grrm.astormofswords-第2章

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e　are　the　shield　that　guards　the　realms　of　men。　You　do　not　throw　away　your　shield　for　no　good　purpose；〃　but　to　that　Thoren　Smallwood　said；　〃In　a　swordfight；　a　man's　surest　defense　is　the　swift　stroke　that　slays　his　foe；　not　cringing　behind　a　shield。〃
　Neither　Smallwood　nor　Wythers　had　the　mand；　though。　Lord　Mormont　did；　and　Mormont　was　waiting　for　his　other　scouts；　for　Jarman　Buckwell　and　the　men　who'd　climbed　the　Giant's　Stair；　and　for　Qhorin　Halfhand　and　Jon　Snow；　who'd　gone　to　probe　the　Skirling　Pass。　Buckwell　and　the　Halfhand　were　late　in　returning；　though。　Dead；　most　like。　Chett　pictured　Jon　Snow　lying　blue　and　frozen　on　some　bleak　mountaintop　with　a　wildling　spear　up　his　bastard's　arse。　The　thought　made　him　smile。　I　hope　they　killed　his　bloody　wolf　as　well。
　〃There's　no　bear　here；〃　he　decided　abruptly。　〃Just　an　old　print；　that's　all。　Back　to　the　Fist。〃　The　dogs　almost　yanked　him　off　his　feet；　as　eager　to　get　back　as　he　was。　Maybe　they　thought　they　were　going　to　get　fed。　Chett　had　to　laugh。　He　hadn't　fed　them　for　three　days　now；　to　turn　them　mean　and　hungry。　Tonight；　before　slipping　off　into　the　dark；　he'd　turn　them　loose　among　the　horse　lines；　after　Sweet　Donnel　Hill　and　Clubfoot　Karl　cut　the　tethers。　They'll　have　snarling　hounds　and　panicked　horses　all　over　the　Fist；　running　through　fires；　jumping　the　ringwall；　and　trampling　down　tents。　With　all　the　confusion；　it　might　be　hours　before　anyone　noticed　that　fourteen　brothers　were　missing。
　Lark　had　wanted　to　bring　in　twice　that　number；　but　what　could　you　expect　from　some　stupid　fishbreath　Sisterman？　Whisper　a　word　in　the　wrong　ear　and　before　you　knew　it　you'd　be　short　a　head。　No；　fourteen　was　a　good　number；　enough　to　do　what　needed　doing　but　not　so　many　that　they　couldn't　keep　the　secret。　Chett　had　recruited　most　of　them　himself。　Small　Paul　was　one　of　his；　the　strongest　man　on　the　Wall；　even　if　he　was　slower　than　a　dead　snail。　He'd　once　broken　a　wildling's　back　with　a　hug。　They　had　Dirk　as　well；　named　for　his　favorite　weapon；　and　the　little　grey　man　the　brothers　called　Softfoot；　who'd　raped　a　hundred　women　in　his　youth；　and　liked　to　boast　how　none　had　never　seen　nor　heard　him　until　he　shoved　it　up　inside　them。
　The　plan　was　Chett's。　He　was　the　clever　one；　he'd　been　steward　to　old　Maester　Aemon　for　four　good　years　before　that　bastard　Jon　Snow　had　done　him　out　so　his　job　could　be　handed　to　his　fat　pig　of　a　friend。　When　he　killed　Sam　Tarly　tonight；　he　planned　to　whisper；　〃Give　my　love　to　Lord　Snow；〃　right　in　his　ear　before　he　sliced　Ser　Piggy's　throat　open　to　let　the　blood　e　bubbling　out　through　all　those　layers　of　suet。　Chett　knew　the　ravens；　so　he　wouldn't　have　no　trouble　there；　no　more　than　he　would　with　Tarly。　One　touch　of　the　knife　and　that　craven　would　piss　his　pants　and　start　blubbering　for　his　life。　Let　him　beg；　it　won't　do　him　no　good。　After　he　opened　his　throat；　he'd　open　the　cages　and　shoo　the　birds　away；　so　no　messages　reached　the　Wall。　Softfoot　and　Small　Paul　would　kill　the　Old　Bear；　Dirk　would　do　Blane；　and　Lark　and　his　cousins　would　silence　Bannen　and　old　Dywen；　to　keep　them　from　sniffing　after　their　trail。　They'd　been　caching　food　for　a　fortnight；　and　Sweet　Donnel　and　Clubfoot　Karl　would　have　the　horses　ready。　With　Mormont　dead；　mand　would　pass　to　Ser　Ottyn　Wythers；　an　old　done　man；　and　failing。　He'll　be　running　for　the　Wall　before　sundown；　and　he　won't　waste　no　men　sending　them　after　us　neither。
　The　dogs　pulled　at　him　as　they　made　their　way　through　the　trees。　Chett　could　see　the　Fist　punching　its　way　up　through　the　green。　The　day　was　so　dark　that　the　Old　Bear　had　the　torches　lit；　a　great　circle　of　them　burning　all　along　the　ringwall　that　crowned　the　top　of　the　steep　stony　hill。　The　three　of　them　waded　across　a　brook。　The　water　was　icy　cold；　and　patches　of　ice　were　spreading　across　its　surface。　〃I'm　going　to　make　for　the　coast；〃　Lark　the　Sisterman　confided。　〃Me　and　my　cousins。　We'll　build　us　a　boat；　sail　back　home　to　the　Sisters。〃
　And　at　home　they'll　know　you　for　deserters　and　lop　off　your　fool　heads；　thought　Chett。　There　was　no　leaving　the　Night's　Watch；　once　you　said　your　words。　Anywhere　in　the　Seven　Kingdoms；　they'd　take　you　and　kill　you。
　Ollo　Lophand　now；　he　was　talking　about　sailing　back　to　Tyrosh；　where　he　claimed　men　didn't　lose　their　hands　for　a　bit　of　honest　thievery；　nor　get　sent　off　to　freeze　their　life　away　for　being　found　in　bed　with　some　knight's　wife。　Chett　had　weighed　going　with　him；　but　he　didn't　speak　their　wet　girly　tongue。　And　what　could　he　do　in　Tyrosh？　He　had　no　trade　to　speak　of；　growing　up　in　Hag's　Mire。　His　father　had　spent　his　life　grubbing　in　other　men's　fields　and　collecting　leeches。　He'd　strip　down　bare　but　for　a　thick　leather　clout；　and　go　wading　in　the　murky　waters。　When　he　climbed　out　he'd　be　covered　from　nipple　to　ankle。　Sometimes　he　made　Chett　help　pull　the　leeches　off。　One　had　attached　itself　to　his　palm　once；　and　he'd　smashed　it　against　a　wall　in　revulsion。　His　father　beat　him　bloody　for　that。　The　maesters　bought　the　leeches　at　twelve…for…apenny。
　Lark　could　go　home　if　he　liked；　and　the　damn　Tyroshi　too；　but　not　Chett。　If　he　never　saw　Hag's　Mire　again；　it　would　be　too　bloody　soon。　He　had　liked　the　look　of　Craster's　Keep；　himself　。　Craster　lived　high　as　a　lord　there；　so　why　shouldn't　he　do　the　same？　That　would　be　a　laugh。　Chett　the　leechman's　son；　a　lord　with　a　keep。　His　banner　could　be　a　dozen　leeches　on　a　field　of　pink。　But　why　stop　at　lord？　Maybe　he　should　be　a　king。　Mance　Rayder　started　out　a　crow。　I　could　be　a　king　same　as　him；　and　have　me　some　wives。　Craster　had　nineteen；　not　even　counting　the　young　ones；　the　daughters　he　hadn't　gotten　around　to　bedding　yet。　Half　them　wives　were　as　old　and　ugly　as　Craster；　but　that　didn't　matter。　The　old　ones　Chett　could　put　to　work　cooking　and　cleaning　for　him；　pulling　carrots　and　slopping　pigs；　while　the　young　ones　warmed　his　bed　and　bore　his　children。　Craster　wouldn't　object；　not　once　Small　Paul　gave　him　a　hug。
　The　only　women　Chett　had　ever　known　were　the　whores　he'd　bought　in　Mole's　Town。　When　he'd　been　younger；　the　village　girls　took　one　look　at　his　face；　with　its　boils　and　its　wen；　and　turned　away　sickened。　The　worst　was　that　slattern　Bessa。　She'd　spread　her　legs　for　every　boy　in　Hag's　Mire　so　he'd　figured　why　not　him　too？　He　even　spent　a　morning　picking　wildflowers　when　he　heard　she　liked　them；　but　she'd　just　laughed　in　his　face　and　told　him　she'd　crawl　in　a　bed　with　his　father's　leeches　before　she'd　crawl　in　one　with　him。　She　stopped　laughing　when　he　put　his　knife　in　her。　That　was　sweet；　the　look　on　her　face；　so　he　pulled　the　knife　out　and　put　it　in　her　again。　When　they　caught　him　down　near　Sevenstrearns；　old　Lord　Walder　Frey　hadn't　even　bothered　to　e　himself　to　do　the　judging。　He'd　sent　one　of　his　bastards；　that　Walder　Rivers；　and　the　next　thing　Chett　had　known　he　was　walking　to　the　Wall　with　that　foulsmelling　black　devil　Yoren。　To　pay　for　his　one　sweet　moment；　they　took　his　whole　life。
　But　now　he　meant　to　take　it　back；　and　Craster's　women　too。　That　twisted　old　wildling　has　the　right　of　it。　If　you　want　a　woman　to　wife　you　take　her；　and　none　of　this　giving　her　flowers　so　that　maybe　she　don't　notice　your　bloody　boils。　Chett　didn't　mean　to　make　that　mistake　again。
　It　would　work；　he　promised　himself　for　the　hundredth　time。　So　long　as　we　get　away　clean。　Ser　Ottyn　would　strike　south　for　the　Shadow　Tower；　the　shortest　way　to　the　Wall。　He　won't　bother　with　us；　not　Wythers；　all　he'll　want　is　to　get　back　whole。　Thoren　Smallwood　now；　he'd　want　to　press　on　with　the　attack；　but　Ser　Ottyn's　caution　ran　too　deep；　and　he　was　senior。　It　won't　matter　anyhow　Once　we're　gone；　Smallwood　can　attack　anyone　he　likes。　What　do　we　care？　If　none　of　them　ever　returns　to　the　Wall；　no　one　will　ever　e　looking　for　us；　they'll　think　we　died　with　the　rest。　That　was　a　new　thought；　and　for　a　moment　it　tempted　him。　But　they　would　need　to　kill　Ser　Ottyn　and　Ser　Mallador　Locke　as　well　to　give　Smallwood　the　mand；　and　both　of　them　were　well…attended　day　and　night　。　。　。　no；　the　risk　was　too　great。
　〃Chett；〃　said　Small　Paul　as　they　trudged　along　a　stony　game　trail　through　sentinels　and　soldier　pines；　〃what　about　the　bird？〃
　〃What　bloody　bird？〃　The　last　thing　he　needed　now　was　some　muttonhead　going