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

and the illuminated borders were painted and gilded in dark and fiery

hues with representations of dreadful faces and forms of serpents and

toad-faced men and apes and mantichores and succubi and incubi and

obscene representations and figures of unlawful meaning. These were

the words of the writing on the page which the King conned over and

over, falling again into a deep study betweenwhiles, and then conning

these words again of an age-old prophetic writing touching the

preordinate destinies of the royal house of Gorice in Carcë:

Soo schel your hous stonde and bee

Unto eternytee

Yet walke warilie

Wyttinge ful sarteynlee

That if impiouslie

The secounde tyme in the bodie

Practisinge grammarie

One of ye katched shulle be

By the feyndis subtiltee

And hys liffe lossit bee

Broke ys thenne this serye

Dampned are you thenne eternallie

Yerth shuldestow thenne never more se

Scarshy the Goddes mought reskue ye

Owt of the Helle where you woll lie

Unto eternytee

The sterres tealde hit mee.

Gorice the King stood up and went to the south window. The casement

bolts were rusted: he forced them and they flew back with a shriek and

a clatter and a thin shower of dust and grit. He opened the window and

looked out. The heavy night grew to her depth of quiet. There were

lights far out in the marshes, the lights of Lord Juss’s campfires of

his armies gathered against Carcë. Scarcely without a chill might a

man have looked upon that King standing by the window; for there was

in the tall lean frame of him an iron aspect as of no natural flesh

and blood but some harder colder element; and his countenance, like

the picture of some dark divinity graven ages ago by men long dead,

bore the imprint of those old qualities of unrelenting power, scorn,

violence, and oppression, ancient as night herself yet untouched by

age, young as each night when it shuts down and old and elemental as

the primaeval dark.

A long while he stood there, then came again to his book. “Gorice

VII.,” he said in himself. “That was once in the body. And I have done

better than that, but not yet well enough. ‘Tis too hazardous, the

second time, alone. Corund is a man undaunted in war, but the man is

too superstitious and quaketh at that which hath not flesh and blood.

Apparitions and urchin-shows can quite unman him. There’s Corinius,

careth not for God or man a point. But he is too rash and unadvised: I

were mad to trust him in it. Were the Goblin here, it might be

carried. Damnable both-sides villain, he’s cast off from me.” He

scanned the page as if his piercing eyes would thrust beyond the

barriers of time and death and discover some new meaning in the words

which should agree better with the thing his mind desired while his

judgement forbade it. “He says ‘damned eternally:’ he says that

breaketh the series, and ‘earth shouldst thou then never more see.’

Put him by.”

And the King slowly shut up his book, and locked it with three

padlocks, and put back the key in his bosom. “The need is not yet,” he

said. “The sword shall have his day, and Corund. But if that fail me,

then even this shall not turn me back but I will do that I will do.”

In the same hour when the King was but now entered again into his own

lodgings, came through a runner of Heming’s to let them know that he,

fifteen hundred strong, marched down the Way of Kings from Pixyland.

Moreover they were advertised that the Demon fleet lay in the river

that night, and it was not unlike the attack should be in the morning

by land and water.

All night the King sate in his chamber holding council with his

generals and ordering all things for the morrow. All night long he

closed not his eyes an instant, but the others he made sleep by turns

because they should be brisk and ready for the battle. For this was

their counsel, to draw out their whole army on the left bank before

the bridge-gate and there offer battle to the Demons at point of day.

For if they should abide within doors and suffer the Demons to cut

young Heming off from the bridge-gate, then were he lost, and if the

bridgehouse should fall and the bridge, then might the Demons lightly

ship what force they pleased to the right bank and so closely invest

them in Carcë. Of an attack on the right bank they had no fear, well

knowing themselves able to sit within doors and laugh at them, since

the walls were there inexpugnable. But if a battle were now brought

about before the bridge-gate as they were minded, and Heming should

join in the fight from the eastward, there was good hope that they

should be able to crumple up the battle of the Demons, driving them in

upon their centre from the west whilst Heming smote them on the other

part. Whereby these should be cast into a great rout and confusion and

not be able to escape away to their ships, but there in the fenlands

before Carcë should be made a prey unto the Witches.

When it was the cold last hour before the dawn the generals took from

the King their latest commands ere they drew forth their armies.

Corinius came forth first from the King’s chamber a little while

before the rest. In the draughty corridor the lamps swung and smoked,

making an uncertain windy light. Corinius espied by the stair-head the

Lady Sriva standing, whether watching to bid her father adieu or but

following idle curiosity. Whichever it were, not a fico gave he for

that, but coming swiftly upon her whisked her aside into an alcove

where the light was barely enough to let him see the pale shimmer of

her silken gown, dark hair pinned loosely up in deep snaky coils, and

dark eyes shining. “My witty false one, have I caught thee? Nay, fight

not. Thy breath smells like cinnamon. Kiss me, Sriva.”

“I’ll not!” said she, striving to escape. “Naughty man, am I used

thus?” But finding she got nought by struggling, she said in a low

voice, “Well, if thou bring back Demonhand tonight, then, let’s hold

more chat.”

“Harken to the naughty traitress,” said he, “that but last night didst

do me some uncivil discourtesies, and now speaketh me fair: and what a

devil for? if not ‘cause her seemeth I’ll likely not come back after

this day’s fight. But I’ll come back, mistress kiss-and-be-gone; ay,

by the Gods, and I’ll have my payment too.”

His lips fed deep on her lips, his strong and greedy hands softly

mastered her against her will, till with a little smothered cry she

embraced him, bruising her tender body against the armour he was girt

withal. Between the kisses she whispered, “Yes, yes, tonight.” Surely

he damned spiteful fortune that sent him not this encounter by an

half-hour sooner.

When he was departed, Sriva remained in the shadow of the alcove to

set in order her hair and apparel, not a little disarrayed in that hot

wooing. Out of which darkness she had convenience to observe the

leave-taking of Prezmyra and her lord as they came down that windy

corridor and paused at the head of the stairs.

Prezmyra had her arm in his. “I know where the Devil keepeth his tail,

madam,” said Corund. “And I know a very traitor when I see him.”

“When didst thou ever yet fare ill by following of my counsel, my

lord?” said Prezmyra. “Or did I refuse thee ever any thing thou didst

require me of? These seven years since I put off my maiden zone for

thee; and twenty kings sought me in sweet marriage, but thee I

preferred before them all, seeing the falcon shall not mate with

popinjays nor the she-eagle with swans and bustards. And will you say

nay to me in this?”

She stood round to face him. The pupils of her great eyes were large

in the doubtful lamplight, swallowing their green fires in deep pools

of mystery and darkness. The rich and gorgeous ornaments of her crown

and girdle seemed but a poor casket for that matchless beauty which

was hers: her face, where every noble and sweet quality and every

thing desirable of earth or heaven had framed each feature to itself:

the glory of her hair, like the red sun’s glory: her whole body’s

poise and posture, like a stately bird’s newlighted after flight.

“Though it be very rhubarb to me,” said Corund, “shall I say nay to

thee this tide? Not this tide, my Queen.”

“Thanks, dear my lord. Disarm him and bring him in if you may. The

King shall not refuse us this to pardon his folly, when thou shalt

have obtained this victory for him upon our enemies.”

The Lady Sriva might hear no more, harkened she never so curiously.

But when they were now come to the stair foot, Corund paused a minute

to try the buckles of his harness. His brow was clouded. At length he

spake. “This shall be a battle mortal fierce and doubtous for both

parties. ‘Gainst such mighty opposites as here we have, ‘tis possible:

No more; but kiss me, dear lass. And if: tush, ‘t will not be; and

yet, I’d not leave it unsaid: if ill tide ill, I’d not have thee waste

all thy days a-grieving. Thou knowest I am not one of your sour

envious jacks, bear so poor a conceit o’ themselves they begrudge

their wives should wed again lest the next husband should prove the

better man.”

But Prezmyra came near to him with good and merry countenance: “Let me

stop thy mouth, my lord. These be foolish thoughts for a great king

going into battle. Come back in triumph, and i’ the mean season think

on me that wait for thee: as a star waits, dear my lord. And never

doubt the issue.”

“The issue,” answered he, “I’ll tell thee when ‘tis done. I’m no

astronomer. I’ll hew with my sword, love; spoil some of their guesses

if I may.”

“Good fortune and my love go with thee,” she said.

Sriva coming forth from her hiding hastened to her mother’s lodging,

and there found her that had just bid adieu to her two sons, her face

all blubbered with tears. In the same instant came the Duke her

husband to change his sword, and the Lady Zenambria caught him about

the neck and would have kissed him. But he shook her off, crying out

that he was weary of her and her slobbering mouth; menacing her

besides with filthy imprecations, that he would drag her with him and

cast her to the Demons, who, since they had a strong loathing for such

ugly tits and stale old trots, would no doubt hang her up or

disembowel her and so rid him of his lasting consumption. Therewith he

went forth hastily. But his wife and daughter, either weeping upon

other, came down into the court, meaning to go up to the tower above

the water-gate to see the army marshalled beyond the river. And on the

way Sriva related all she had heard said betwixt Corund and Prezmyra.

In the court they met with Prezmyra’s self, and she going with blithe

countenance and light tread and humming a merry tune bade them

good-morrow.

“You can bear these things more bravelier than we, madam,” said

Zenambria. “We be too gentle-hearted methinks and pitiful.”

Prezmyra replied upon her,“‘Tis true, madam, I have not the weak sense

of some of you soft-eyed