美梦。他只能敲得更响,结果不止是惊醒了佩莉娅,却连她隔壁的父亲也一起惊醒了。

“卡扎!”她惊叫着,连忙打开了窗户。可下一个进入卧室的人却正是米奈高尔本人。

结果他看见它,这个奴隶——他的财产——正准备要砍下他女儿——他的财产——的头,使用的正是他的剑——他的财产。突然间爆发出了年轻人一般的力量,米奈高尔冲到濒死的虎人面前,把剑从他手中震飞。在佩莉娅能进行阻止之前,她的父亲就把剑刺入了她爱人的心脏。

处刑结束,老人扔下剑转身走向门口去叫守卫。可随后他就想到他必须确认女儿有没有受伤,是否需要叫医者过来。米奈高尔朝她转过身来。一开始他只是觉得有些迷茫,感受到了冲击却没有感受到刀锋划过。随后他看见了血,也感受到了疼痛。在他完全意识到正是他的女儿用阿克拉什刺中了他之前,他就死去了。宝剑最终还是找到了自己的剑鞘。

一周之后,在官方调查结束之后,奴隶被葬在了大宅田地的一个无名墓里,而德莱斯·米奈高尔先生则在家族陵寝的一个不起眼角落找到了自己的安息之所。一大群好奇者都来巴望这个贵族奴隶主的葬礼,因为他的秘密身份就是那个袭击竞争对手的野蛮“砍头手”。听众全体都默不作声,但每个人都在想象这人生命的最后一刻是怎样的情景。出于疯狂袭击了自己的亲生女儿,却幸运地被一位忠诚又倒霉的奴隶阻止,最终只能自我了断。

在围观者中就有那个老盔甲匠,他在那里最后一次见到了那个戴着面纱的年轻小姐,而后她就永远从泪城消失了。

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Last Scabbard of Akrash
by Tabar Vunqidh
Story of a slaver's daughter and her Khajiit lover


For several warm summer days in the year 3E 407, a young, pretty Dunmer woman in a veil regularly visited one of the master armorers in the city of Tear. The locals decided that she was young and pretty by her figure and her poise, though no one ever saw her face. She and the armorer would retire to the back of his shop, and he would close down his business and dismiss his apprentices for a few hours. Then, at mid-afternoon, she would leave, only to return at precisely the same time the next day. As gossip goes, it was fairly meager stuff, though what the old man was doing with such a well dressed and attractively proportioned woman was the source of several crude jokes. After several weeks, the visits stopped, and life returned to normal in the slums of Tear.
It was not until a month or two after the visits had stopped, that in one of the many taverns in the neighborhood, a young local tailor, having imbibed too much sauce, asked the armorer, “So whatever happened to your lady friend? You break her heart?”
The armorer, well aware of the rumors, simply replied, “She is a proper young lady of quality. There was nothing between her and the likes of me.”
“What was she doing at your shop every day for?” asked the tavern wench, who had been dying to get the subject open.
“If you must know,” said the armorer. “I was teaching her the craft.”
“You're putting us on,” laughed the tailor.
“No, the young lady had a particular fascination with my particular kind of artistry,” the armorer said, with a hint of pride before getting lost in the reverie. “I taught her how to mend swords specifically, from all kinds of nicks and breaks, hairline fissures, cracked pommels, quillons, and grips. When she first started, she had no idea how to secure the grips to the tang of the blade... Well, of course she was green to start off with, why wouldn't she be? But she weren't afraid to get her hands dirty. I taught her how to patch the little inlaid silver and gold filigree you find on really fine blades, and how to polish it all to a mirror sheen so the sword looks like the gods just pulled it from their celestial anvil.”
The tavern wench and the tailor laughed out loud. No matter what he alleged, the armorer was speaking of the young lady's training as another man speaks of a long lost love.
More of the locals in the tavern would have listened to the armorer's pathetic tale, but more important gossip had taken precedence. There was another murdered slave-trader found in the center of town, gutted from fore to aft. That made six of them total in barely a fortnight. Some called the killer “The Liberator,” but that sort of anti-slavery zeal was rare among the common folk. They preferred calling him “The Lopper,” as several of the earlier victims had been completely beheaded. Others had been simply perforated, sliced, or gutted, but “The Lopper” still kept his original sobriquet.
While the enthusiastic hooligans made bets about the condition of the next slave-trader's corpse, several dozen of the surviving members of that trade were meeting at the manor house of Serjo Dres Minegaur. Minegaur was a minor houseman of House Dres, but a major member of the slave-trading fraternity. Perhaps his best years were behind him, but his associates still counted on him for wisdom.
“We need to take what we know of this Lopper and search accordingly,” said Minegaur, seated in front of his opulent hearth. “We know he has an unreasonable hatred of slavery and slave-traders. We know he is skilled with a blade. We know he has the stealth and finesse to execute our most well-secured brethren in their most secure abodes. It sounds to me to be an adventurer, an Outlander. Surely no citizen of Morrowind would strike at us like this.”
The slave-traders nodded in agreement. An Outlander seemed most likely for their troubles. It was always true.
“Were I fifty years younger, I would take down my blade Akrash from the hearth,” Minegaur made an expansive gesture to the shimmering weapon. “And join you in seeking out this terror. Search him out where adventurers meet -- taverns and guildhalls. Then show him a little lopping of my own.”
The slave-traders laughed politely.
“You wouldn't let us borrow your blade for the execution, I suppose, would you, Serjo?” asked Soron Jeles, a young toadying slaver enthusiastically.
“It would be an excellent use for Akrash,” sighed Minegaur. “But I vowed to retire her when I retired.”
Minegaur called for his daughter Peliah to bring the slavers more flin, but they waved the girl away. It was to be a night for hunting the Lopper, not drinking away their troubles. Minegaur heartily approved of their devotion, particular as expensive as the liquor was getting to be.
When the last of the slavers had left, the old man kissed his daughter on the head, took one last admiring look at Akrash, and toddled off to his bed. No sooner had he done so then [sic] Peliah had the blade off the mantle, and was flying with it across the field behind the manor house. She knew Kazagh had been waiting for her for hours in the stables.
He sprung out at her from the shadows, and wrapping his strong, furry arms around her, kissed her long and sweet. Holding him as long as she dared to, she finally broke away and handed him the blade. He tested its edge.
“The finest Khajiiti swordsmith couldn't hone an edge this keen,” he said, looking at his beloved with pride. “And I know I nicked it up good last night.”
“That you did,” said Peliah. “You must have cut through an iron cuirass.”
“The slavers are taking precautions now,” he replied. “What did they say during their meeting?”
“They think it's an Outlander adventurer,” she laughed. “It didn't occur to any of them that a Khajiiti slave would possess the skill to commit all these 'loppings.'”
“And your father doesn't suspect that it's his dear Akrash that is striking into the heart of oppression?”
“Why would he, when every day he finds it fresh as the day before? Now I must go before anyone notices I'm gone. My nurse sometimes comes in to ask me some detail about the wedding, as if I had any choice in the matter at all.”
“I promise you,” said Kazagh very seriously. “You will not be forced into any marriage to cement your family's slave-dealing dynasty. The last scabbard Akrash will be sheathed into will be your father's heart. And when you are an orphan, you can free the slaves, move to a more enlightened province, and marry who you like.”
“I wonder who that will be,” Peliah teased, and raced out of the stables.
Just before dawn, Peliah awoke and crept out to the garden, where she found Akrash hidden in the bittergreen vines. The edge was still relatively keen, but there were scratches vertically across the blade's surface. Another beheading, she thought, as she took pumice stone and patiently rubbed out the marks, finally polishing it with a solution of salt and vinegar. It was up on the mantle in pristine condition when her father came into the sitting room for his breakfast.
When the news came that Kemillith Torom, Peliah's husband-to-be, had been found outside of a canton, his head on a spike some feet away, she did not have to pretend to grieve. Her father knew she did not want to marry him.
“It is a shame,” he said. “The lad was a good slaver. But there are plenty of other young men who would appreciate an alliance with our family. What about young Soron Jeles?”
Two days nights later, Soron Jeles was visited by the Lopper. The struggle did not take long, but Soron had had [sic] armed himself with one small defense -- a needle dipped in the ichor of poisonplant, hidden up his sleeve. After the mortal blow, he collapsed forward and stuck Kazagh in the calf with the pin. By the time he made it back to the Minegaur manorhouse, he was dying.
Vision blurring, he climbed up to the eaves of the house to Peliah's window and rapped. Peliah did not answer immediately, as she was in a deep, wonderful sleep, dreaming about her future with her Khajiiti lover. He rapped louder, which woke up not only Peliah, but also her father in the next room.
“Kazagh!” she cried, opening up the window. The next person in the bedroom was Minegaur himself.
As he saw it, this slave, his property, was about to lop off the head of his daughter, his property, with his sword, his property. Suddenly, with the energy of a young man, Minegaur rushed at the dying Khajiit, knocking the sword out of his hand. Before Peliah could stop him, her father had thrust the blade into her lover's heart.
The excitement over, the old man dropped the sword and turned to the door to call the Guard. As an after thought, it occurred to him to make certain that his daughter hadn't been injured and might require a Healer. Minegaur turned to her. For a moment, he felt simply disoriented, feeling the force of the blow, but not the blade itself. Then he saw the blood and then felt the pain. Before he fully realized that his daughter had stabbed him with Akrash, he was dead. The blade, at last, found its scabbard.
A week later, after the official investigations, the slave was buried in an unmarked grave in the manor field, and Serjo Dres Minegaur found his resting place in a modest corner of the family's opulent mausoleum. A larger crowd of curious onlookers came to view the funeral of the noble slaver whose secret life was as the savage Lopper of his competitors. The audience was respectfully quiet, though there was not a person there not imagining the final moments of the man's life. Attacking his own daughter in his madness, luckily defended by the loyal, hapless slave, before turning the blade on himself.
Among the viewers was an old armorer who saw for one last time the veiled young lady before she disappeared forever from Tear.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Create an account or sign in to comment

You need to be a member in order to leave a comment

Create an account

Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!

Register a new account

Sign in

Already have an account? Sign in here.

Sign In Now

×
×
  • Create New...