“We know, too, of his reputation for chivalry and justice,” another druid said.
“He is Erin‘s best hope for peace,” said a third.
“We could not let him die on the battlefield if we could do anything to prevent it,” the leader concluded.
“So it was you who bore him away by your magic.”
The high druid smiled. “There is this weakness to the pretender’s plan to subvert all of Bretanglia by converting its folk to a mockery of the druid faith—that a true druid can pass among them unseen and unknown. Yes, several of us went to Bretanglia as soon as the rebellion broke out and followed Brion closely. When he was wounded, we cast a spell upon him that froze his life as it was, then bore his sleeping body here.”
“A spell that could only be broken by the kiss of a virgin,” Matt deduced.
“A virgin who loved him,” the high druid corrected.
“I thought it might be something like that,” Matt said. “You knew Rosamund would be coming, then.”
“We did what we could to help her escape, and to turn her footsteps in this direction,” the druid confirmed.
“Including turning me,” Matt said, chagrined. “You know, I really take it as an insult when people try to move me around like a chess piece, especially when they succeed. I take it you know King Drustan has died?”
“We do,” the high druid confirmed, “but from what we know of John, he is likely to be worse than his father was.”
Matt nodded. “Just as much greed, but less ability. Besides, I don’t think Drustan had all that much genuine malice in him—it just never occurred to him that other people had feelings. John, though, is out for revenge—on the whole human race.”
The high druid shook his head sadly. “We feared as much. Besides, was this John not Drustan’s favorite?”
“He was,” Matt said, “but not because he was like Drustan. He was just very good at bowing, scraping, and ingratiating.”
“If you suffer him to remain king,” the high druid advised, “the people of Bretanglia will remember him as the worst monarch they have ever had.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Then, remembering the history of his own universe, Matt added, “He’ll be so bad that the people of Bretanglia will swear never to have another king named John.”
“He is like to win that distinction merely by supporting the… how did you call these false druids?”
“Synthodruids” Matt said. “The ‘syntho’ means their chief rolled a lot of ideas that had nothing to do with your faith into his parody of a religion.”
“Aptly named,” the high druid said dryly. “They do not even call the gods by their British names, but mix in the Irish and Gaulish, too.”
“Thanks for the vote in favor of my label. By the way, do I dare say their chief druid’s name here?”
“Do you fear to attract his attention?” A wispy smile touched the high druid’s lips. “Do not hesitate. His magic is not strong enough to register each time someone somewhere mentions his name, and even if it were, our warding spells are surely more powerful than his enchantments.”
He said it with such total certainty that Matt guessed they’d run a test of some sort. He felt very much reassured. “So you think John’s supporting Niobhyte and his synthodruids is bound to win him the Worst King Ever award, all by itself?”
“I do not doubt it,” the high druid assured him. “Our spies send reports, and our scryers peer where people cannot go. The false druids have wasted no time. They have converted all of southern Bretanglia already, that neck of land that bulges out from Merovence, and have sent their missionaries into the midlands. Behind, in the lands they hold, their false priests whip the people into frenzies that make them cheer the spectacle of human sacrifice. They stretch victims upon their altars and stab their hearts with copper knives. They preach that might makes right and that whoever can take his neighbor’s goods, deserves them—so every man’s hand is turned against his neighbor, and the strong slay the weak, then gather their wives and daughters in to serve their own pleasure. Before, the peasants feared the looting and raping of soldiers in wartime—now they fear the knives and scythes of their neighbors, every day. The southernmost counties churn in chaos, but the midlands, drunk on the druids’ wine and lured by their orgies, are deaf to the cries of anguish blown on the wind from the south.”
“That’s Bretanglia’s problem, though.” Matt frowned. “They’re your enemies. Why should you care what happens to them?”
“Why should you?” the high druid returned. “Do not tell me that you do not, for you have come here seeking to aid them!”
“Easy.” Matt shrugged. “I want to make sure Bretanglia doesn’t bring war to Merovence—and now that I’ve seen what the synthodruids are doing, I want to make sure I stop them before they try to spread their madness to my own country.”
“Is that all?”
“What are you trying to make me say?” Matt demanded. “That the people themselves aren’t my enemies, only their king and this Niobhyte? All right, count it said!”
“Indeed.” The high druid nodded slowly. “Count it said for us, too.” He shrugged. “We are usually content to let the world go to ruin in its own way—only what it deserves, for having deserted our religion—but even we must draw the line at such wholesale misery-making. We cannot allow it to persist, for it offends our gods, and our very souls.”
“There comes a point when you cease to be yourself if you don’t take a stand against what you perceive to be evil.” Matt nodded.
“Indeed,” the high druid agreed. “Then, too, there is the reputation of ourselves, and our gods, to consider—that is almost as important as the sufferings of the people. These synthodruids will make the descendants of the folk of Bretanglia think of us as monsters, for they will confuse us true druids with Niobhyte’s travesties.”
“Good reasons for trying to stop him,” Matt said with approval. “But how are you fighting him?”
“Why, we have brought you here, have we not?” The high druid smiled.
Matt felt a surge of anger at having been manipulated, but managed to contain it. “I was already trying to bring them down for my own reasons.”
“Aye, but you had little strength with which to fight them. Here we can give you Brion, who is worth whole armies, for he is the rightful king.”
“Worth whole armies maybe, but he’ll need even more armies to win back his throne,” Matt said. “False king or not, John has the power now, and will fight to the death to keep it”
“His death in battle is not wholly distasteful,” the high druid mused. “As to armies, I suspect that Brion shall gather them wherever he goes, as a lodestone gathers nails. Everyone who suffers from the greed of John’s tax-gatherers, or the looting and raping of Niobhyte’s worshipers, will flock to his banner.”
“A good point,” Matt admitted, “once he’s well enough to travel.”
“As to that, we have been weaving spells into his body, healing him as he slept; it needed only the kiss of his future queen to make our enchantments web their virtues together to make him whole. He will be able to ride tomorrow, and will be stronger than he ever was ere you reach the shores of Bretanglia.”
“Nice work,” Matt said with admiration. “I wouldn’t have thought of that. But it’s going to take more than armies to win against Niobhyte. From all I hear, he is one very powerful sorcerer.”
“He is,” the high druid said with a smile, “but so are we. You shall not sleep this night, Lord Wizard, for you shall keep vigil by learning every spell we can teach you. We shall even give you one to use if all else fails, one that shall drown all the synthodruids and their worshipers.”
Matt shuddered at the magnitude of the disaster the words described. His head filled with the thunder of earthquakes, the roar of tidal waves. “Isn’t that a little drastic?”