Worms of the Earth | Page 6

dungeon. Bran left his horse standing in a dark alley,
with the reins hanging on the ground, and stole like a prowling wolf
into the shadows of the fortress.
The young officer Valerius was awakened from a light, unquiet sleep
by a stealthy sound at the barred window. He sat up, cursing softly
under his breath as the faint starlight which etched the window-bars fell
across the bare stone floor and reminded him of his disgrace. Well, in a
few days, he ruminated, he'd be well out of it; Sulla would not be too
harsh on a man with such high connections; then let any man or woman
gibe at him! Damn that insolent Pict! But wait, he thought suddenly,
remembering: what of the sound which had roused him?
"Hsssst!" it was a voice from the window.
Why so much secrecy? It could hardly be a foe--yet, why should it be a
friend? Valerius rose and crossed his cell, coming close to the window.
Outside all was dim in the starlight and he made out but a shadowy
form close to the window.
"Who are you?" he leaned close against the bars, straining his eyes into
the gloom.
His answer was a snarl of wolfish laughter, a long flicker of steel in the
starlight. Valerius reeled away from the window and crashed to the
floor, clutching his throat, gurgling horribly as he tried to scream.
Blood gushed through his fingers, forming about his twitching body a

pool that reflected the dim starlight dully and redly.
Outside Bran glided away like a shadow, without pausing to peer into
the cell. In another minute the guards would round the corner on their
regular routine. Even now he heard the measured tramp of their
iron-clad feet. Before they came in sight he had vanished and they
clumped stolidly by the cell-window with no intimation of the corpse
that lay on the floor within.
Bran rode to the small gate in the western wall, unchallenged by the
sleepy watch. What fear of foreign invasion in Eboracum?--and certain
well organized thieves and women-stealers made it profitable for the
watchmen not to be too vigilant. But the single guardsman at the
western gate--his fellows lay drunk in a nearby brothel--lifted his spear
and bawled for Bran to halt and give an account of himself. Silently the
Pict reined closer. Masked in the dark cloak, he seemed dim and
indistinct to the Roman, who was only aware of the glitter of his cold
eyes in the gloom. But Bran held up his hand against the starlight and
the soldier caught the gleam of gold; in the other hand he saw a long
sheen of steel. The soldier understood, and he did not hesitate between
the choice of a golden bribe or a battle to the death with this unknown
rider who was apparently a barbarian of some sort. With a grunt he
lowered his spear and swung the gate open. Bran rode through, casting
a handful of coins to the Roman. They fell about his feet in a golden
shower, clinking against the flags. He bent in greedy haste to retrieve
them and Bran Mak Morn rode westward like a flying ghost in the
night.
Chapter Three
Into the dim fens of the west came Bran Mak Morn. A cold wind
breathed across the gloomy waste and against the gray sky a few herons
flapped heavily. The long reeds and marsh-grass waved in broken
undulations and out across the desolation of the wastes a few still meres
reflected the dull light. Here and there rose curiously regular hillocks
above the general levels, and gaunt against the somber sky Bran saw a
marching line of upright monoliths--menhirs, reared by what nameless

hands?
As a faint blue line to the west lay the foothills that beyond the horizon
grew to the wild mountains of Wales where dwelt still wild Celtic
tribes--fierce blue-eyed men that knew not the yoke of Rome. A row of
well-garrisoned watchtowers held them in check. Even now, far away
across the moors, Bran glimpsed the unassailable keep men called the
Tower of Trajan.
These barren wastes seemed the dreary accomplishment of desolation,
yet human life was not utterly lacking. Bran met the silent men of the
fen, reticent, dark of eye and hair, speaking a strange mixed tongue
whose long-blended elements had forgotten their pristine separate
sources. Bran recognized a certain kinship in these people to himself,
but he looked on them with the scorn of a pure- blooded patrician for
men of mixed strains.
Not that the common people of Caledonia were altogether pure-
blooded; they got their stocky bodies and massive limbs from a
primitive Teutonic race which had found its way into the northern tip of
the isle even before the Celtic conquest of