LITMIR.BIZ

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us go to meet him, Bran,” answered the wizard. “He is the king Gonar has sent to save the people of Brule.”

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      “I have reached these lands but newly

      From an ultimate dim Thule;

      From a wild weird clime that lieth sublime

      Out of Space—out of Time.”

      —Poe.

      The army fell silent as Bran, Cormac and Gonar went toward the stranger who approached in long swinging strides. As they neared him the illusion of monstrous size vanished, but they saw he was a man of great stature. At first Cormac thought him to be a Northman but a second glance told him that nowhere before had he seen such a man. He was built much like the Vikings, at once massive and lithe—tigerish. But his features were not as theirs, and his square-cut, lion-like mane of hair was as black as Bran’s own. Under heavy brows glittered eyes gray as steel and cold as ice. His bronzed face, strong and inscrutable, was clean-shaven, and the broad forehead betokened a high intelligence, just as the firm jaw and thin lips showed willpower and courage. But more than all, the bearing of him, the unconscious lion-like stateliness, marked him as a natural king, a ruler of men.

      Sandals of curious make were on his feet and he wore a pliant coat of strangely meshed mail which came almost to his knees. A broad belt with a great golden buckle encircled his waist, supporting a long straight sword in a heavy leather scabbard. His hair was confined by a wide, heavy golden band about his head.

      Such was the man who paused before the silent group. He seemed slightly puzzled, slightly amused. Recognition flickered in his eyes. He spoke in a strange archaic Pictish which Cormac scarcely understood. His voice was deep and resonant.

      “Ha, Brule, Gonar did not tell me I would dream of you!”

      For the first time in his life Cormac saw the Pictish king completely thrown off his balance. He gaped, speechless. The stranger continued:

      “And wearing the gem I gave you, in a circlet on your head! Last night you wore it in a ring on your finger.”

      “Last night?” gasped Bran.

      “Last night or a hundred thousand years ago—all one!” murmured Gonar in evident enjoyment of the situation.

      “I am not Brule,” said Bran. “Are you mad to thus speak of a man dead a hundred thousand years? He was first of my line.”

      The stranger laughed unexpectedly. “Well, now I know I am dreaming! This will be a tale to tell Brule when I waken on the morrow! That I went into the future and saw men claiming descent from the Spear-slayer who is, as yet, not even married. No, you are not Brule, I see now, though you have his eyes and his bearing. But he is taller and broader in the shoulders. Yet you have his jewel—oh, well—anything can happen in a dream, so I will not quarrel with you. For a time I thought I had been transported to some other land in my sleep, and was in reality awake in a strange country, for this is the clearest dream I ever dreamed. Who are you?”

      “I am Bran Mak Morn, king of the Caledonian Picts. And this ancient is Gonar, a wizard, of the line of Gonar. And this warrior is Cormac na Connacht, a prince of the isle of Erin.”

      The stranger slowly shook his lion-like head. “These words sound strangely to me, save Gonar—and that one is not Gonar, though he too is old. What land is this?”

      “Caledon, or Alba, as the Gaels call it.”

      “And who are those squat ape-like warriors who watch us yonder, all agape?”

      “They are the Picts who own my rule.”

      “How strangely distorted folk are in dreams!” muttered the stranger. “And who are those shock-headed men about the chariots?”

      “They are Britons—Cymry from south of the Wall.”

      “What Wall?”

      “The Wall built by Rome to keep the people of the heather out of Britain.”

      “Britain?” the tone was curious. “I never heard of that land—and what is Rome?”

      “What!” cried Bran. “You never heard of Rome, the empire that rules the world?”

      “No empire rules the world,” answered the other haughtily. “The mightiest kingdom on Earth is that wherein I reign.”

      “And who are you?”

      “Kull of Atlantis, king of Valusia!”

      Cormac felt a coldness trickle down his spine. The cold gray eyes were unswerving—but this was incredible—monstrous—unnatural.

      “Valusia!” cried Bran. “Why, man, the sea waves have rolled above the spires of Valusia for untold centuries!”

      Kull laughed outright. “What a mad nightmare this is! When Gonar put on me the spell of deep sleep last night—or this night!—in the secret room of the inner palace, he told me I would dream strange things, but this is more fantastic than I reckoned. And the strangest thing is, I know I am dreaming!”

      Gonar interposed as Bran would have spoken. “Question not the acts of the gods,” muttered the wizard. “You are king because in the past you have seen and seized opportunities. The gods or the first Gonar have sent you this man. Let me deal with him.”

      Bran nodded, and while the silent army gaped in speechless wonder, just within earshot, Gonar spoke: “Oh great king, you dream, but is not all life a dream? How reckon you but that your former life is but a dream from which you have just awakened? Now we dream-folk have our wars and our peace, and just now a great host comes up from the south to destroy the people of Brule. Will you aid us?”

      Kull grinned with pure zest. “Aye! I have fought battles in dreams ere now, have slain and been slain and was amazed when I woke from my visions. And at times, as now, dreaming I have known I dreamed. See, I pinch myself and feel it, but I know I dream for I have felt the pain of fierce wounds, in dreams. Yes, people of my dream, I will fight for you against the other dream-folk. Where are they?”

      “And that you enjoy the dream more,” said the wizard subtly, “forget that it is a dream and pretend that by the magic of the first Gonar, and the quality of the jewel you gave Brule, that now gleams on the crown of the Morni, you have in truth been transported forward into another, wilder age where the people of Brule fight for their life against a stronger foe.”

      For a moment the man who called himself king of Valusia seemed startled; a strange look of doubt, almost of fear, clouded his eyes. Then he laughed.

      “Good! Lead on, wizard.”

      But now Bran took charge. He had recovered himself and was at ease. Whether he thought, like Cormac, that this was all a gigantic hoax arranged by Gonar, he showed no sign.

      “King Kull, see you those men yonder who lean on their long-shafted axes as they gaze upon you?”

      “The tall men with the golden hair and beards?”

      “Aye—our success in the coming battle hinges on them. They swear to go over to the enemy if we give them not a king to lead them—their own having been slain. Will you lead them to battle?”

      Kull’s eyes glowed with appreciation. “They are men such as my own Red Slayers, my picked regiment. I will lead them.”

      “Come then.”

      The small group made their way down the slope, through throngs of warriors who pushed forward eagerly to get a better view of the stranger, then pressed back as he approached. An undercurrent of tense whispering ran through the horde.

      The Northmen stood apart in a compact group. Their cold eyes took in Kull and he gave back their stares, taking in every detail of their appearance.

      “Wulfhere,” said Bran, “we have brought you a king. I hold you to your oath.”

      “Let him speak to us,”

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