“So be it!” Bran snapped. “A sham victory feast at the behest of my high counsellor. Let all rejoice in our triumph. And fm off to shed these damp garments to put on my festive robes.”
Morgain watched in concern as he stalked away. “He’s exhausted-his face burns with fever. He should take his couch, not his seat at high table.”
“He is king,” Gonar muttered. “He must do what a king must do.”
“But it’s senseless!” Morgain turned on him. “All day I’ve heard the people murmur. Some say he is unlucky, that he has drawn down the wrath of the old gods. Others say an army of unseen demons is among us-phantoms who will strike at either Roman or Pict according to their malice. Everywhere there is fear and uncertainty-and without reason they hold my brother to blame!”
“So does the pack always turn on its leader when the hunt goes not well,” Gonar rejoined. “The Wolf is strong. He can rule his pack if he shows his strength.”
“But it’s senseless!” Morgain repeated angrily. “Why should Bran shoulder such burdens!”
“Because Bran Mak Morn would be king,” the wizard told her. “And kingship has its price.”
6
VOICE IN THE MIST
The banquet was not a success.
It was a brave show, but only a show for all that. Men gnawed at their food without seeming to taste it. Ale and mulled wine they drank heavily, but without gusto. In place of the customary deafening din of loud voices and raucous laughter, there was only a sullen murmur of guarded conversation. Ordinarily merriment and carousal would have spilled out from the great hall and swept up all within Baal-dor. This night all those not specifically summoned to the feast appeared to have fallen into uneasy slumber in their dwellings and barracks.
At the high table Bran dutifully appeared in festive garments-called out toasts, engaged his sister, Gonar, and his clan chieftains in ioudly confident plans for driving the Romans into the Channel. That these were empty boasts was all too apparent to Bran himself to inspire more than half-hearted responses from his chieftains. The entire evening had an atmosphere of forced gaiety-too much like the funeral feast of some departed hero. It sickened Bran, so that he was well pleased when none of his guests made to tarry any longer than courtesy demanded.
He could not be certain when he at last drifted into a troubled sleep. As is often the case when extreme fatigue and overwrought nerves combine with an increasing fever, the transition into sleep is not a clean fall into slumber-but rather a tormented spin into the miasma of delirium. Sleep sucked Bran Mak Morn down into its fevered depths-eventually.
At first he thought the nightmares had returned…
“Bran! Bran Mak Morn!” The familiar, poisonous voice called to him. “Awaken, King of Pictland!”
Bran cursed, tossing feverishly on his sweat-soaked couch.
“Bran! Bran Mak Morn! Awaken!” The call was repeated, insidiously creeping through the fog of delirium.
With an oath, Bran flung aside the fur coverings and sat bolt upright. His skull sang with fever; his eyes sought to focus through the haze and shadow. The chamber was empty.
“Bran Mak Morn!”
Fiercely he shook his head, trying to dash away the mists that clogged his brain. The voice came from just outside his door. Bran pushed himself dizzily to his feet. He must see…
In a dream-like haze, he crossed his chamber, mechanically taking up his sword. The room swam about him, but he reached the heavy door and drew back the bolt.
The hallway beyond was empty.
“Bran! Bran Mak Morn!”
The witch’s voice whispered like trailing silk-somewhere from the deep shadow at the end of the long hallway. Not troubling to dress, the Pictish king stepped over the sprawled, comatose body of Grom. Listening intently, he followed the phantom summons down the hall corridor to where it made a turn.
The hallway stood empty for its entire length. In the shadow of the stairs leading downward…
“Bran Mak Morn!”
The witch was below, in the wing that held the kitchens and storage rooms. Bran pursued the hateful voice.
The stairway was deserted. Stealthily Bran descended to the hallway below. Again there was no one.
“Bran! Bran Mak Morn! Come to me!”
A chill breath of wind. The massive iron-bound door that gave egress from the rear wings stood ajar. Tendrils of mist reached through the rift.
“Come to me, Bran!” The voice beckoned from the darkness without.
In this dream it did not occur to Bran Mak Morn to wonder that the postern should stand unbolted. Grimly he pushed past the outer door and followed the siren voice into the night.
The slumped figure of the guard who stood watch at his post shouted no challenge, expressed no surprise at the sudden appearance of his king, naked as the sword that gleamed in his fist. The guard’s eyes stared glassily into nothingness-as they would continue to stare until a trembling hand closed them.
“Here, King of Pictdom!” teased the voice out of the mists. “Come to me, my lover!”
There. Just ahead. Was it a trick of the mists, or did he catch a glimpse of the witch’s lithe form dancing away from him? Bran set his lips in a snarl and tightened his fist about sword-hilt. Reality or nightmare-he would teach the serpent-bitch to taunt him.
The drizzling rain seemed to have stopped, although the dank fog was so dense that moisture beaded his bare flesh nonetheless. The damp earth was cold beneath his bare feet, and in the chill of the night pearls of fever-sweat made rivulets with the condensate of mist. Bran clenched his jaws to still their chattering, while his flesh seemed scalded with flame.
The heavy reek enveloped him completely, obliterating sight and sound. If any other living thing stirred within the walls of Baal-dor, Bran saw and heard no indication, nor did he question this. With dreamlike steps, he followed the phantom voice and the fleeting shape that might be spectre of delirium or wraith of the mists.
“Bran Mak Morn! Come to me, my king!”
Surely that was the witch just beyond-a laughing face fleetingly seen in the swirl of fog! Bran lunged. No one there.
Wait! Now farther on! A flash of bare limb. Listen! A patter of light footsteps? Or the chattering of his teeth?
“Bran! Bran! Come, my Bran!”
A trill of venomed laughter.
Bran lunged for the sound. His blade clove only mist. Mist on whose droplets hung that faint reptilian taint.
“Over here, my lover!”
“Damn you, bitch!” The fog smothered Bran’s curses as he lurched clumsily for the tormenting voice. His own voice was hollow and dream-like to his ears. His breath shook in broken gusts; sweat stung his eyes, and damp strands of hair hung in his face. Sharp stones tore the calloused soles of his bare feet, leaving dark smears on the dank earth as he stumbled onward.
“Here, my Bran!”
“Damn you!”
“Come, my Bran!”
“Kill you!”
“Kiss me, lover!”
“Kill you, witch!”
There! The witch’s face!
A jutting slab of stone broke Bran’s lumbering rush, cruelly smashing against midshin. Bran sprawled headlong under the impetus of his charge, tumbling onto broken stone. Agony burst through his consciousness as the rock gouged and crushed his bare flesh. His sword was flung from his sweaty grasp-clashing off into the darkness instead of impaling him.