“But my little barbarian king,” Claudius Nero taunted him, “you’re no longer in any position to threaten anyone.”
“My time will come.”
“Your time has passed, Bran Mak Morn. We have held our hand from smashing you, only on the chance you might yet prove valuable to our designs.”
“You know the answer to that!”
“Unfortunately-for you-I think I do. Your disregard for Morgain’s safety, your foolhardy attempts to thwart us-such obstinate stupidity convinces me you can never be trusted. And thus, you are no longer of value to us, King Bran.”
“Then why this cat’s game? Kill me and have done.”
“You may yet have some small use,” Atla interceded. “Perhaps Gonar will be more reasonable in this matter of alliances…”
“Gonar can make no treaties. I am king of Pictdom.”
“And you have forgotten the charade with the iron crown?” Nero jeered. “Oh yes, we know about that now. You didn’t really think you could keep secrets from us!”
“Gonar may have my crown-yet there is no king of Pictdom but Bran Mak Morn! Deal with Gonar if it pleases you. Only Bran Mak Morn can speak for the Men of the Heather.”
“So you cast away your iron crown, and still presume to speak for Pictdom,” Nero observed with heavy sarcasm. “A little barbarian king in a cage whose people have deserted him. You try my patience, King Bran. It is my thought to end this useless pretense.”
“Then end it!” Bran challenged. “Or is it that Quintus Claudius Nero does not speak for the People of the Dark!”
The legate’s pallid face flushed with anger. Bran knew his barb had struck deep-even before there sounded a hissing chitter from the shadow that might have been laughter. At the sound, Nero’s eyes dilated with a mixture of fear and soulless hatred that made his narrow face a demon’s mask.
“You are a fool, Claudius Nero,” came the voice from beyond the curtain of darkness. The voice spoke the Pictish tongue in such a strained and hissing tone as to be almost unintelligible. “And worse, you are an incompetent fool.”
The speaker from the shadow glided into the circle of light. Bran’s eyes widened in wonder. The sibilant voice came from a throat never intended to utter human speech.
“Ssrhythssaa!” Nero slurred the name in a manner impossible for Bran to emulate. “I thought you were…”
The sibilant chittering laughter rustled again. “Yours is not to think, Nero. Yours is to obey. I came to see for myself this troublesome Pict whom you confess is beyond your ability to deal with.”
At first Bran Mak Morn had assumed the newcomer was another of the half-human hybrids. A closer glance proved there was no trace of human blood in this creature.
The figure was as tall as Bran, and of skeletal leanness-although little else could be discerned through the voluminous folds of his robes. The arms that protruded from the flaring sleeves were covered with the pallid scales of some ancient serpent, taloned with long, black nails. The skull above the narrow shoulders was curiously flattened at the temples, and rose to a high peak. That peaked, hairless skull was encircled in a golden band, set with sullen gems of murky hue. His ears were pointed, the nose flared and pitted as a viper’s snout, the face little more than a pallid mask of scales tight across an inhuman skull. Bright and pointed fangs made a double row along the grinning jaw. Those yellow ophidian eyes mirrored a soul of elder evil that had looked unblinking across the expanse of centuries.
The Pict was aware of a distinct kinship of this imposing creature to the degenerate serpent-folk he had battled with in the darkness. A voice within him made Bran aware that here he looked upon one of the Children of the Night as that race had existed in a distant age, before millennia within these sunless burrows saw their race sink to its present degeneracy. Dimly Bran wondered if this creature were-like Bran himself-some atavism-or a survival of that eons-distant age.
Bran tore his eyes away from that unblinking gaze, whose hypnotic spell awoke atavistic terrors deep within his soul-instinctive fears from an age when his apish ancestors gibbered in spellbound helplessness before the ensnaring stare of some monstrous serpent. With a chill wrenching that left him suddenly aware how thoroughly wounds and exhaustion had leeched his strength, Bran broke the spell of those eyes-knowing now with dread certainty why the serpent was to all races an instinctive embodiment of evil.
“My slaves brought to me your proud boasts, Bran Mak Morn,” hissed the loathsome distortion of human speech. “Did you not trust them to express to me your stupid arrogance? Or is it that you thought to trespass with impunity where none of your race have dared intrude these long centuries?”
The slender hands gestured to the altar of skulls. “There stands that which you know well. Have you come to steal it again, or have you this time come to pay homage to the Black Stone?”
Bran fought off the numbing weakness. “I grow sick of your mockery, you vermin who would masquerade as men! Hellspawn are you then the hidden master of these slinking killers and woman-stealers? Then you know what answer I have given your slaves! There is no common enemy that can ally Pict -and serpent-spawn, and Bran Mak Morn shall become a dog of Rome before he fights against men on the side of those who have forgotten how to crawl!”
The serpent-mask face registered no emotion-though Bran sensed a darker flash within those yellow eyes. “I am master of this world, Pict. Perhaps before long it will be my pleasure to teach certain savages to crawl as befits them.”
“We waste time with this stubborn Pict,” Nero growled.
Ssrhythssaa silenced his outburst with a gesture. “Not all of this stubborn Pict’s talk is vain boasting, Claudius Nero. He speaks the truth when he states that only Bran Mak Morn is king of Pictdom. If we kill him, Pictdom will again fall apart into a hundred isolated and insignificant savage clans. Scattered and leaderless, the Picts can never stand before Rome, nor can they render any service to us.”
“A plague on these Picts! You overestimate their usefulness. With my legion-”
“Your legion is useful only within limits,” Ssrhyth-ssaa cut him off. “Your numbers are too few, nor can we replace those who fall in battle. To drive out the Roman-and to maintain our mastery of the surface world-we need the savage hordes of Pictdom. Be certain that none of the Celtic tribes will accept our rule. Only our ancient enemies of Pictdom can serve us in this. The Picts-like us, survivors of a forgotten age-are now hounded and driven into the waste places, their race degenerate and sunken into the slime of barbarism. Over the sweep of eons our destinies have followed parallel paths-and Pictish priests have sacrificed upon the altar of the Serpent…”
“Seek out Gonar with your treacherous proposals of alliance,” Bran snarled. “Gonar may have been a priest of the Serpent in past years. He has since sworn to serve me with all his black arts!”
Again the inhuman laughter. “Are you so certain of Gonar’s loyalty, King Bran? But no matter. As you said, Gonar is not king of Pictdom. There is only one king the Picts will follow, and though they murmur against you for the present, one resounding victory over the Roman will bring all of Pictdom rushing to rejoin your standard. We shall give you that victory, Bran Mak Morn.”
“Ill not accept that victory, Ssrhythssaa,” vowed the Pict. “Are you such a fool as to believe I could be tricked into some hideous pact with you and your slime-crawling brothers?”