“Even more fortunate,” Stegoman went on, “to meet not only Bretanglia’s rightful king, but also its future queen!”
Rosamund gave a start, then peered more closely at the dragon. “Can you see the future, then?”
“No more than any mortal who is not a wizard,” Stegoman told her, “but no less, too, and seeing the zeal of the men who follow your betrothed, and their devotion to both him and yourself, I can see the future as clearly as though I read runes.”
Rosamund looked even more surprised, then turned thoughtful. “I had not thought any man but Sir Orizhan was devoted to me.”
“Had you not?” Brion turned to grin at her. “I assure you, love, this army follows as much in awe of your beauty as in loyalty to their rightful king.”
Rosamund turned to meet his gaze, and for a moment her own was blinding.
Matt felt a need for another of his quick changes of subject. “Can you march with us?” he asked Stegoman.
“I had liefer fly,” Stegoman said, “but since that would be as good as to announce to all the world where Brion’s army lies, I would prefer to scout ahead and behind and to the sides, then join you at nightfall.”
“A good thought,” Brion said, “though I am not foolish enough to think I can keep so many men secret. Indeed, I am certain that my brother knows to the yard where I am, and his pet sorcerer with him.”
For the first time, Matt found himself wondering who was the pet and who the master.
“Return, men of mine!” Brion called. “This is no enemy, but a mighty friend.”
Slowly and warily the army regrouped.
They marched through the land, southward and eastward, searching for an army to fight, for druids to match spells against, but finding them strangely elusive. They did, however, find crops standing ripe in the fields with no one to harvest them, and flocks of sheep, their wool heavy and ready for shearing, but with no shepherd to guard them. Cattle grazed among the crops with no idea that they should stay in their pastures, and ravens gobbled the grain with only scarecrows to defy them.
In fact, they marched through a lovely, green-and-amber late summer countryside, but one with scarcely a human in sight. Now and then they saw a silhouette atop a ridge and knew John’s spies were tracking them, but other than that the land might have been abandoned. Now and again they passed by a farmstead or village and found it burned to the ground, though there was seldom any sign of the people who had lived there. Matt didn’t doubt they had been taken to sacrifice—or had run off following some stray false druid with promises of an endless supply of food and drink for the worshipers of the old gods. The wreckage of farm and town was enough to show where those druids found their provisions.
Flocks of ravens whirled overhead, filling the air with raucous cries, then arrowing away even more directly southward.
“Follow the flock!” Brion pointed at the noisy receding mass. “They go to bear word of us to John! Where they go, he lies!”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that he lies,” Matt agreed. “Probably never told the truth in his life.”
“Seven times, I think,” Brion corrected him, “though he meant the comments for insults to Gaheris and myself, and probably did not realize their honesty.”
Matt frowned up at him. “What truth could he tell you that would be an insult?”
“That I am pompous, self-righteous, and arrogant,” Brion said darkly. “I searched my soul when he told that to me and found all three charges true. I strive to master them, but fear I fail.”
“You are prevailing most excellently against them,” Rosamund said, and slipped her hand into his.
“But that is only because I have you by me,” Brion told her, his eyes glowing, “and know I can never be good enough for you.”
Rosamund started to answer, then hesitated.
“Don’t contradict him, Your Highness,” Matt advised. “That’s an excellent way for him to think—excellent for your purposes, anyway.”
Rosamund smiled and tossed her head, giving Brion a saucy smile. He grinned back and pressed her hand to his lips.
The army cheered.
Brion blushed, lowering Rosamund’s hand. “Can we never be alone?”
“Oh, we shall,” she promised him, nudging her horse nearer his, “but you must win your kingdom first.”
Matt decided that she’d probably make a pretty good queen.
Two nights later, as Matt sat at the campfire with his parents and their unwelcome guest, Buckeye suddenly snarled, “This takes too long! Why, we are scarcely a day’s ride from the border! Much more, and we shall have to swear allegiance to Queen Alisande! If nothing else can make these druids stand and fight, I shall!”
He stalked away into the night, and the Mantrells exchanged stares of surprise.
“What troubles him so suddenly?” Papa asked.
“It has been building for days,” Mama offered. “He has been growing more and more moody with every hour.”
“I think he’s been looking forward to a battle where he can really cause trouble,” Matt said, “and is feeling very frustrated to find things so peaceful.”
“What do you suppose he intends to do?” Mama asked.
They never found out, at least not the specifics, but the next day, as Brion rode out of a woodland and into a meadow, he saw a peasant come running across the open field with a pack of howling peasants fifty yards behind him, with three men in white leading the way, shaking gilded sickles.
Behind them came a virtual army of peasants.
Not just a virtual army—it was a real army, marching double-quick and without synchronization, but marching. Knights rode in the van, on the flanks, and at the rear, as though to cut down any stragglers, and a mock druid whose white robe was decorated with gold rode before them all.
Brion turned to Matt, astonished. “How have you brought them here?”
Matt could only spread his hands and shrug. “If I’d known they were coming, Your Majesty, I’d have given you warning.”
“Would that you had!” Brion spun to his men, shouting, “Take the high ground!” then kicked his horse to a canter and rode up the side of a nearby ridge. The knights-errant who had joined him echoed his shout, “To the high ground!” and rode after, some leading the peasant army, some following and urging them on.
At the top of the ridge, the peasant army turned, faces grim and determined. The knights rode up and down the line, transmitting Brion’s orders. “Spearmen in front! Aye, that means all fishermen with harpoons, and all peasants with pruning hooks! Archers to the sides—when the king commands, turn the enemy into hedgehogs! But wait for the king’s command, wait for it, wait for it! Those in back, wait, and if the man in front of you falls, then step over him and take his place! Don’t try to elbow him aside in your eagerness—there will be slaughter enough for all. Stand, don’t charge! Even if they flee, do not run after!”
Then the bauchan came barreling straight into the center of the army. Peasants took one look at him close up and squalled, pulling away.
“Close up!” the knights bellowed.
Buckeye kept on going, all the way to the back of the six ranks and on out, up to the hillock where Matt stood with Brion and his companions, watching the chasing mob slow as it realized what it had come against. The druids called orders, and the mob turned into the van of the army, men falling into line and waiting for the mass behind them to catch up.
“What in blazes did you do to get them to come after you?” Matt demanded.
“I tracked down their archdruid and waited for his ceremony,” Buckeye said between gasps; he was still panting. “That was not so much of a wait; he holds his revels every night, and slays at least one on his stone table. I transformed myself into the form of a demon and burst in as he was about to stab his naked victim. The depraved congregation screamed in terror and would have run, but Niobhyte knew me for what I was and denounced me instantly, with a spell that dispersed my illusion and showed me as I really am.”