Produced by Tom Harris
By Lord Dunsany
Author of "Time and the Gods," etc.
with deep gratitude to those few, known to me or unknown,who have cared for either of my former books, "The Gods ofPegana," "Time and the Gods."
The Sword of Welleran
Where the great plain of Tarphet runs up, as the sea in estuaries,among the Cyresian mountains, there stood long since the city ofMerimna well-nigh among the shadows of the crags. I have never seena city in the world so beautiful as Merimna seemed to me when firstI dreamed of it. It was a marvel of spires and figures of bronze,and marble fountains, and trophies of fabulous wars, and broadstreets given over wholly to the Beautiful. Right through thecentre of the city there went an avenue fifty strides in width, andalong each side of it stood likenesses in bronze of the Kings of allthe countries that the people of Merimna had ever known. At the endof that avenue was a colossal chariot with three bronze horsesdriven by the winged figure of Fame, and behind her in the chariotthe huge form of Welleran, Merimna's ancient hero, standing withextended sword. So urgent was the mien and attitude of Fame, and soswift the pose of the horses, that you had sworn that the chariotwas instantly upon you, and that its dust already veiled the facesof the Kings. And in the city was a mighty hall wherein were storedthe trophies of Merimna's heroes. Sculptured it was and domed, theglory of the art of masons a long while dead, and on the summit ofthe dome the image of Rollory sat gazing across the Cyresianmountains towards the wide lands beyond, the lands that knew hissword. And beside Rollory, like an old nurse, the figure of Victorysat, hammering into a golden wreath of laurels for his head thecrowns of fallen Kings.
Such was Merimna, a city of sculptured Victories and warriors ofbronze. Yet in the time of which I write the art of war had beenforgotten in Merimna, and the people almost slept. To and fro andup and down they would walk through the marble streets, gazing atmemorials of the things achieved by their country's swords in thehands of those that long ago had loved Merimna well. Almost theyslept, and dreamed of Welleran, Soorenard, Mommolek, Rollory,Akanax, and young Iraine. Of the lands beyond the mountains thatlay all round about them they knew nothing, save that they were thetheatre of the terrible deeds of Welleran, that he had done with hissword. Long since these lands had fallen back into the possessionof the nations that had been scourged by Merimna's armies. Nothingnow remained to Merimna's men save their inviolate city and theglory of the remembrance of their ancient fame. At night they wouldplace sentinels far out in the desert, but these always slept attheir posts dreaming of Rollory, and three times every night a guardwould march around the city clad in purple, bearing lights andsinging songs of Welleran. Always the guard went unarmed, but as thesound of their song went echoing across the plain towards thelooming mountains, the desert robbers would hear the name ofWelleran and steal away to their haunts. Often dawn would comeacross the plain, shimmering marvellously upon Merimna's spires,abashing all the stars, and find the guard still singing songs ofWelleran, and would change the colour of their purple robes and palethe lights they bore. But the guard would go back leaving theramparts safe, and one by one the sentinels in the plain would awakefrom dreaming of Rollory and shuffle back into the city quite cold.Then something of the menace would pass aw