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

and a wench with him, the daintiest and gamesomest he may procure; and

so, for two hours or three drowned in the main sea of his own

pleasures, he abateth some little deal for a season the pang of love.”

Now when Laxus was come forth from talking with the messenger from the

east, he fared without delay to Corinius’s chamber. There, thrusting

aside the guards, he flung wide the shining doors, and found the Lord

Corinius merrily disposed. He was reclined on a couch deep-cushioned

with dark green three-pile velvet. An ivory table inlaid with silver

and ebony stood at his elbow bearing a crystal flagon already two

parts emptied of the foaming wine, and a fair gold goblet beside it.

He wore a long loose sleeveless gown of white silk edged with a gold

fringe; this, fallen open at the neck, left naked his chest and one

strong arm that in that moment when Laxus entered reached out to grasp

the wine cup. Upon his knee he held a damosel of some seventeen years,

fair and fresh as a rose, with whom he was plainly on the point to

pass from friendly converse to amorous privacy. He looked angrily upon

Laxus, who without ceremony spoke and said, “The whole east is in a

tumult. The burg is forced which we built astride the Stile. Spitfire

hath passed into Breakingdale to victual Galing, and hath overthrown

our army that sat in siege thereof.”

Corinius drank a draught and spat. “Phrut!” said he. “Much bruit,

little fruit. I would know by what warrant thou troublest me with this

tittle-tattle, and I pleasantly disposing myself to mirth and

recreation. Could it not wait till supper time?”

Ere Laxus might say more, was a great clatter heard without on the

stairs, and in came those sons of Corund.

“Am I a king?” said Corinius, gathering his robe about him, “and shall

I be forced? Avoid the chamber.” Then marking them stand silent with

disordered looks, “What’s the matter?” he said. “Are ye ta’en with the

swindle or the turn-sickness? Or are ye out of your wits?”

Heming answered and said, “Not mad, my lord. Here’s Didarus that held

the Stile-burg for us, ridden from the east as fast as his horse might

wallop, and gotten here hard o’ the heels of the former messenger with

fresh and more certain advertisement, fresher by four days than that

one’s. I pray you hear him.”

“I’ll hear him,” said Corinius, “at supper time. Nought sooner, if the

roof were afire.”

“The land beneath thy feet’s afire!” cried Heming. “Juss and Brandoch

Daha home again, and half the country lost thee ere thou heard’st

on’t. These devils are home again! Shall we hear that and still be

swill-bowls?”

Corinius listened with folded arms. His great jaw was lifted up. His

nostrils widened. For a minute he abode in silence, his cold blue eyes

fixed as it were on somewhat afar. Then, “Home again?” said he. “And

the east in a hubbub? And not unlikely. Thank Didarus for his tidings.

He shall sweeten mine ears with some more at supper. Till then, leave

me, unless ye mean to be stretched.”

But Laxus, with sad and serious brow, stood beside him and said, “My

lord, forget not that you are here the vicar and legate of the King.

Let the crown upon your head put perils in your thoughts, so as you

may harken peaceably to them that are willing to lesson you with sound

and sage advice. If we take order tonight to march by Switchwater, we

may very well shut back this danger and stifle it ere it wax to too

much bigness. If o’ the contrary we suffer them to enter into these

western parts, like enough without let or stay they will overrun the

whole country.”

Corinius rolled his eye upon him. “Can nothing,” he said, “prescribe

unto thee obedience? Look to thine own charge. Is the fleet in proper

trim? For there’s the strength, ease, and anchor of our power, whether

for victualling, or to shift our weight against ‘em which way we

choose, or to give us sure asylum if it were come to that. What ails

thee? Have we not these four months desired nought better than that

these Demons should take heart to strike a field with us? If it be

true that Juss himself and Brandoch Daha have thrown down the castles

and strengths which I had i’ the east and move with an army against

us, why then I have them in the forge already, and shall now bring

them to the hammer. And be satisfied, I’ll choose mine own ground to

fight them.”

“There’s yet matter for haste in this,” said Laxus. “A day’s march,

and we oppose ‘em not, will bring them before Krothering.”

“That,” answered Corinius, “jumpeth pat with mine own design. I’ll not

go a league to bar their way, but receive ‘em here where the ground

lieth most favourable to meet an enemy. Which advantage I’ll employ to

the greatest stretch of service, standing on Krothering Side, resting

my flank against the mountain. The fleet shall ride in Aurwath haven.”

Laxus stroked his beard and was silent a minute, considering this.

Then he looked up and said, “This is sound generalship, I may not

gainsay it.”

“It is a purpose, my lord,” said Corinius, “I have long had in myself,

stored by for the event. Let me alone, therefore, to do that my right

is. There’s this good in it, too, as it befalleth: ‘twill suffer that

dive-dapper to behold his home again afore I kill him. A shall find it

a sight for sore eyes, I think, after my tending on’t.”

The third day after these doings, the farmer at Holt stood in his porch

that opened westward on Tivarandardale. An old man was he, crooked like

a mountain thorn. But a bright black eye he had, and the hair curled

crisp yet above his brow. It was late afternoon and the sky overcast.

Tousle-haired sheepdogs slept before the door. Swallows gathered in the

sky. Near to him sat a damosel, dainty as a meadow-pipit, lithe as an

antelope; and she was grinding grain in a hand-mill, singing the while:

Grind, mill, grind.

Corinius grinds us all;

Kinging it in widowed Krothering.

The old man was furbishing a shield and morion-cap, and other tackle

of war lay at his feet.

“I wonder thou wilt still be busy with thy tackle, O my father,” said

she, looking up from her singing and grinding. “If ill tide ill again

what should an old man do but grieve and be silent?”

“There shall be time for that hereafter,” said the old man. “But a

little while is hand fain of blow.”

“They’ll be for firing the roof-tree, likely, if they come back,” said

she, still grinding.

“Thou’rt a disobedient lass. If thou’dst but flit as I bade thee to

the shiel-house up the dale, I’d force not a bean for their burnings.”

“Let it burn,” said she, “if he be taken. What avail then for thee or

for me to be a-tarrying? Thou that art an old man and full of good

days, and I that will not be left so.”

A great dog awoke beside her and shook himself, then drew near and

laid his nose in her lap, looking up at her with kind solemn eyes.

The old man said, “Thou’rt a disobedient lass, and but for thee, come

sword, come fire, not a straw care I; knowing it shall be but a

passing storm, now that my Lord is home again.”

“They took the land from Lord Spitfire,” said she.

“Ay, hinny,” said the old man, “and thou shalt see my Lord shall take

it back again.”

“Ay?” said she. And still she ground and still she sang:

Grind, mill, grind.

Corinius grinds us all.

After a time, “Hist!” said the old man, “was not that a horsetread i’

the lane? Get thee within-doors till I know if all be friendly.” And

he stooped painfully to take up his weapon. Woefully it shook in his

feeble hand.

But she, as one that knew the step, heeding nought else, leapt up with

face first red then pale then flushed again, and ran to the gate of

the garth. And the sheepdogs bounded before her. There in the gate she

was met with a young man riding a weary horse. He was garbed like a

soldier, and horse and man were so bedraggled with mire and dust and

all manner of defilement they were a sorry sight to see, and so jaded

both that scarce it seemed they had might to journey another furlong.

They halted within the gate, and all those dogs jumped up upon them,

whining and barking for joy.

Ere the soldier was well down from the saddle he had a sweet armful.

“Softly, my heart,” said he, “my shoulder’s somewhat raw. Nay, ‘tis

nought to speak on. I’ve brought thee all my limbs home.”

“Was there a battle?” said the old man.

“Was there a battle, father?” cried he. “I’ll tell thee, Krothering

Side is thicker with dead men slain than our garth with sheep i’ the

shearing time.”

“Alack and alack, ‘tis a most horrid wound, dear,” said the girl. “Go

in, and I’ll wash it and lay to it millefoil pounded with honey; ‘tis

most sovran against pain and loss of blood, and drieth up the lips of

the wound and maketh whole thou’dst no credit how soon. Thou hast bled

overmuch, thou foolish one. And how couldst thou thrive without thy

wife to tend thee?”

The farmer put an arm about him, saying, “Was the field ours, lad?”

“I’ll tell you all orderly, old man,” answered he, “but I must stable

him first,” and the horse nuzzled his breast. “And ye must ballast me

first. God shield us, ‘tis not a tale for an empty man to tell.”

“‘Las, father,” said the damosel, “have we not one sweet sippet i’ the

mouth, that we hold him here once more? And, sweet or sour, let him

take his time to fetch us the next.”

So they washed his hurt and laid kindly herbs thereto, and bound it

with clean linen, and put fresh raiment upon him, and made him sit on

the bench without the porch and gave him to eat and drink: cakes of

barley meal and dark heather-honey, and rough white wine of

Tivarandardale. The dogs lay close about him as if there was warmth

there and safety whereas he was. His young wife held his hand in hers,

as if that were enough if it should last for aye. And that old man,

eating down his impatience like a schoolboy chafing for the bell,

fingered his partisan with trembling hand.

“Thou hadst the word I sent thee, father, after the fight below

Galing?”

“Ay. ‘Twas good.”

“There was a council held that night,” said the soldier. “All the

great men together in the high hall in Galing, so as it was a heaven

to see. I was one of their cupbearers, ‘cause I’d killed the standard-bearer of the Witches, in that same battle below Galing. Methought

‘twas no great thing I did; till after the battle, look you, my Lord’s

self standing beside me; and saith he, ‘Arnod’ (ay, by my name,

father), ‘Arnod,’ a saith, ‘thou’st done down the pennon o’ Witchland

that ‘gainst our freedom streamed so proud. ‘Tis thy like shall best

stead Demonland i’ these dog-days,’ saith he. ‘Bear my cup tonight,

for thine honour.’ I would, lass, thou’dst seen his eyes that tide.

‘Tis a