The Worm Ouroboros, Eric Rücker Eddison [epub ebook reader txt] 📗
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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
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