Read Online The Druid King by Norman Spinrad - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Norman Spinrad
Tags: Fiction
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snapped. “And this is Marah, soon to be my betrothed, and this bard enjoys my favor!” Hearing this, the first warrior trod nervously on the foot of the second. The two warriors exchanged chagrined looks and seemed properly chastened. “A thousand pardons, O . . . son of Keltill,” said the one on the left, “this man is new here. I promise you it will not happen again.” There was something about the way he said it that Vercingetorix did not like at all.
Still, he nodded graciously and motioned for Marah and Sporos to precede him within. “Fear not my wrath,” he told the guards reassuringly. “It shall not fall upon you.”
For Keltill had taught him that openhearted forgiveness of minor faults built loyalty among one’s troops in the end.
The Great Hall was already half full when Vercingetorix entered with Marah and Sporos.Vergobrets and other important guests were already taking their places at a long sturdy oaken table that dominated the center of the hall, with those in Arverne orange on the benches nearest the entrance, facing the many-colored cloaks and pantaloons of the visitors from the other tribes.
Immediately behind each tribal contingent at the central banquet table were the modest number of guards allotted them as a courtesy, and behind them were ranks of smaller tables and benches set up for the lesser guests now slowly trooping in: nobles of rank and their attendant subordinates and wives, a few druids; the Arverni on their side of the hall, the rest on the other.
Serving girls were already bustling everywhere, refilling tankards, mugs, and horns from barrels of beer as soon as they were emptied, which was as rapidly as possible.
It seemed to Vercingetorix that he had entered not a building but a twilit glen in the deep woods of legend, for the stone walls had been plastered smooth in the long ago and painted in bright colors with complex patterns of intertwining vines, trees, flowers, creatures both familiar and strange, rendered dusky now by years of smoke and soot from the great stone fireplaces at either end of the hall. The crepuscular atmosphere was enhanced by the rays of the waning sun streaming in through the tall, narrow window slits and the long, wide shadows between them.
Along the walls, the shadows were banished by torches set high in brass sconces. Captured shields, spears, swords, axes, lances, pennants, standards all but covered the walls, and more of the same hung on ropes and thongs from the rafters, along with a good collection of the skulls of former enemies. Arverne tribal treasures were piled up beneath them: chests of gold and silver coins, gemstones, jewelry; statues of unknown gods in white marble or painted in lifelike colors; bolts of cloth, plain and embroidered, some shot through with threads of gold; great casks of salt from the sea.
A spitted boar and a sheep were roasting in the big fireplaces, their dripping grease crackling and hissing off the burning logs; just about ready, to judge from the crispy brown skin and the delicious aroma of meat and oak smoke.
Keltill stood by the roasting boar, hacking off a slice with a battle-ax. He bit off a piece and chewed it thoughtfully as Vercingetorix led Marah and Sporos toward him.
“All this will be ours one day!”Vercingetorix told her as Keltill swallowed his morsel, nodding his approval to the roasting crew, and, still clutching the ax in one hand and the slice of boar in the other, swept forward to meet them.
“Well, Marah,” he said, “has my son yet proved to you that he’s a sturdy branch off the gnarly old tree?”
“Uh, I’d better take my place with my mother,” Marah said, and departed somewhat hastily in the direction of Epona, already seated at the table among the Carnutes.
Keltill did not seem to take much notice of her embarrassment or even her departure, fixing instead a questioning gaze at the shabbily dressed Sporos, and then at his son.
“This is
your
guest, Vercingetorix?” he
Still, he nodded graciously and motioned for Marah and Sporos to precede him within. “Fear not my wrath,” he told the guards reassuringly. “It shall not fall upon you.”
For Keltill had taught him that openhearted forgiveness of minor faults built loyalty among one’s troops in the end.
The Great Hall was already half full when Vercingetorix entered with Marah and Sporos.Vergobrets and other important guests were already taking their places at a long sturdy oaken table that dominated the center of the hall, with those in Arverne orange on the benches nearest the entrance, facing the many-colored cloaks and pantaloons of the visitors from the other tribes.
Immediately behind each tribal contingent at the central banquet table were the modest number of guards allotted them as a courtesy, and behind them were ranks of smaller tables and benches set up for the lesser guests now slowly trooping in: nobles of rank and their attendant subordinates and wives, a few druids; the Arverni on their side of the hall, the rest on the other.
Serving girls were already bustling everywhere, refilling tankards, mugs, and horns from barrels of beer as soon as they were emptied, which was as rapidly as possible.
It seemed to Vercingetorix that he had entered not a building but a twilit glen in the deep woods of legend, for the stone walls had been plastered smooth in the long ago and painted in bright colors with complex patterns of intertwining vines, trees, flowers, creatures both familiar and strange, rendered dusky now by years of smoke and soot from the great stone fireplaces at either end of the hall. The crepuscular atmosphere was enhanced by the rays of the waning sun streaming in through the tall, narrow window slits and the long, wide shadows between them.
Along the walls, the shadows were banished by torches set high in brass sconces. Captured shields, spears, swords, axes, lances, pennants, standards all but covered the walls, and more of the same hung on ropes and thongs from the rafters, along with a good collection of the skulls of former enemies. Arverne tribal treasures were piled up beneath them: chests of gold and silver coins, gemstones, jewelry; statues of unknown gods in white marble or painted in lifelike colors; bolts of cloth, plain and embroidered, some shot through with threads of gold; great casks of salt from the sea.
A spitted boar and a sheep were roasting in the big fireplaces, their dripping grease crackling and hissing off the burning logs; just about ready, to judge from the crispy brown skin and the delicious aroma of meat and oak smoke.
Keltill stood by the roasting boar, hacking off a slice with a battle-ax. He bit off a piece and chewed it thoughtfully as Vercingetorix led Marah and Sporos toward him.
“All this will be ours one day!”Vercingetorix told her as Keltill swallowed his morsel, nodding his approval to the roasting crew, and, still clutching the ax in one hand and the slice of boar in the other, swept forward to meet them.
“Well, Marah,” he said, “has my son yet proved to you that he’s a sturdy branch off the gnarly old tree?”
“Uh, I’d better take my place with my mother,” Marah said, and departed somewhat hastily in the direction of Epona, already seated at the table among the Carnutes.
Keltill did not seem to take much notice of her embarrassment or even her departure, fixing instead a questioning gaze at the shabbily dressed Sporos, and then at his son.
“This is
your
guest, Vercingetorix?” he
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