The Worm Ouroboros by Eric Rücker Eddison (english readers txt) 📕

Brandoch Daha led five hundred and fourscore Demons to succour

Gaslark, the king of that country. And now can none surpass Lord

Brandoch Daha in feats of arms, save perchance Goldry alone.

“Yet, ho,” she said, as a sweet and wild music stole on the ear, and

the guests turned towards the dais, and the hangings parted, “at last,

the triple lordship of Demonland! Strike softly, music: smile, Fates,

on this festal day! Joy and safe days shine for this world and

Demonland! Turn thy gaze first on him who walks in majesty in the

midst, his tunic of olive-green velvet ornamented with devices of

hidden meaning in thread of gold and beads of chrysolite. Mark how the

buskins, clasping his stalwart calves, glitter with gold and amber.

Mark the dusky cloak streamed with gold and lined with blood-red silk:

a charmed cloak, made by the sylphs in forgotten days, bringing good

hap to the wearer, so he be true of heart and no dastard. Mark him

that weareth it, his sweet dark countenance, the violet fire in his

eyes, the sombre warmth of his smile, like autumn woods in late

sunshine. This is Lord Juss, lord of this age-remembering castle, than

whom none hath more worship in wide Demonland. Somewhat he knoweth of

art magical, yet useth not that art; for it sappeth the life and

strength, nor is it held worthy that a Demon should put trust in that

art, but rather in his own might and main.

“Now turn thine eyes to him that leaneth on Juss’s left arm, shorter but

mayhap sturdier than he, apparelled in black silk that shimmers with

gold as he moveth, and crowned with black eagle’s feathers among his

horns and yellow hair. His face is wild and keen like a sea-eagle’s, and

from his bristling brows the eyes dart glances sharp as a glancing

spear. A faint flame, pallid like the fire of a Will-o’-the-Wisp,

breathes ever and anon from his distended nostrils. This is Lord

Spitfire, impetuous in war.

“Last, behold on Juss’s right hand, yon lord that bulks mighty as

Hercules yet steppeth lightly as a heifer. The thews and sinews of his

great limbs ripple as he moves beneath a skin whiter than ivory; his

cloak of cloth of gold is heavy with jewels, his tunic of black

sendaline hath great hearts worked thereon in rubies and red silk

thread. Slung from his shoulders clanks a two-handed sword, the pommel

a huge star-ruby carven in the image of a heart, for the heart is his

sign and symbol. This is that sword forged by the elves, wherewith he

slew the sea-monster, as thou mayest see in the painting on the wall.

Noble is he of countenance, most like to his brother Juss, but darker

brown of hair and ruddier of hue and bigger of cheekbone. Look well on

him, for never shall thine eyes behold a greater champion than the

Lord Goldry Bluszco, captain of the hosts of Demonland.”

Now when the greetings were done and the strains of the lutes and

recorders sighed and lost themselves in the shadowy vault of the roof,

the cupbearers did fill great gems made in form of cups with ancient

wine, and the Demons caroused to Lord Juss deep draughts in honour of

this day of his nativity. And now they were ready to set forth by twos

and threes into the parks and pleasaunces, some to take their pleasure

about the fair gardens and fishponds, some to hunt wild game among the

wooded hills, some to disport themselves at quoits or tennis or riding

at the ring or martial exercises; that so they might spend the

livelong day as befitteth high holiday, in pleasure and action without

care, and thereafter revel in the lofty presence chamber till night

grew old with eating and drinking and all delight.

But as they were upon going forth, a trumpet was sounded without,

three strident blasts.

“What kill-joy have we here?” said Spitfire. “The trumpet soundeth

only for travellers from the outlands. I feel it in my bones some

rascal is come to Galing, one that bringeth ill hap in his pocket and

a shadow athwart the sun on this our day of festival.”

“Speak no word of ill omen,” answered Juss. “Whosoe’er it be, we will

straight dispatch his business and so fall to pleasure indeed. Some,

run to the gate and bring him in.”

The serving man hastened and returned, saying, “Lord, it is an

Ambassador from Witchland and his train. Their ship made land at

Lookinghaven-ness at nightfall. They slept on board, and your soldiers

gave them escort to Galing at break of day. He craveth present

audience.”

“From Witchland, ha?” said Juss. “Such smokes use ever to go before

the fire.”

“Shall’s bid the fellow,” said Spitfire, “wait on our pleasure? It is

pity such should poison our gladness.”

Goldry laughed and said, “Whom hath he sent us? Laxus, think you? to

make his peace with us again for that vile part of his practised

against us off Kartadza, detestably falsifying his word he had given

us?”

Juss said to the serving man, “Thou sawest the Ambassador. Who is he?”

“Lord,” answered he, “His face was strange to me. He is little of

stature and, by your highness’ leave, the most unlike to a great lord

of Witchland that ever I saw. And, by your leave, for all the

marvellous rich and sumptuous coat a weareth, he is very like a false

jewel in a rich casing.”

“Well,” said Juss, “a sour draught sweetens not in the waiting. Call

we in the Ambassador.”

Lord Juss sat in the high seat midmost of the dais, with Goldry on his

right in the seat of black opal, and on his left Spitfire, throned on

the alexandrite. On the dais sat likewise those other lords of

Demonland, and the guests of lower degree thronged the benches and the

polished tables as the wide doors opened on their silver hinges, and

the Ambassador with pomp and ceremony paced up the shining floor of

marble and green tourmaline.

“Why, what a beastly fellow is this?” said Lord Goldry in his

brother’s ear. “His hairy hands reach down to his knees. A shuffleth

in his walk like a hobbled jackass.”

“I like not the dirty face of the Ambassador,” said Lord Zigg. “His

nose sitteth flat on the face of him as it were a dab of clay, and I

can see pat up his nostrils a summer day’s journey into his head. If’s

upper lip bespeak him not a rare spouter of rank fustian, perdition

catch me. Were it a finger’s breadth longer, a might tuck it into his

collar to keep his chin warm of a winter’s night.”

“I like not the smell of the Ambassador,” said Lord Brandoch Daha. And

he called for censers and sprinklers of lavender and rose water to

purify the chamber, and let open the crystal windows that the breezes

of heaven might enter and make all sweet.

So the Ambassador walked up the shining floor and stood before the

lords of Demonland that sat upon the high seats between the golden

hippogriffs. He was robed in a long mantle of scarlet lined with

ermine, with crabs, woodlice, and centipedes worked thereon in golden

thread. His head was covered with a black velvet cap with a peacock’s

feather fastened with a brooch of silver. Supported by his

trainbearers and attendants, and leaning on his golden staff, he with

raucous accent delivered his mission:

“Juss, Goldry, and Spitfire, and ye other Demons, I come before you as

the Ambassador of Gorice XI., most glorious King of Witchland, Lord

and great Duke of Buteny and Estremerine, Commander of Shulan,

Thramnë, Mingos, and Permio, and High Warden of the Esamocian Marches,

Great Duke of Trace, King Paramount of Beshtria and Nevria and Prince

of Ar, Great Lord over the country of Ojedia, Maltraeny, and of

Baltary and Toribia, and Lord of many other countries, most glorious

and most great, whose power and glory is over all the world and whose

name shall endure for all generations. And first I bid you be bound by

that reverence for my sacred office of envoy from the King, which is

accorded by all people and potentates, save such as be utterly

barbarous, to ambassadors and envoys.”

“Speak and fear not,” answered Juss. “Thou hast mine oath. And that

hath never been forsworn, to Witch or other barbarian.”

The Ambassador shot out his lips in an O, and threatened with his

head; then grinned, laying bare his sharp and misshapen teeth, and

proceeded:

“Thus saith King Gorice, great and glorious, and he chargeth me to

deliver it to you, neither adding any word nor taking away: ‘I have it

in mind that no ceremony of homage or fealty hath been performed

before me by the dwellers in my province of Demonland–”

As the rustling of dry leaves strewn in a flagged court when a sudden

wind striketh them, there went a stir among the guests. Nor might the

Lord Spitfire contain his wrath, but springing up and clapping hand to

swordhilt, as minded to do a hurt to the Ambassador, “Province?” he

cried. “Are not the Demons a free people? And is it to be endured that

Witchland should commission this slave to cast insults in our teeth,

and this in our own castle?”

A murmur went about the hall, and here and there folk rose from their

seats. The Ambassador drew down his head between his shoulders like a

tortoise, baring his teeth and blinking with his small eyes. But Lord

Brandoch Daha, lightly laying his hand on Spitfire’s arm, said: “The

Ambassador hath not ended his message, cousin, and thou hast

frightened him. Have patience and spoil not the comedy. We shall not

lack words to answer King Gorice: no, nor swords, if he must have

them. But it shall not be said of us of Demonland that it needeth but

a boorish message to turn us from our ancient courtesy toward

ambassadors and heralds.”

So spake Lord Brandoch Daha, in lazy half-mocking tone, as one who but

idly returneth the ball of conversation; yet clearly, so that all

might hear. And therewith the murmurs died down, and Spitfire said, “I

am tame. Say thine errand freely, and imagine not that we shall hold

thee answerable for aught thou sayest, but him that sent thee.”

“Whose humble mouthpiece I only am,” said the Ambassador, somewhat

gathering courage; “and who, saving your reverence, lacketh not the

will nor the power to take revenge for any outrage done upon his

servants. Thus saith the King: ‘I therefore summon and command you,

Juss, Spitfire, and Goldry Bluszco, to make haste and come to me in

Witchland in my fortress of Carcë, and there dutifully kiss my toe, in

witness before all the world that I am your Lord and King, and

rightful overlord of all Demonland.’”

Gravely and without gesture Lord Juss harkened to the Ambassador,

leaning back in his high seat with either arm thrown athwart the

arched neck of the hippogriff. Goldry, smiling scornfully, toyed with

the hilt of his great sword. Spitfire sat strained and glowering, the

sparks crackling at his nostrils.

“Thou hast delivered all?” said Juss.

“All,” answered the Ambassador.

“Thou shalt have thine answer,” said Juss. “While we take rede

thereon, eat and drink”; and he beckoned the cupbearer to pour out

bright wine for the Ambassador. But the Ambassador excused himself,

saying that he was not athirst, and that he had store of food and wine

aboard of his ship, which should suffice his needs and those of his

following.

Then said Lord Spitfire, “No marvel though