Free The Druid King by Norman Spinrad Page B

on for long moments before subsiding enough for Epona to make herself heard. “Well spoken, Keltill! But only words!”
    Keltill spoke crooningly into the pregnant silence.
    “It’s deeds you want . . . ? I’ll show you deeds!”
    And he reached down into a leather sack that had lain previously unnoticed beneath his feet and under the table.
    Keltill withdraws from the sack a dusty old golden crown, a band thin at the rear, rising into filigreed peaks in front, as if to adorn the brow of its wearer with a miniature range of mighty mountains.
    He raises it high above his head at arm’s length, and as he does, the bard in the purple-and-yellow robe rises to his feet, his eyes wide at what he beholds.
    “The Crown of Brenn!” croons Keltill. “Worn in the long ago by what we need now—a king!”
    He reaches for a mug, anoints the dirty crown with beer, and begins to clean it with the hem of his cloak. “Time to clean the cobwebs off this dusty old crown and make it shine! Time to do what these dark days demand.”
    Keltill holds up the crown, gleaming now in the firelight.
    “Time the tribes of Gaul fought Teutons and Romans alike under a single leader.”
    No one dares speak save the bard. “You, Keltill? You would wear the Crown of Brenn? The crown that no one has worn within living memory?”
    Once again, his presumption is met with glares of outraged anger. But not from Keltill, who turns to lock eyes with him.
    “Someone must, or we are lost . . . bard.”
    “The price might be higher than you can imagine. . . .”
    “Whatever the price may be, someone must pay it,” Keltill says, offering the crown to the room in a slow, sweeping gesture. “Would anyone care to pay it in my stead?”
    The silence is total. No one moves.
    “I thought not,” says Keltill, and he raises the crown above his head.
    “You would crown yourself king of Gaul by your own hand?” asks the bard.
    “I would prefer the crown be placed on my head by the Arch Druid, according to sacred tradition,” Keltill tells him, and then leers at him like a wolf who has cornered his prey. “But tradition is crumbling, the hour is now, and he is nowhere to be seen—now, is he . . . bard?”
    “Do not do this, brother,” shouts Gobanit, glancing behind him, then at Diviacx. But Keltill pays him no heed.
    “Epona of the Carnutes has called for deeds. Deeds that shape an age, eh . . . Sporos? You hoped to learn a tale tonight of one who dares to enter the Land of Legend . . . ?”
    Diviacx glances questioningly at the short, black-haired, dark-skinned Eduen warrior behind him, who nods, as if issuing or confirming a command.
    “Sing, then, of
this,
bard!” says Keltill.
    And lowers the crown onto his brow.
    “Your brother usurps the will of the gods, Gobanit!” Diviacx shouted at Gobanit. “Seize him!”
    Gobanit hesitated for a moment, then turned to issue the order to the warriors behind him. “Do as the druid commands!”
    The Arverne warriors behind Gobanit rose somewhat uneasily to their feet and drew their swords. Keltill’s guards immediately leapt up, some with their swords drawn, some not, both sides unwilling to strike the first blow against fellow Arverni.
    Keltill, the crown still on his head, leapt up onto the table, drawing his own sword. “Would you obey the command of an Eduen that sets Arverne against Arverne in our own Great Hall?” he shouted.
    “I obey the command of a
druid
!” cried Gobanit.
    The Eduen warriors on the other side of the table were now on their feet with drawn swords too.
    The Eduen vergobret Dumnorix whirled around to confront his men. “No!” he ordered. “The Arverni must do this themselves!”
    For a short moment no one moved or spoke.
    Then—
    “Take him!” Gobanit shouted. “Do it! Obey the druid!”
    Half a dozen of his men rushed at the table.
    Critognat lumbered drunkenly to his feet, drew his sword. “Don’t just stand there!” he shouted at Keltill’s warriors.
    “Father!