Название: The Lays of Beleriand
Автор: Christopher Tolkien
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Ужасы и Мистика
Серия: The History of Middle-earth
isbn: 9780007348206
isbn:
Then Túrin’s heart was turned from hate, | |
and he bade unbind Beleg the huntsman. | 585 |
‘Now fare thou free! But, of friendship aught | |
if thy heart yet holds for Húrin’s son, | |
never tell thou tale that Túrin thou sawst | |
an outlaw unloved from Elves and Men, | |
whom Thingol’s thanes yet thirst to slay. | 590 |
Betray not my trust or thy troth of yore!’ | |
Then Beleg of the bow embraced him there – | |
he had not fared to the feast or the fall of Orgof – | |
there kissed him kindly comfort speaking: | |
‘Lo! nought know I of the news thou tellest; | 595 |
but outlawed or honoured thou ever shalt be | |
the brother of Beleg, come bliss come woe! | |
Yet little me likes that thy leaping sword | |
the life should drink of the leaguered Elves. | |
Are the grim Glamhoth then grown so few, | 600 |
or the foes of Faërie feeble-hearted, | |
that warlike Men have no work to do? | |
Shall the foes of Faërie be friends of Men? | |
Betrayest thou thy troth whom we trusted of yore?’ |
‘Nor of arméd Orc, nor [of] Elf of the wood, | 605 |
nor of any on earth have I honour or love, | |
O Beleg the bowman. This band alone | |
I count as comrades, my kindred in woe | |
and friendless fate – our foes the world.’ |
‘Let the bow of Beleg to your band be joined; | 610 |
and swearing death to the sons of darkness | |
let us suage our sorrow and the smart of fate! | |
Our valour is not vanquished, nor vain the glory | |
that once we did win in the woods of old.’ |
Thus hope in the heart of Húrin’s offspring | 615 |
awoke at those words; and them well likéd | |
of that band the boldest, save Blodrin only – | |
Blodrin Bor’s son, who for blood and for gold | |
alone lusted, and little he recked | |
whom he robbed of riches or reft of life, | 620 |
were it Elf or Orc; but he opened not | |
the thoughts of his heart. There throbbed the harp, | |
where the fires flickered, and the flaming brands | |
of pine were piled in the place of their camp; | |
where glad men gathered in good friendship | 625 |
as dusk fell down on the drear woodland. | |
Then a song on a sudden soaring loudly – | |
and the trees up-looming towering harkened – | |
was raised of the Wrack of the Realm of the Gods; | |
of the need of the Gnomes on the Narrow Crossing; | 630 |
of the fight at Fangros, and Fëanor’s sons’ | |
oath unbreakable. Then up sprang Beleg: | |
‘That our vaunt and our vows be not vain for ever, | |
even such as they swore, those seven chieftains, | |
an oath let us swear that is unchanging | 635 |
as Tain-Gwethil’s towering mountain!’ | |
Their blades were bared, as blood shining | |
in the flame of the fires while they flashed and touched. | |
As with one man’s voice the words were spoken, | |
and the oath uttered that must unrecalled | 640 |
abide for ever, a bond of truth | |
and friendship in arms, and faith in peril. | |
Thus war was waked in the woods once more | |
for the foes of Faërie, and its fame widely, | |
and the fear of that fellowship, now fared abroad; | 645 |
when the horn was heard of the hunting Elves | |
that shook the shaws and the sheer valleys. | |
Blades were naked and bows twanging, | |
and shafts from the shadows shooting wingéd, | |
and the sons of darkness slain and conquered; | 650 |
even in Angband the Orcs trembled. | |
Then the word wandered down the ways of the forest | |
that Túrin Thalion was returned to war; | |
and Thingol heard it, and his thanes were sped | |
to lead the lost one in love to his halls – | 655 |
but his fate was fashioned that they found him not. | |
Little gold they got in that grim warfare, | |
but weary watches and wounds for guerdon; | |
nor on robber-raids now rode they ever, | |
who fended from Faërie the fiends of Hell. | 660 |
But Blodrin Bor’s son for booty lusted, | |
for the loud laughter of the lawless days, | |
and meats unmeasured, and mead-goblets | |
refilled and filled, and the flagons of wine | |
that went as water in their wild revels. | 665 |
Now tales have told that trapped as a child | |
he was dragged by the Dwarves to their deep mansions, | |
and in Nogrod nurtured, and in nought was like, | |
spite blood and birth, to the blissful Elves. | |
His heart hated Húrin’s offspring | 670 |
and the bowman Beleg; so biding his while | |
he fled their fellowship and forest hidings | |
to the merciless Orcs, whose moon-pallid | |
cruel-curvéd blades to kill spare not; | |
than whose greed for gold none greater burns | 675 |
save in hungry hearts of the hell-dragons. | |
He betrayed his troth; traitor made him | |
and the forest fastness of his fellows in arms | |
he opened to the Orcs, nor his oath heeded. | |
There they fought and fell by foes outnumbered, | 680 |
by treachery trapped at a time of night | |
when their fires faded and few were waking – | |
some wakened never, not for wild noises, | |
nor cries nor curses, nor clashing steel, | |
swept as they slumbered to the slades of death. | 685 |
But Túrin they took, though towering mighty | |
at the Huntsman’s hand he hewed his foemen, | |
as a bear at bay mid bellowing hounds, | |
unheeding his hurts; at the hest of Morgoth | |
yet living they lapped him, his limbs entwining, | 690 |
with hairy hands and hideous arms. | |
Then Beleg was buried in the bodies of the fallen, | |
as sorely wounded he swooned away; | |
and all was over, and the Orcs triumphed. | |
The dawn over Doriath dimly kindled | 695 |
saw Blodrin Bor’s son by a beech standing | |
with throat thirléd by a thrusting arrow, | |
whose shaven shaft, shod with poison, | |
and feather-wingéd, was fast in the tree. | |
He bargained the blood of his brothers for gold: | 700 |
thus his meed was meted – in the mirk at random | |
by an orc-arrow his oath came home. |
From the magic mazes of Melian the Queen | |
they haled unhappy Húrin’s offspring, | |
lest he flee his fate; but they fared slowly | 705 |
and the leagues were long of their laboured way | |
over hill and hollow to the high places, | |
where the peaks and pinnacles of pitiless stone | |
looming up lofty are lapped in cloud, | |
and veiled in vapours vast and sable; | 710 |
where Eiglir Engrin, the Iron Hills, lie | |
o’er the hopeless halls of Hell upreared | |
wrought at the roots of the roaring cliffs | |
of Thangorodrim’s thunderous mountain. | |
Thither led they laden with loot and evil; | 715 |
but Beleg yet breathed in blood drenchéd | |
aswoon, till the sun to the South hastened, | |
and the eye of day was opened wide. | |
Then he woke and wondered, and weeping took him, | |
and to Túrin Thalion his thoughts were turned, | 720 |
that o’erborne in battle and bound he had seen. | |
Then he crawled from the corpses that had covered him over, | |
weary, wounded, too weak to stand. | |
So Thingol’s thanes athirst and bleeding | |
in the forest found him: his fate willed not | 725 |
that he should drink the draught of death from foes. | |
Thus they bore him back in bitter
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