Читать книгу The Lays of Beleriand онлайн | страница 32

Now Beleg the brave backward led them,but his foot fumbled and he fell thuddingwith Túrin atop of him, and trembling stumbled1175Flinding forward; there frozen lyinglong while they listened for alarm stirring,for hue and cry, and their hearts cowered;but unbroken the breathing of the bands sleeping,as darkness deepened to dead midnight,1180and the lifeless hour when the loosened souloft sheds the shackles of the shivering flesh.Then dared their dread to draw its breath,and they found their feet in the fouléd earth,and bent they both their backs once more1185to their task of toil, for Túrin woke not.There the huntsman’s hand was hurt deeply,as he groped on the ground, by a gleaming point –’twas Dailir his dart dearly prizédhe had found by his foot in fragments twain,1190and with barbs bended: it broke at lastneath his body falling. It boded ill.

As in dim dreaming, and dazed with horror,they won their way with weary slowness,foot by footstep, till fate them granted1195the leaguer at last of those lairs to pass,and their burden laid they, breathless gasping,on bare-bosméd earth, and abode a while,ere by winding ways they won their pathup the slanting slopes with silent labour,1200with spended strength sprawling to cast themin the darkling dell neath the deep thicket.Then sought his sword, and songs of magico’er its eager edge with Elfin voicethere Beleg murmured, while bluely glimmered1205the lamp of Flinding neath the lacéd thorns.There wondrous wove he words of sharpness,and the names of knives and Gnomish bladeshe uttered o’er it: even Ogbar’s spearand the glaive of Gaurin whose gleaming stroke1210did rive the rocks of Rodrim’s hall;the sword of Saithnar, and the silver bladesof the enchanted children of chains forgédin their deep dungeon; the dirk of Nargil,the knife of the North in Nogrod smithied;1215the sweeping sickle of the slashing tempest,the lambent lightning’s leaping falchioneven Celeg Aithorn that shall cleave the world.

Then whistling whirled he the whetted sword-bladeand three times three it threshed the gloom,1220till flame was kindled flickering strangelylike licking firelight in the lamp’s glimmerblue and baleful at the blade’s edges.Lo! a leering laugh lone and dreadfulby the wind wafted wavered nigh them;1225their limbs were loosened in listening horror;they fancied the feet of foes approaching,for the horns hearkening of the hunt afootin the rustling murmur of roving breezes.Then quickly curtained with its covering pelt1230was the lantern’s light, and leaping Belegwith his sword severed the searing bondson wrist and arm like ropes of hempso strong that whetting; in stupor lyingentangled still lay Túrin moveless.1235For the feet’s fetters then feeling in the darkBeleg blundering with his blade’s keennessunwary wounded the weary fleshof wayworn foot, and welling bloodbedewed his hand – too dark his magic:1240that sleep profound was sudden fathomed;in fear woke Túrin, and a form he guessedo’er his body bending with blade naked.His death or torment he deemed was come,for oft had the Orcs for evil pastime1245him goaded gleeful and gashed with knivesthat they cast with cunning, with cruel spears.Lo! the bonds were burst that had bound his hands:his cry of battle calling hoarselyhe flung him fiercely on the foe he dreamed,1250and Beleg falling breathless earthwardwas crushed beneath him. Crazed with anguishthen seized that sword the son of Húrin,to his hand lying by the help of doom;at the throat he thrust; through he pierced it,1255that the blood was buried in the blood-wet mould;ere Flinding knew what fared that night,all was over. With oath and cursehe bade the goblins now guard them well,or sup on his sword: ‘Lo! the son of Húrin1260is freed from his fetters.’ His fancy wanderedin the camps and clearings of the cruel Glamhoth.Flight he sought not at Flinding leapingwith his last laughter, his life to sellamid foes imagined; but Fuilin’s son1265there stricken with amaze, starting backward,cried: ‘Magic of Morgoth! A! madness damned!with friends thou fightest!’ – then falling suddenlythe lamp o’erturned in the leaves shroudedthat its light released illumined pale1270with its flickering flame the face of Beleg.Than the boles of the trees more breathless rootedstone-faced he stood staring frozenon that dreadful death, and his deed knowingwildeyed he gazed with waking horror,1275as in endless anguish an image carven.So fearful his face that Flinding crouchedand watched him, wondering what webs of doomdark, remorseless, dreadly meshed himby the might of Morgoth; and he mourned for him,1280and for Beleg, who bow should bend no more,his black yew-wood in battle twanging –his life had winged to its long waitingin the halls of the Moon o’er the hills of the sea.