Bran Mak Morn: The Last King Read Online Free Page B

heather. Then, spent, I lay upon the heather and slept nor recked of all the savages in the world.
    When I awoke the moon was high in the sky. My arms were gone and my helmet, and several armed Picts stood guard over me. When they saw I was awake they motioned me to follow them, and set out across the heath. Presently we came to a high, bare hill and a fire gleamed upon its top. On a boulder beside the fire sat the strange, dark chief and about him, like spirits of the Dark World, sat Pictish warriors, in a silent ring.
    They led me before the chief, if such he was, and I stood there, gazing at him without defiance or fear. And I sensed that here was a man different from any I had ever seen. I was aware of a certain Force, a certain unseen Power radiating from the man, that seemed to set him apart from common men. It was as though from the heights of self-conquest he looked down upon men, brooding, inscrutable, fraught with the ages�knowledge, sombre with the ages�wisdom. Chin in hand he sat, dark unfathomed eyes fixed upon me.
    �ho are you?� � Roman citizen.� � Roman soldier. One of the wolves who have torn the world for far too many centuries.� Among the warriors passed a murmur, fleeting as the whisper of the night wind, sinister as the flash of a wolf� fang.
    �here be those whom my people hate more than they do the Romans,�said he. �ut you are a Roman, to be sure. And yet, methinks they must grow taller Romans than I had thought. And your beard, what turned it yellow?� At the sardonic tone, I threw back my head, and though my skin crawled at the thought of the swords at my back, I answered proudly.
    �y birth I am a Norseman.� A savage, blood-lusting yell went up from the crouching horde and in an instant they surged forward. A single motion of the chief� hand sent them slinking back, eyes blazing. His own eyes had never left my face.
    �y tribe are fools,�said he. �or they hate the Norse even more than they do the Romans. For the Norse harry our shores incessantly; but it is Rome that they should hate.� �ut you are no Pict!� � am a Mediterranean.� �f Caledonia?� �f the world.� �ho are you?� �ran Mak Morn.� �hat!�I had expected a monstrosity, a hideous deformed giant, a ferocious dwarf built in keeping with the rest of his race.
    �ou are not as these.� � am as the race was,�he replied. �he line of chiefs has kept its blood pure through the ages, scouring the world for women of the Old Race.� �hy does your race hate all men?�I asked curiously. �our ferocity is a by-word among the nations.� �hy should we not hate?�His dark eyes lit with a sudden fierce glitter. �rampled upon by every wandering tribe, driven from our fertile lands, forced into the waste places of the world, deformed in body and in mind. Look upon me. I am what the race once was. Look about you. A race of ape-men, we that were the highest type of men the world could boast.� I shuddered in spite of myself at the hate that vibrated in his deep, resonant voice.
    Between the lines of warriors came a girl, who sought the chief� side and nestled close to him. A slim, shy little beauty, not much more than a child. Mak Morn� face softened somewhat as he put his arm about her slender body. Then the brooding look returned to his dark eyes.
    �y sister, Norseman,�he said. � am told that a rich merchant of Corinium has offered a thousand pieces of gold to any who brings her to him.� My hair prickled for I seemed to sense a sinister minor note in the Caledonian� even voice. The moon sank below the western horizon, touching the heather with a red tinge, so that the heath looked like a sea of gore in the eery light.
    The chief� voice broke the stillness. �he merchant sent a spy past the Wall. I sent him his head.� I started. A man stood before me. I had not seen him come. A very old man he was, clad only in a loin cloth. A long white beard fell to his waist and he