Bran Mak Morn: The Last King (28 page)

Almost under Bran� feet a broken shape writhed and groaned. The king bent down to the legionary who lay in a sticky red pool of his own blood. A single glance showed the Pict that the man, horribly crushed and shattered, was dying.

Lifting the bloody head, Bran placed his flask to the pulped lips and the Roman instinctively drank deep, gulping through splintered teeth. In the dim starlight Bran saw his glazed eyes roll.

�he walls fell,�muttered the dying man, �hey crashed down like the skies falling on the day of doom. Ah Jove, the skies rained shards of granite and hail-stones of marble!� � have no earth-quake shock,�muttered Bran.

�t was no earth-quake,�muttered the Roman, �efore last dawn it began �the faint dim scratching and clawing far below the earth. We of the guard heard it �like rats burrowing, or like worms hollowing out the earth. Titus laughed at us �but all day long we heard it. Then at midnight, the Tower quivered and seemed to settle �as if her foundations were being dug away �� A shudder shook Bran Mak Morn. The worms of the earth! Thousands of vermin digging like moles far below the castle �burrowing away the foundations � �hat of Titus Sulla?�he asked, again holding the flask to the legionary� lips; in that moment the dying Roman seemed like a brother to him.

�ven as the Tower shuddered we heard a fearful scream from the governor� chamber,�muttered the soldier, �e rushed there �as we broke down the door we heard his screams �they seemed to recede �INTO THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH! We rushed in; the chamber was empty. His blood-stained sword lay on the floor; in the stone flags of the floor, a black hole gaped. Then �the �towers �reeled �the �roof �broke �the �walls �crashed.� A strong convulsion shook the broken figure.

�ay me down, friend,�whispered the Roman, � die.� And he had ceased to breathe before Bran could comply. The Pict rose, mechanically cleansing his hands.

�ods!�he whispered, and again, �ods!� Turning to his stallion he mounted and reined away, and as he rode over the darkened fen, the weight of the accursed Black Stone under his cloak was as the weight of a foul nightmare on a mortal breast.

As he approached the Ring, he saw an eery glow within, so that the gaunt stones stood etched like the ribs of a skeleton in which a witch-fire burns. The stallion snorted and reared and Bran tied him to one of the menhirs. Carrying the Stone he strode into the grisly circle and he saw Atla standing beside the altar, one hand on her hip, her sinuous body swaying in a serpentine manner. The altar glowed all over with ghastly light and Bran knew someone �probably Atla �had rubbed it with phosphorous from some dank swamp or quag-mire.

He strode forward and whipping his cloak from about the Stone, flung the accursed thing on the altar.

� have fulfilled my part of the contract,�he growled.

�nd they, their�,�she retorted, �ook �they come!� He wheeled, his hand instinctively dropping to his sword. Outside the Ring the stallion screamed savagely and reared against his tether. The night wind moaned through the waving grass and an abhorrent soft hissing mingled with it. Between the menhirs flowed Shadows, unstable and chaotic. The Ring filled with glittering eyes, which stayed beyond the dim illusive circle of light cast by the phosphorescent altar. Somewhere in the darkness a human voice tittered and gibbered idiotically. Bran stiffened, the shadow of a Horror clawing at his soul.

He strained his eyes, trying to make out the shadowy shapes that ringed him. In one place the shadows heaved and writhed and one of the forms was half pushed forward. But Bran got only a fleeting impression of a broad square head, loose writhing lips that barred curved pointed fangs, and a curiously misshapen, dwarfish body �all set off by those unwinking reptilian eyes. Gods, could a human race sink into such frightful depths of retrogression?

�et them make good their bargain!�he exclaimed angrily, shaken.

�hen see, oh king!�cried Atla in voice of piercing mockery.

There was a stir, a seethe in the writhing mass of shadows, and from the darkness crept, like a four-legged animal, a human shape that fell down and groveled at Bran� feet and writhed and mowed, and lifting a death�-head, mewed and howled like a dying dog. In the ghastly light, Bran, soul-shaken, saw the blank glassy eyes, the bloodless features, the loose, writhing, froth-covered lips of sheer lunacy �gods, was this Titus Sulla, the proud lord of life and death of Ebbracum� proud city?

Bran bared his sword.

� had thought to give this stroke in vengeance,�he said somberly, � give it in mercy �Vae, Caesar!� The steel flashed in the eery light and Sulla� head rolled to the foot of the glowing altar, where it lay staring up at the shadowed sky.

�hey did him no harm,�Atla� hateful laugh slashed the sick silence, �t was what he saw, and came to know that broke his brain! This night he has been dragged through the deepest pits of Hell, where even you might have blenched, though you knew of the Children of old. The Roman had not guessed the existence of them. Like all his heavy-footed race, he knew nothing of the secrets of this ancient land. Now give them their Black Stone!� A cataclysmic loathing shook Bran� soul with red fury.

�ye, take your cursed Stone!�he roared, snatching it from the altar and hurling it among the shadows with a savage force that snapped bones. A hurried babel of grisly tongues rose and the thick shadows receded, flowing back and away from Bran like the foul waters of some black flood.

�o back to Hell and take your idol with you!�he yelled, brandishing his clenched fists to the skies, �onar was right �there are shapes too foul to use against even Rome!� He sprang from the Ring as a man flees the touch of a coiling snake, and tore the stallion free, wheeling the great horse about. At his elbow Atla was shrieking with fearful laughter.

�ings of Pictland!�she cried, �ing of fools! You blench at a little thing �stay and let me show you the real fruit of the pits! Ha! ha! ha! Run, fool, run! But you are stained with the taint �you have called them forth and they will remember! And in their own time they will come to you again!� �he curse of R�yeh on you, witch!�he yelled, and struck her savagely in the mouth with his open hand. She staggered, blood starting from her lips, but her fiendish laughter only rose higher.

Bran leaped into the saddle, wild for the clean heather and the cold blue hills of the north where he could plunge his sword into clean slaughter and his sickened soul into forgetfullness in the red storm of forthright battle. And forget the horror which lurked below the fens of the west. He gave the frantic stallion the rein, and rode through the night like a hunted ghost until the hellish laughter of the howling were-woman died out in the darkness behind him.

Fragment

A grey sky arched over the dreary waste. The dry tall grass rippled in the cold wind; but for this no hint of movement stirred the primeval quietude of the level land, which ran to the low mountains rearing bleak and barren. In the center of this waste and desolation one lonely figure moved �a tall gaunt man who partook of the wildness of his surroundings. The wolfishness of his appearance was increased by his horned helmet and rusty mail-shirt. His lank hair was yellow, his scarred face sinister. Now he wheeled suddenly, his lean hand on his sword, as another man stepped suddenly from behind a clump of leafless trees. The two faced each other, tensed for anything. The new-comer fitted into the desolate scene even more perfectly than the other. Every line of his lean hard body betokened the wild savagery that had molded it. He was of medium height, but his shoulders were broad, and he was built with the savage economy of a wolf. His face was dark and inscrutable, his eyes gleaming like black ice. Like the first man he wore helmet and mail-shirt. And he was the first to speak.

� give you greetings, stranger. I am Partha Mac Othna. I am on a mission for my leige �I bear words of friendship from Bran Mak Morn, king of Pictdom, to the chiefs of the Red-beards.� The tall man relaxed and a grin twisted his bearded lips.

� hail you, good sir. I am called Thorvald the Smiter, and until a day agone I was chief of a long-serpent and a goodly band of Vikings. But the storms cast my ship upon a reef and all my crew went to glut Fafnir except myself. I am seeking to reach the settlements on Caithness.� Each smiled and nodded curteously, and each knew the other lied.

�ell it would be might we travel together,�said the Pict, �ut my way lies to the west; and your� to the east.� Thorvald assented and stood, leaning on his sheathed sword, as the Pict strode away. Just out of sight the Pict glanced back and lifted his hand in salute and the impassive Norseman returned the gesture. Then as the other vanished over a slight rise, Thorvald grinned savagely and went swiftly in a course that slanted slowly eastward, swinging along with tireless strides of his long legs.

The man who had called himself Partha Mac Othna did not go far before he turned suddenly aside and slid silently into a brown leafless copse. There he waited grimly, his sword ready. But the grey clouds rolled and drifted overhead, the cold wind blew across the rattling grass, and no stealthy shape came gliding on his trail. He rose at last and swept the bleak landscape with his keen black eyes. Far away to the east he saw a tiny figure momentarily etched against the grey clouds on the crest of a hill. And the black-haired wanderer shrugged his shoulders and took up his journey.

The land grew wilder and more rugged. His way lay among low sloping hills bare except for the brown dead grass. To the left the grey sea boomed along the cliffs and the grey stone promontories. To his right the mountains rose dark and grim. Now as the day drew to a close, a strong wind from the sea rolled the clouds in flying grey scrolls and drove them torn and scattered over the world-rim. The sinking sun blazed in a cold crimson glow over the reddening ocean, and the wanderer came up upon a high promontory that jutted high above the sea, and saw a woman sitting on a grey boulder, her red hair blown in the wind.

She drew his eyes as a magnet draws steel. Indifferent to the chill of the wind she sat there, her only garments a scant kirtle which left her arms bare and came barely to her knees, and leather sandals on her feet. A short sword hung at her girdle.

She was almost as tall as the man who watched her, and she was broadly built and deep-bosomed. Her hair was red as the sunset and her eyes were cold and strange and magnetic. The Romans who represented the world� civilization would not have called her beautiful, but there was a wild something about her which held the eyes of the Pict. Her own eyes gave back his stare boldly.

�hat evil wind brings you into this land, feeder of ravens?�she asked in no friendly tone.

The Pict scowled, antagonized by her manner.

�hat is that to you, wench?�he retorted.

�his is my land,�she answered, sweeping the bleak magnificence with a bold sweep of her strong white arm, �y people claim this land and own no master. It is my right to ask of any intruder, �hat do you here?�

�ts not my custom to give an account of myself to every hussy I happen to meet,�growled the warrior, nettled.

�ho are you?�how her hair glinted in the dying glow of the sun.

�artha Mac Othna.� �ou lie!�she rose lithely and came up to him, meeting his scowling black eyes unflinchingly, �ou come into the land to spy.� �y people have no quarrel with the Red Beards,�he growled.

�ho knows against whom you plot or where your next raid falls?�she retorted, then her mood changed and a vagrant gleam rose in her eyes.

�ou shall wrestle with me,�she said, �or go from this spot unless you overcome me.� He snorted disgustedly and turned away but she caught his girdle and detained him with surprizing strength.

�o you fear me, my black slayer?�she taunted me, �re Picts so cowed by the emperor that they fear to wrestle with a woman of the Red People?� �elease me, wench,�he snarled, �efore I lose patience and hurt you.� �urt me if you can!�she retorted, suddenly flinging her full weight against his chest and back-heeling him at the same instant. Caught off-guard by the unexpected movement, the warrior went down ingloriously, half smothered by a flurry of white arms and legs. Cursing luridly he strove to thrust her aside, but she was like a big she-cat, and with strong and cunning wrestling tricks she more than held her own for an instant. But the superior strength of the warrior was not to be denied and casting her angrily aside, her antagonist rose. But she, springing to her knees, caught his sword-belt and almost dragged him down again, and irritated beyond control, the Pict jerked her savagely to her feet by her red locks and gave her a terrific cuff with his open hand that felled her senseless at his feet. Swearing in disgust and wrath, he turned away, brushing the dust from his garments, then glanced at the motionless form of the girl and hesitated. Then with an oath he knelt beside her and lifted her head, flinging the contents of his canteen in her face. She started, shook her head and looked up, clear-eyed and fully concious. He instantly released her and let her head bump none too gently against the frosty ground as he rose to his feet and replaced his canteen.

She sat up cross-legged and looked up at him.

�ell, you have conquered me,�she said calmly, �hat will you do with me now?� � should rip the skin from your loins with my sword-belt,�he snapped, �t is no small shame to a warrior to be forced into striving with a woman �and no small shame to the woman who thrusts herself into a man� game.� � am no common woman,�she answered, � am one with the winds and the frosts and the grey seas of this wild land.

Poem

Previously Unpublished

There� a bell that hangs in a hidden cave

Under the heathered hills

That knew the tramp of the Roman feet

And the clash of the Pictish bills.

It has not rung for a thousand years,

To waken the sleeping trolls,

But God defend the sons of men

When the bell of the Morni tolls.

For its rope is caught in the hinge of hell,

And its clapper is forged of doom,