Time and distance became lost and hypothetical concepts. He might be a blind man groping through the final night of the world after the death of the sun. Had an hour passed since he entered the barrow-or a day? Had he covered a mile of unseen passageway-or ten miles?
Claustrophobic horror pressed down on him at one moment. Then, as he passed through some seemingly-limitless cavern, vertiginous panic clutched at him-a sense that if he lost contact with the left-hand wall, he would fall eternally through cosmic blackness.
Bran drew strength from hatred, and let his rage drive back the growing waves of fear and madness. Bitterly he recognized that it had been Atlas guidance two years ago that had directed him to the chamber of the Black Stone. Atla again who had led him to that cavern in the mountains of the Welsh Marches wherein awaited the People of the Dark. This time Bran had gambled that he might swiftly come upon those he sought by entering the Door beneath the barrow at Kestrel Scaur. Now it seemed that Atla and Claudius Nero had made use of some obscure and little frequented branch of these labyrinthine caverns to arrange that ill-fated rendezvous.
More than ever it seemed to Bran Mak Morn that he must wander endlessly through this unlighted subterranean maze, never reaching those he sought. Perhaps he could retrace his steps to the burrow down which he had crawled…
No. No turning back. Morgain was somewhere ahead. Maniacal in his determination to find her, Bran plunged grimly deeper into the stifling darkness.
Only the fact that his senses were strained to preternatural acuity gave the Pict any warning at all. His nostrils were inured to the pervasive reptilian musk. Abruptly Bran became aware that the acrid stench had thickened. He froze.
Blackness everywhere. Somehow Bran sensed the passage had widened-that a scarcely perceptible wind stirred from his right, heavy with the mephitic smell of the serpent-folk. Then the dry slither of claws and scales on stone.
Bran snarled-and the darkness surged upon him.
Instantly the Pict put his back against the left-hand wall of the passage. Seizing his long dagger in his left: fist, he swung savagely with his sword in a long arc before him. The stroke was blind-and the blade nearly tore from his fist as it clove into a mass of unseen bodies.
Bran gave a howl-like a blood-mad panther as it leaps upon its prey. His wrathful cry echoed throughout the midnight cavern-answered by a hateful chorus of sibilant hissing.
Thunder of all gods! How many were there!
For an instant they held back. Bran felt the warmth of blood dripping over his fist, heard the voiceless shrill of agony from those his sweeping stroke had maimed. Something flopped aimlessly on the stone before his feet.
Some feral instinct served where vision failed. Bran lashed out his foot-felt his sandal smash a creeping face into ruin. Taloned fingers clutched at his leg, sharp fangs tore at his flesh. They were crawling for his legs to drag him down.
The shackles of intellect snapped then-and Bran Mak Morn exploded with berserk fury. He struck downward with his dagger, feeling flesh and sinew rip beneath his frenzied thrusts. The hands that wrestled at his legs fell away-even as Bran swept his sword outward in a lower arc, shearing the forefront of those creeping vermin.
But this time there was no hesitation. In an irresistible wave the unseen horde fell upon him. Bran howled and slew. His dripping sword reaped their dwarfish bodies like rows of rotted grain. Their suicidal rush remained unchecked-though Bran’s shoulder ached from the sickening impact of his slashing sword against unseen flesh. Still they crawled over the butchered carcasses and shorn limbs-crept forward and died under the Pict’s blind attack.
They could not come upon him from behind because of the wall to Bran’s back. Yet with suicidal determination the serpent-folk pressed hard from either flank, seeking to drive him away from the stone face. Bran shifted his feet, kicking and stabbing about with the dagger in his left fist. Then the long blade wedged in bone. Bran desperately jerked back-but the blade was pinned, the haft slick with gore-and the knife was torn from his fist.
It mattered not to Bran. Changing to a two-handed grip on the long sword, the Pict tore into his assailants with renewed fury. His great iron blade swung in murderous arcs, shearing bone and muscle, spilling gore and brain and entrails across the cavern floor. The stone was slippery with blood and gobbets of flesh-the Pict bathed in his own frothing sweat and the splattered gore of his attackers. The cavern echoed with the sickening crunch of iron on flesh, Bran’s berserk yells, the mindless hissing and shrills of death agony from the serpent horde. It was like the doomed howl of some damned soul in hell-who had determined to repay the infernal demons in kind.
The serpent-folk were myriad. Bran Mak Morn was but one man. Only the feet that those who set upon him were weaponless had given the man that much respite. The Pict knew the People of the Dark to be cunning workers of flint-and the dim realization that they seemed intent on taking him alive only lent renewed strength to his berserk rage.
Unconsciously Bran moved away from the stone face-needing more room to swing his great two-handed strokes. Footing was treacherous on the gore-sotted stone. Before him in the blackness was heaped a vast windrow of slaughtered serpent-folk, enclosing Bran in a writhing crescent. From this berm of butchered vermin, yet more of their kin crawled for the Pict-many using the elevation to hurl themselves upon his shoulders.
By their very numbers they stopped his blade-impaling themselves suicidally upon his sword, wrestling with the iron as they died with its length through their stunted bodies. Desperately Bran hauled back on his sword-almost lifted it clear with its weight of skewered flesh.
This instants break in his lethal defense was enough. More bodies grappled for the imprisoned sword. At the same moment, unseen assailants leapt upon his shoulders from behind. From either flank they surged upon him-fangs and talons tearing at his legs, scaly arms gripping to drag him down.
The Pict’s blade was twisted from his gore-soaked fingers-even as the hissing pack swarmed over him. Falling through the press of their loathsome bodies-living and dead-Bran was dragged down to the cavern floor, awash with blood and spilled entrails and dismembered serpent-flesh.
Weaponless, the Pict still slew the vermin. His fists, his feet lashed about blindly-splintering their sickly bones, crushing ribs and limbs, caving in biting jaws and inhuman skulls. They could not hold the Pict-even with their hundreds-in his berserk murder-lust. Though he could not win free, Bran flung them away by the tens-smashed them against the cavern wall, crushed them to the stone floor, bludgeoned them against their reeling kinsmen.
When they pinned his limbs, the Pict tore at them with his teeth. Time and again he struggled upward, flinging away their tearing, clinging bodies-as a bear makes his last stand against the closing pack. They tore at him, bit him with their pointed fangs-his chainmail did not protect face or limbs. Ten smashed to the gory cavern floor-and a hundred leapt over their twitching corpses.
Buried under a maelstrom of clutching serpent-folk-of broken and dying bodies, of fresh hordes piling over the dead-Bran never knew when oblivion at last claimed him.