The Worm Ouroboros by Eric Rücker Eddison (e book reader online .TXT) 📖
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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
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