The King of Sleep (26 page)

“It was none of his doing,” Mahon cut in harshly. “And well you know it.”

“Get out of the way!” Iobhar screamed.

But Sárán had seen the missile coming toward him and easily avoided it.

“What were you thinking?” Iobhar shouted, grabbing the young woman by the shoulders. “You could have killed your own brother!”

“You've lived among us long enough to know the Quicken Brew keeps death at a distance from those who supped it,' she sneered. “Sárán is safe. In any case, the arrow didn't hit him.”

Iobhar stepped back from her, appalled at her lack of concern for her brother's well-being. He understood what it meant to have taken the Quicken Brew but was only just beginning to realize how different these people were becoming as they adjusted to the idea of immortality free from injury or sickness.

“I wish he'd leave us alone,” Mahon grumbled.

“Aoife just shot an arrow at Sárán!” Iobhar exclaimed. “Is that all you can say?”

“She's right,” the Danaan shrugged. “It might have hit him but it wouldn't have done him much harm. Perhaps he would have suffered some degree of pain for a while, but that would have quickly passed.” With that Mahon rolled over onto the grass and covered his head with his arms to feign sleep.

Sárán leaned heavily on his staff as he made his way toward them, giving the impression of age beyond the span of his seasons. His cloak was impeccably clean, without a wrinkle or loose thread. His long black hair was tied back from his face and the beard which had sprouted on his chin was neatly trimmed.

Aoife thought how much more suited her brother
was to the Druid life than she. He seemed to revel in the discipline, the learning and the symbols of his social stature. She could understand how a man such as he so easily accepted the rules, strictures and abstinences required of a student of law and lore.

Sárán had always been ambitious for status. And there was no greater status to be earned than that of a Druid adviser. As he came closer Aoife realized her brother could indeed wield a great deal of power if he were set behind the figure of a weak-willed king. The implications of this insight disturbed her greatly and she glanced anxiously at Sárán's twin, Lom, who was lying on his back, breathing slowly.

“Aoife!” her Druid brother called out. “What do mean by shooting that arrow at me? I'm your brother and a fellow Druid!”

“It's Iobhar's fault,” she explained. “He's not a very good teacher.”

“You shouldn't be playing with arrows anyway,” Sárán spat. “It's unseemly for a trainee Brehon to dabble with weapons. Especially the weapons of the Gaedhals.”

Iobhar opened his mouth to protest at being blamed for the whole incident but he was ignored. The apprentice healer went on, speaking as if the Gaedhal were of no consequence at all.

“It's time to come back to Aillwee. Dalan has returned and he has news we all must hear.”

“I'll be along presently,” Aoife replied tersely.

“You must come now. Your father and your teacher
have summoned you. Have you forgotten your vows?”

“I remember my promise to both of them only too well!” the young woman yelled back, returning the bow to Iobhar with a growl of frustration.

“What has upset you so?” the Gaedhal asked. “He's just your brother. You shouldn't let yourself become so worked up by him.”

“This is none of your concern,” Sárán informed him, coming over to shake his twin from his sleep. “You're not Fir-Bolg. You're just a hostage. You can't expect to be privy to the news and affairs of our kin.”

“Iobhar is our friend,” Lom interjected grumpily, cross at having woken to such petty squabbles. “He's become part of our family.”

Sárán sneered, casting a hostile eye over Mahon who was still pretending to be asleep. “If you ask me there are too many foreigners at our father's court. They insinuate themselves into his favor for their own purposes, feed off the bounty of our cattle and steal the hearts of our women.”

“Shut up, Sárán,” Aoife said flatly. “I'm in no mood to hear any of your bitter speeches today. We've had a fine morning hunting and a relaxing afternoon sitting here under the oak. Don't spoil it all with your hateful words.”

“Dalan has returned,” he answered with icy venom in his voice. “And at the first opportunity I'll speak with him about your disrespectful ways and the company you keep.”

“Talk with him all you want. Perhaps he'll see the wisdom in letting me change to the warrior path.”

Sárán grunted at her then gave his brother Lom a gentle kick. “Arise,” he commanded. “Will you waste your life lying about under the trees? There's work to be done and the treachery of the Gaedhal to be thwarted.”

“Treachery?” Lom repeated in shock. “What treachery is that?”

“Perhaps if you hadn't been chasing hares across the fields all morning you might have heard what tragedy has befallen our father. Then maybe you wouldn't be so quick to call Iobhar your friend.”

“What are you talking about?” Aoife stormed.

“Fergus mac Roth, our father's friend and champion, has been slain,” Sárán told her, obviously relishing the duty of breaking the news. “The Gaedhals raided Rath Carriaghe and murdered him in cold blood, contrary to the rules of war. Then they set his head upon a spear and carried their trophy away. All this was done in full view of his aged and infirm mother.”

At last Mahon rolled over and sat up to speak. “You're lying.”

“I'm a Druid. I do not lie.”

“Who told you this?”

“A messenger arrived this morning, but Dalan has brought the body back with him for burial.”

“How do you know it was my people who raided Rath Carriaghe?” Iobhar cut in nervously.

“There were many witnesses. And even if there were not, this deed has all the hallmarks of the barbarity for which your folk are known and feared.” A flash of satisfaction passed across Sárán's face. “I'll see you all back at the fortress,” he stated with a smug smile.

Then he turned sharply on his heel and strode across the field again. He no longer had the gait of an old man but swung his staff beside him with a flourish, obviously well pleased with himself.

Iobhar picked up the bow in one hand and an arrow in the other and for the briefest second he considered using them on Sárán. But Aoife touched him on the shoulder and he turned to face her.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” she advised. “Such a deed would have all the hallmarks of the barbarity for which your folk are known and feared.”

Iobhar laughed. “I'm beginning to understand why you shot at him,” he admitted.

Eber Finn was summoned to the walls of Dun Gur by the sentries an hour before sunset. He climbed the rampart with the captain of the guard and stood while the grim-faced warrior pointed out over the lough to the other side.

The king squinted, unsure why he had been summoned just to witness a boatload of his own Fian crossing the water to the island stronghold. The dying sun reflected off the ripples on the surface of the lough, making it difficult for him to see clearly.

As the little curragh rowed closer, Eber's heart began to fill with dread. Five warriors were seated in the cowhide boat: two at the front, two in the middle and one in the rounded prow. It was this latter warrior, dressed in a bright yellow breacan, who held a great Fir-Bolg boar-spear out before him. Mounted on the end of the weapon was a large dark lump with no discernible shape. The king turned to the warrior beside him with a silent questioning frown.

“It looks to me like a head,” the captain answered gravely.

Eber Finn let out a groan of anguish. Now the boat was closer there was no doubt. It was indeed a head. Long strands of hair hung lankly about the colorless cheeks and the beard was matted with dried blood.

“Who is that in the curragh?” the king asked in a faltering tone.

“Goll mac Morna.”

“As soon as he sets foot on shore,” Eber commanded, “you will see that he comes to my hall.”

The captain nodded and the king stormed off to await the arrival of the warrior he had so recently honored. All the way back to his hall he struggled to find some reason in the man's actions.

Eber Finn had a long wait at his fireside before his steward came to the door and coughed to get his attention.

“Goll mac Morna would attend you, my lord,” the man reported.

“Send him in.”

Eber Finn filled a mead cup and drank the contents down quickly, reprimanding himself for not having dealt harshly with this rebellious Fian in the first place. If mac Morna were not so popular with the younger warriors, Eber might have been able to punish him for his misdeeds. It had been Isleen's idea to grant him titles instead in the hope of winning his loyalty. It was obvious now just how grave a mistake that had been.

The king looked up when he heard the cowhide door-flap pulled aside. A tall warrior bent over to enter the hall, carefully placing his helmet, sword, shield and knife on a large stone which was set there for that purpose.

Once that was done the warrior turned to face his king.

“Greetings and blessings to you, my lord,” he began. “I have returned to your stronghold bearing tidings of war.”

“War!” Eber shouted, barely containing his rage. “I sent you out with strict instructions. You were commissioned to complete a circuit of the countryside and report to me anything of significance. Didn't I explicitly order you to retreat from conflict if it arose?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And you've come back with a head on a spear!”

“We were ambushed by a band of renegade Fir-Bolg,” Goll lied.

“I don't care if all the Druid wizards of the north called down the fury of the weather on you!” Eber
screamed. “You were specifically commanded to steer well clear of fighting.”

“By the time they were upon us it was already too late.”

“Too late?”

“There were too many of them. We were overwhelmed. Would you have me abandon the warriors of my Fian band without a thought for their safety?”

The king narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to restrain his temper until he'd heard the full story. “Where did you get that fine yellow breacan?” he asked.

“The Fir-Bolg war-leader was wearing it. I took it as a trophy.”

“You looted the body of a brave warrior?”

“We were ambushed. There is no honor in such a cowardly attack.”

Eber felt the hairs prickle at the back of his neck. He had the uncanny sense this man was playing with the truth.

“Sit down and tell me the tale,” the king demanded. “And have a mind not to leave out any detail. We're bound under a treaty with the Fir-Bolg. If they've breached our agreement I'll be seeking recompense from their king.”

“For a people constrained by treaty these folk fought well enough.”

“Where did the ambush take place?”

“At a settlement called Rath Carriaghe,” the champion replied.

“What were you doing near the walls of a Fir-Bolg rath?”

Goll paused, realizing he had been foolish to mention this detail.

“I gave you no commission to approach any Fir-Bolg settlement,” the king went on.

The warrior cast his eyes down at the fire and spoke. “My brother was badly wounded. Another of my Fian band lies in pain on the other side of the lough. The man who attacked us was vicious, well armed and determined to do us injury.”

“One man?”

Goll nodded reluctantly.

“I've heard the Danaans and the Fir-Bolg are masters of wizardry,” Eber smiled cautiously. “But tell me, how could a dozen Fian be outnumbered by just one warrior?”

Goll opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out. “His companions fled before the fury of my men and women,” he managed eventually.

The king sat back as he tried to take in what was being said to him. He understood it was what was being kept from him that was more important than what was actually being said. He knew Goll mac Morna was a dangerous man, a warrior who had the respect of his peers and could raise the Fian against their king if it suited him.

“Would you care for a drink?” Eber Finn asked, trying not to let on that he suspected something was amiss.

He poured out a portion of mead from a wooden jug. Goll took the cup and drank the contents straight down. The champion nodded and the king poured him another measure. While Eber watched the honey-golden liquid swirling into the cup he decided he would have to rid himself of this troublesome warrior.

“Did you bring back any other trophies?” he inquired as he handed the vessel over.

“Cattle, goats, sheep, dried fish, some cheese and a dozen bags of grain.”

“This came from the Fir-Bolg settlement obviously,” Eber stated coolly.

“I only took enough to feed my people. We've been a long time without decent food in our bellies.”

Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Eber Finn quickly surmised there had been a raid for food which had been interrupted by a Fir-Bolg warrior.

“And were there any other deaths?”

Goll shook his head.

“And you're willing to swear that it was the Fir-Bolg who attacked you first?”

“I am.”

“Then I will stand by you,” Eber assured him. “But it would be best if you were to leave Dun Gur until this mess is sorted out. You have enough food and cattle to keep your people for a while?”

The champion nodded again. But even as he was doing so the king was frantically trying to think of where he could send this unreliable man. There had
to be a place, he reasoned to himself, where Goll mac Morna could not cause any trouble. Yet Eber knew he would have to rely on the champion and his Fian once war broke out with the Gaedhals of the north.

Then the king had a flash of inspiration. A solution came to mind that astounded him with its simplicity and efficiency. If there was to be a war with the north the first battles would have to be fought before the turn of midsummer.