The Worm Ouroboros by E. R. Eddison (nonfiction book recommendations TXT) 📕

was well done to rest the command in thee. But what of our qualified young gentleman who had that office aforetime. Will he play o’ these terms?”

Corund answered, “Hungry dogs will eat dirty puddings. I think he’ll play, albeit he showed his teeth i’ the first while.”

“Let him keep his teeth for the Demons,” said she.

“This very ship was ta’en,” said Corund, “and sent home by them in a bravado to tell us what betid: a stupid insolent part, shall cost ’em dear, for it hath forewarned us. The skipper had this letter for thee: gave it me monstrous secretly.”

Prezmyra took away the wax and opened the letter, and knew the writer of it. She held it out to Corund: “Read it to me, my lord. I am tired with watching; I read ill by this flickering candlelight.”

But he said, “I am too poor a scholar, madam. I prithee read it.”

And in the light of the guttering candles, vexed with an east wind that blew before the dawn, she read this letter, that was conceived in manner following:

“Unto the right high mighti and doubtid Prynsace the Quen of Implande, one that was your Servaunt but now beinge both a Traitor and a manifald parjured Traitor, which Heaven above doth abhorre, the erth below detest, the sun moone and starres be eschamed of, and all Creatures doo curse and ajudge unworthy of breth and life, do wish onelie to die your Penytent. In hevye sorrowe doo send you these advisoes which I requyre your Mageste in umblest manner to pondur wel, seeinge ells your manyfest Overthrowe and Rwyn att hand. And albeit in Carcee you reste in securitie, it is serten you are there as saife as he that hingeth by the Leves of a Tree in the end of Autumpne when as the Leves begin to fall. For in this late Battaile in Mellicafhaz Sea hath the whole powre of Wychlande on the sea been beat downe and ruwyned, and the highe Admirall of our whole Navie loste and ded and the names of the great men of accownte that were slayen at the battaile I may not numbre nor of the common sorte much lesse by reaisoun that the more part were dround in the sea which came not to Syght. But of Daemounlande not ij schips companies were lossit, but with great puissaunce they doo buske them for Carsee. Havinge with them this Gowldri Bleusco, strangely reskewed from his preassoun-house beyond the toombe, and a great Armey of the moste strangg and fell folke that ever I saw or herd speke of. Such is the Die of Warre. Most Nowble Prynsace I will speke unto you not by a Ryddle or Darck Fygure but playnly that you let not slipp this Occasioun. For I have drempt an evill Dreeme and one pourtending ruwyn unto Wychlande, beinge in my slepe on the verie eve of this same bataille terrified and smytten with an appeering schape of Laxus armde cryinge in an hyghe voise and lowd, An Ende an Ende an ende of All. Therefore most aernestly I do beseek your Magestie and your nowble Lorde that was my Frend before that by my venemous tresun I loste both you and him and alle, take order for your proper saffetie, and the thinge requyers Haste of your Magestes. And this must you doo, to fare strayght way into your owne cuntrie of Picselande and there raise Force. Be you before these rebalds and obstynates of Demounlande in their Prowd Attempts, to strike at Wychlande and so purchas their Frenshyp who it is verie sertan will in powre invintiable stand before Carsee or ever Wychlande shall have time to putt you downe. This Counsell I give you knowinge full well that the Power and Domynyon of the Demouns standeth now preheminent and not to be withstode. So tarry not by a Sinckinge Schippe, but do as I saye lest all bee loste.

“One thinge more I telle you, that shall haply enforce my counsell unto you, the hevyeste Newes of alle.”

“ ’Tis heavy news that such a false troker as he is should yet supervive so many honest men,” said Corund.

The Lady Prezmyra held out the letter to her lord. “Mine eyes dazzle,” she said. “Read thou the rest.” Corund put his great arm about her as he sat down to the table before the mirror and pored over the writing, spelling it out with one finger. He had little book-learning, and it was some time ere he had the meaning clear. He did not read it out; his lady’s face told him she had read all ere he began.

This was the last news Gro’s letter told her: the Prince her brother dead in the sea-fight, fighting for Demonland; dead and drowned in the sea off Melikaphkhaz.

Prezmyra went to the window. Dawn was beginning, bleak and gray. After a minute she turned her head. Like a she-lion she looked, proud and dangerous-eyed. She was very pale. Her accents, level and quiet, called to the blood like the roll of a distant drum, as she said, “Succours of Demonland: late or never.”

Corund beheld her uneasily.

“Their oaths to me and to him!” said she, “sworn to us that night in Carcë. False friends! O, I could eat their hearts with garlic.”

He put his great hands on her two shoulders. She threw them off. “In one thing,” she cried, “Gro counselleth us well: to tarry no more on this sinking ship. We must raise forces. But not as he would have it, to uphold these Demons, these oath-breakers. We must away this night.”

Her lord had cast aside his great wolfskin mantle. “Come, madam,” said he, “to bed’s our nearest journey.”

Prezmyra answered, “I’ll not to bed. It shall be seen now, O Corund, if that thou be a king indeed.”

He sat down on the bed’s edge and fell to doing off his boots. “Well,” he said, “every one as he likes, as the goodman said when he