Bran Mak Morn: The Last King Read Online Free PDF Page A

was tattooed from crown to heel. His leathery face was creased with a million wrinkles, his hide was scaly as a snake�. From beneath sparse white brows his great strange eyes blazed, as though seeing weird visions. The warriors stirred restlessly. The girl shrank back into Mak Morn� arms as if frightened.
    �he god of War rides the night wind,�spoke the wizard suddenly, in a high eery voice. �he kites scent blood. Strange feet tramp the roads of Alba. Strange oars beat the Northern Sea.� �end us your craft, wizard,�commanded Mak Morn imperiously.
    �ou have displeased the old gods, chief,�the other answered. �he temples of the Serpent are deserted. The white god of the moon feasts no more on man flesh. The lords of the air look down from their ramparts and are not pleased. Hai, hai! They say a chief has turned from the path.� �nough.�Mak Morn� voice was harsh. �he power of the Serpent is broken. The neophytes offer up no more humans to their dark divinities. If I lift the Pictish nation out of the darkness of the valley of abysmal savagery, I brook no opposition by prince or priest. Mark my words, wizard.� The old man raised great eyes, weirdly alit, and stared into my face.
    � see a yellow haired savage,�came his flesh-crawling whisper. � see a strong body and a strong mind, such as a chief might feast upon.� An impatient ejaculation from Mak Morn.
    The girl put her arms about him timidly and whispered in his ear.
    �ome characteristics of humanity and kindliness remain still with the Picts,�said he, and I sensed the fierce self-mockery in his tone. �he child asks me that you go free.� Though he spoke in the Celtic language, the warriors understood, and muttered discontentedly.
    �o!�exclaimed the wizard violently.
    The opposition steeled the chief� resolution. He rose to his feet.
    � say the Norseman goes free at dawn.� A disapproving silence answered him.
    �are any of ye to step upon the heath and match steel with me?�he challenged.
    The wizard spoke, �ark ye, chief. I have outlived a hundred years. I have seen chiefs and conquerors come and go. In midnight forests have I battled the magic of the Druids. Long have ye mocked my power, man of the Old Race, and here I defy ye. I bid ye unto the combat.� No word was spoken. The two men advanced into the fire-light which threw its fitful gleam into the shadows.
    �f I conquer, the Serpent coils again, the Wild-cat screeches again, and thou art my slave forever. If thou dost conquer, my arts are thine and I will serve thee.� Wizard and chief faced each other. The lurid flame-flares lit their faces. Their eyes met, clashed. Yes, the combat between the eyes and the souls behind them was as clearly evident as though they had been battling with swords. The wizard� eyes widened, the chief� narrowed. Terrific forces seemed to emanate from each; unseen powers in combat swirled about them. And I was vaguely aware that it was but another phase of the eon-old warfare. The battle between Old and New. Behind the wizard lurked thousands of years of dark secrets, sinister mysteries, frightful nebulous shapes, monsters half hidden in the fogs of antiquity. Behind the chief, the clear strong light of the coming Day, the first kindling of civilization, the clean strength of a new man with a new and mighty mission. The wizard was the Stone Age typified; the chief, the coming civilization. The destiny of the Pictish race, perhaps, hinged on that struggle.
    Both men seemed in the grasp of terrific effort. The veins stood out upon the chief� forehead. The eyes of both blazed and glittered. Then a gasp broke from the wizard. With a shriek he caught at his eyes, and slumped to the heather like an empty sack.
    �nough!�he gasped. �ou conquer, chief.�He rose, shaken, submissive.
    The tense, crouching lines relaxed, sat in their places, eyes fixed on the chief. Mak Morn shook his head as if to clear it. He stepped to the