Bran Mak Morn: The Last King by Robert E. Howard, Gary Gianni

himself on the silken couch in his secret chamber and laughing, spoke to the first Gonar, saying: �a, wizard, I have in truth dreamed strangely, for I went into a far clime and a far time in my visions, and fought for the king of a strange shadow-people!�And the great sorcerer smiled and pointed silently at the red, notched sword, and the torn mail and the many wounds that the king carried. And Kull, fully woken from his �ision�and feeling the sting and the weakness of these yet bleeding wounds, fell silent and mazed, and all life and time and space seemed like a dream of ghosts to him, and he wondered thereat all the rest of his life. For the wisdom of the Eternities is denied even unto princes and Kull could no more understand what Gonar told him than you can understand my words.� �nd then Kull lived despite his many wounds,�said Cormac, �nd has returned to the mists of silence and the centuries. Well �he thought us a dream; we thought him a ghost. And sure, life is but a web spun of ghosts and dreams and illusion, and it is in my mind that the kingdom which has this day been born of swords and slaughter in this howling valley is a thing no more solid than the foam of the bright sea.� A Song of the Race
    A Song of the Race
    High on his throne sat Bran Mak Morn
    When the sun-god sank and the west was red;
    He beckoned a girl with his drinking horn,
    And, �ing me a song of the race,�he said.
    Her eyes were as dark as the seas of night,
    Her lips were as red as the setting sun,
    As, a dusky rose in the fading light,
    She let her fingers dreamily run
    Over the golden-whispered strings,
    Seeking the soul of her ancient lyre;
    Bran sate still on the throne of kings,
    Bronze face limned in the sunset� fire.
    �irst of the race of men,�she sang,
    �ar from an unknown land we came,
    From the rim of the world where mountains hang
    And the seas burn red with the sunset flame.
    �irst and the last of the race are we,

Gone is the old world� gilt and pride,
    Mu is a myth of the western sea,
    Through halls of Atlantis the white sharks glide.�
    An image of bronze, the king sate still,
    Javelins of crimson shot the west,
    She brushed the strings and a murmured thrill
    Swept up the chords to the highest crest.
    �ear ye the tale that the ancients tell,
    Promised of yore by the god of the moon,
    Hurled on the shore a deep sea shell,
    Carved on the surface a mystic rune:
    �As ye were first in the mystic past
    Out of the fogs of the dim of Time,
    So shall the men of your race be last
    When the world shall crumble,�so ran the rhyme.
    �A man of your race, on peaks that clash,
    Shall gaze on the reeling world below;
    To billowing smoke shall he see it crash,
    A floating fog of the winds that blow.
    �Star-dust falling for aye through space.
    Whirling about in the winds that spin;
    Ye that were first, be the last-most race,
    For one of your men shall be the last of men.�
    Into the silence her voice trailed off,
    Yet still it echoed across the dusk,
    Over the heather the night-wind soft
    Bore the scent of the forest� musk.
    Red lips lifted, and dark eyes dreamed,
    Bats came wheeling on stealthy wings;
    But the moon rose gold and the far stars gleamed,
    And the king still sate on the throne of kings.
    Worms of the Earth
    Worms of the Earth
    �trike in the nails, soldiers, and let our guest see the reality of our good Roman justice!� The speaker wrapped his purple cloak closer about his powerful frame and settled back into his official chair, much as he might have settled back in his seat at the Circus Maximus to enjoy the clash of gladiatorial swords. Realization of power colored his every move. Whetted pride was necessary to Roman satisfaction, and Titus Sulla was justly proud; for he was military governor of Eboracum and answerable only to the emperor of Rome. He was a strongly built man of medium height, with the hawk-like features of the pure-bred Roman. Now a mocking smile curved his full lips,