Bran Mak Morn: The Last King

With a snarl at the marble frieze-work and Doric columns, as objects symbolic of Rome, he flung himself down on a couch, from which he had long since impatiently torn the cushions and silk stuffs, as too soft for his hard body. Hate and the black passion of vengeance seethed in him, yet he went instantly to sleep. The first lesson he had learned in his bitter hard life was to snatch sleep any time he could, like a wolf that snatches sleep on the hunting trail. Generally his sleep was as light and dreamless as a panther’s, but tonight it was otherwise.

He sank into fleecy grey fathoms of slumber and in a timeless, misty realm he met the tall, lean white-bearded figure of old Gonar, the priest of the Moon. And Bran stood aghast for Gonar’s face was white as driven snow and he shook with deep terror. Well might Bran stand aghast for in all the years of his life, he had never seen Gonar the Wise show any sign of any fear.

“What now, old one?” asked the king, “Goes all well in Pictdom?”

“All is well in Pictdom where my body lies sleeping,” answered old Gonar, “Across the void I have come to battle with you for your soul. King, are you mad, this thought you have thought in your brain?”

“Gonar,” answered Bran somberly, “this day I stood still and watched a man of mine die on the cross of Rome. What his name or his rank, I do not know. I do not care. He might have been a faithful, unknown warrior, of mine, he might have been an outlaw. I only know that he was mine; the first scents he knew were the scents of the heather; the first light he saw was the sunrise on the Pictish hills. He belonged to me, not to Rome. If punishment was just, then none but I should have dealt it. If he was to be tried, none but I should have been his judge. The same blood flowed in our veins; the same fire maddened our brains; in babyhood we listened to the same old tales, and in youth we sang the same old songs. He was bound to my heart-strings, as every man and every woman and every child of Pictland is bound. It was mine to protect him; since I could not, it is mine to avenge him.”

“But in the name of the gods, Bran,” expostulated Gonar, “take your vengeance in another way! Return to the heather – mass your warriors – join with Cormac and his Gaels, and spread a sea of blood and flame the length of the great Wall!”

“All that I will do,” grimly answered Bran, “But now – NOW I will have a vengeance such as no Roman ever dreamed of! Ha, what do they know of the mysteries of this ancient isle, which sheltered strange life before Rome rose from the marshes of the Tiber?”

“Bran, there are weapons too foul to use, even against Rome!”

Bran barked short and sharp as a jackal.

“Ha! There are no weapons I would not use against Rome! My back is at the wall – I will fight her with what weapons I can! By the blood of the fiends, has Rome fought me fair? Bah! I am a barbarian king, with wolfskin robes and an iron crown, fighting with my handful of bows and broken pikes against the queen of the world! What have I? The heather hills, the wattle huts, the spears of my shock-headed tribesmen! And I fight Rome – with her armored legions, her broad fertile plains and rich seas – her wealth, her steel, her gold, her mastery and her wrath. By steel and fire I will fight her – and by subtlety and treachery – by the thorn in the foot, the adder in the path, the venom in the cup, the dagger in the dark – aye,” his voice sank somberly, “and by the worms of the earth!”

“But it is madness, this plan of yours,” cried Gonar, “you will perish in the attempt – you will go down to Hell and you will not return! What of your people then?”

“If I cannot serve them I had better die,” growled the king.

“But you cannot even reach the beings you plan to use,” cried Gonar, “For untold centuries they have dwelt APART. There is no door by which you can come to them. Long ago they severed the bonds that bound them to the world we know.”

“Long ago,” answered Bran somberly, “you told me that nothing was separated from the stream of Life – a saying the truth of which I have often seen evident. No race, no form of life but is close knit somehow, by some manner, to the rest of Life and the world. Somewhere there is a thin tie-rib connecting they I seek to the world I know. Somewhere there is a Door. And somewhere among the bleak fens of the west I will find it.”

Stark horror flooded Gonar’s eyes and he gave back crying: “Woe! Woe! Woe to Pictdom! Woe to the unborn kingdom! Woe, black woe to the sons of men! Woe, woe, woe, woe!”

Bran awoke to a shadowed room and the starlight on the window bars. The moon had sunk from sight though its glow was still faintly evident above the house tops. Memory of his dream shook him and he swore beneath his breath.

Rising he flung off cloak and mantle, donning a light shirt of black mesh-mail, and girting on sword and dirk. Then wrapping his wide cloak about him, he silently left the house. A moment’s groping in the stable and he placed his hand over the stallion’s nose, checking the nicker. Working without a light he swiftly bridled and saddled the great brute, and went into the shadowy side-street, leading him. At his girdle hung a pouch heavy with minted gold that bore the stamp of Rome. He had come to Ebbracum to pose as an emissary of Pictdom, and to spy. But being a barbarian, he could not play his part in sedate dignity. He retained a crowded memory of wild feasts, where wine flowed in fountains; of white bosomed Roman women who, sated with civilized lover, looked on a virile barbarian with something more than favor; of gladiatorial games; and of other games where dice clicked and tall stacks of gold changed hands. He had drunk deeply and gambled recklessly, after the manner of barbarians, and of late his luck had been good. He had had a remarkable run of luck, due possibly to the indifference with which he won or lost. Gold to the Pict was so much dust, flowing through his fingers. In his land there was no need of it. But he had learned its power in the boundaries of civilization.

He came almost under the shadow of the wall and saw ahead of him loom up the great watch-tower which was connected and reared above the wall. One corner of the castle-like fortress, furtherest from the wall, served as a dungeon. Bran left his horse standing with reins hanging to the ground, in a dark alley and stole forward.

The young officer Valerius was waken from a light, unquiet sleep by a stealthy sound at the barred window. He woke and sat up, cursing softly under his breath as the faint-starlight that etched the window-bars fell across the bare stone floor and reminded him of his disgrace. Well, in a few days he’d be out of it, and let any man or woman gibe at him! Damn that insolent Pict! But wait, he thought suddenly, what of the sound that had wakened him.

“Hssst!” a voice from the window.

A friend? If so, why so much secrecy? Valerius rose and crossed his cell, coming close to the window. Outside all was dim in the moonlight and he made out but a shadowy form close to the window.

“Who are you?” he leaned close against the bars, straining his eyes into the gloom.

His answer was a sudden snarl of laughter, a long flicker of steel in the starlight. Valerius reeled away from the window and crashed to the floor, clutching his throat, gurgling horribly as he tried to scream. Blood gushed in torrents through his fingers, forming about his stiffening body a pool that reflected the dim starlight dully and redly.

Outside Bran glided away, swift and fleeting as a shadow, without pausing to peer into the cell; he knew his stroke had gone home. In another minute the guard would round the corner on their regular round. Even now he heard the measured tramp of their iron-clad feet. Before they came in sight, he had vanished, and they clomped stolidly by the cell-window with no intimation of the corpse that lay on the floor within.

Bran rode to the small gate in the western wall, unchallenged by the sleepy watch. What fear of foreign invasion in Ebbracum? – and certain well organized thieves and women-stealers made it profitable to the watchmen not to be too vigilant. But the single guardsman at the western gate – his fellows lay drunk in a nearby brothel – lifted his spear and bawled for Bran to halt and give an account of himself. Silently the Pict reined closer. Masked in the dark cloak, he seemed dim and indistinct to the Roman, who only caught the glitter of his cold eyes in the gloom. But Bran held up his hand against the starlight and the soldier caught the gleam of gold; in the other hand he saw a long gleam of steel. The soldier understood and between the choice of a golden bribe, or a battle to the death with this unknown rider who was apparently a barbarian of some sort, he did not hesitate. With a grunt he lowered his spear and swung the gate open. Bran rode through, casting a handful of coins to the Roman. They fell about his feet in a golden shower, clinking against the flags. He bent in greedy haste to retrieve them and Bran Mak Morn rode westward like a flying ghost in the night.