Bran Mak Morn: The Last King

by Robert E. Howard

  Bran donned his garments, mounted the black stallion and rode across the fen in the desolate crimson of the sunset� after-glow, with the Black Stone wrapped in his cloak. He rode, not to his hut, but to the west, in the direction of the Tower of Trajan and the Ring of Dagon. As he covered the miles that lay between, night fell and the red stars winked out. Midnight passed him in the moonless night and still Bran rode on. His heart was hot for his meeting with Titus Sulla. Atla had supposed he wished to torture the Roman. No such thought was in Bran� mind. He intended giving the military governor a chance with weapons �with Bran� own sword he should face the Pictish king� dirk and live or die according to his prowess. And though Sulla was famed throughout the provinces as a swordsman, Bran felt no doubt as to the outcome.

  Dagon� Ring lay some distance from the Tower �a sullen circle of tall gaunt stones planted upright, with a rough-hewn stone altar in the center. The Romans looked on these menhirs with aversion; they thought the Druids had reared them; but the Celts supposed Bran� people, the Picts, had builded them �and Bran well knew who reared those grim stones in lost ages, though why, he but dimly guessed.

  The king did not ride straight to the Ring. He was consumed with curiosity as to how his grim allies intended carrying out their promise; that they could snatch Titus Sulla from the very midst of his men, he felt sure, and he believed he knew how they would do it, but he was not sure. He felt the gnawings of a strange misgiving, as if he had tampered with powers of unknown breadth and depth, and had loosed forces which he could not control.

  Some instinct prompted him to ride toward the Tower. He knew he was near; but for the thick darkness he could have plainly seen its stark outline tusking the horizon. Even now he should be able to make it out dimly �an obscure, shuddersome premonition shook him and he spurred the stallion into a swift canter.

  Now the the Tower leaped into view with startling suddeness �and Bran literally staggered in his saddle as if from a physical impact, so stunning was the surprize of what met his gaze. There was the impregnable Tower of Trajan �aye, but impregnable no longer! Bran� astounded gaze rested on a gigantic pile of ruins �of shattered stone and crumbled granite, from which jutted the jagged and splintered ends of broken beams. At one corner of the tumbled heap one tower rose out of the waste of crumpled masonry, and it leaned drunkenly, as if its foundations had been half-cut away. Bran dismounted and walked forward, dazed by bewilderment. The moat was filled in places by fallen stones and broken pieces of mortared wall. He crossed over and came among the ruins. Where, he knew, only a few hours before, the flags had resounded to the martial tread of iron-clad feet, and the walls had echoed to the clang of shields and the blast of the loud-throated trumpet, a horrific silence reigned.

  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 sa
vage 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

  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 sham
e 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,

  And all the dead men under the sea

  Await for its sullen boom.

  It did not glow in an earthly fire,

  Or clang to a mortal� sledge;

  The hands that cast it grope in the night

  Through the reeds at the fen-pool� edge.

  It is laden with dooms of a thousand years,

  It waits in the silence stark,

  With grinning dwarves and the faceless things

  That crawl in the working dark.

  And it waits the Hand that shall wake its voice,

  When the hills shall break with fright,

  To call the dead men into the day,

  And the living into the Night.

  Untitled

  INTRODUCTION

  Early in 2004, Wandering Star editor Patrice Louinet, studying Robert E. Howard� early manuscripts and typescripts in his search for clues that would help in dating the author� work, received a package of materials he had requested from Glenn Lord. Lord owns the largest collection of original Howard manuscripts. Among these was a typescript that had been listed in the �npublished Fiction�section of his landmark bio-bibliography of Howard, The Last Celt, under the title �he Wheel Turns.� As he read it, Louinet was excited to discover that this was without doubt the �ovel�that Howard had referred to in a 1923 letter to his friend Clyde Smith (see page 324). While Glenn Lord had read the typescript more than thirty years ago, it was not until years later that Howard� letters to Smith had become available, so the connection had never been made.