The King of Sleep (35 page)

His stomach was bloated as if he'd eaten a huge meal of pork and oatcakes. And a familiar drowsiness descended upon him as it always did after such a meal. He was tempted to lie down by the fire as Sorcha had been doing but Aoife noticed his lethargy.

“Shouldn't we be moving along?” she pressed.

“Yes,” he replied with a yawn. “I suspect the brew will begin to make itself felt once the broth has started to digest.”

“That doesn't give us long,” Aoife observed and in the next second she was off toward the mouth of the
cave, a lighted torch in her hand. Without turning back to her brother she called out, “Hurry up. I don't want to be separated from you in the darkness. I have a feeling we're going to need to stick close to one another.”

Sárán shook his head to throw off his grogginess, grabbed a rush light and followed after her. And before he knew it they were far enough into the cave that their only light came from those two precious torches.

The first part of their journey was not difficult. In previous generations these caves had been used as homes and for the storage of cheese, mead, ale and butter. The walls had been smoothed and the path between each of the chambers was well worn.

Once or twice they thought they heard voices ahead of them and reasoned that they must be making better time than the other travelers. So at intervals they stopped to rest and give the others a chance to get well ahead of them.

Even at this reduced pace it wasn't long before they reached the place where the single path they'd been following branched off into three passages. This was their first real challenge, to decide which path to take.

It was Aoife who noticed a trail of oat grains leading off down the passage to the left. Obviously someone had dropped them to make it easier to find their-way out. Sárán soon discovered white marks etched on the wall of the right-hand passage, and thus their
decision was made for them. Without discussing the matter they set off along the middle passage into the inner parts of the Aillwee caves where no living soul had walked in many generations.

They had not gone far when the air suddenly became very chill, like a night in winter without a hearth fire. There was a breeze blowing up the passage into their faces which had a bite to it like a sharp frost.

The passage narrowed within a hundred paces and there above them, set into a niche in the wall, was one of the most frightening sights Sárán had ever seen. And it was at that moment he began to understand the foolishness of what they were doing.

What had at first appeared to be a whitened discoloration of the rock turned out to be a massive skull at least three times the size of any human head. Its vast empty eye sockets stared down on them as they had done for an immeasurable expanse of time.

“What is it?” the lad stammered as he cast a nervous glance all around.

“A dead thing,” his sister replied coldly. “It cannot harm us.”

“It's a warning not to go any further,” Sárán shot back. “We've come down the wrong path.”

“Be quiet!” Aoife hissed as she threw down her pack and began to scale the wall toward the strange object.

“What are you doing?” her brother whispered hoarsely in shock.

“I'm taking a trophy. When we return we'll need
some proof that we've indeed ventured beyond the outer chambers of the caves. This will be our proof.”

Before he could further object she'd dislodged the skull and tossed it down to him. Sárán caught it with reluctant fingers and immediately placed it on the floor beside him, unwilling to touch it unless absolutely necessary.

When Aoife jumped down beside him she picked it up to get a closer look.

“This was a huge animal,” she gasped, awe-struck by the strange beauty of the lifeless head. “It must have been four or five times the weight of a man at least.”

Sárán only saw the massive teeth that protruded from its jaws, each one longer and thicker than any of his fingers.

“I don't think we should remove it from the cave,” he said under his breath. “It may have some sacred significance.”

“Have you ever even heard of the existence of such an animal?” she inquired, ignoring his trepidation.

“No”

“The people who placed this skull in that niche are long gone and forgotten,” she reasoned. “They won't challenge us if we take it home.”

She was already emptying her pack of her mead bottle and a joint of smoked boar to make room for it.

“It's certainly not a good idea to abandon our food,” Sárán pointed out. “We may stand in need of it.”

“I'm not abandoning it. You're going to carry it.”

“My pack is full.”

“Then take a piece of rope and carry the joint over your shoulder. The mead bottle will fit in that pouch at your side.”

Reluctantly he did what he was told, though all his instincts screamed out that they should have left the skull alone. But once they were on their way again he managed to take his mind off his uneasiness by observing the wonders of the caves.

Just past the point where they'd found the skull the roof opened out into a vast rounded canopy that sparkled with innumerable twinkles of light which reflected back from their torches. The air was still cold but the breeze that had frozen their faces had died away. Soon the passage led to a majestic gallery which reached beyond the light of their torches on every side.

At the same time the ground had become rougher, dotted with rounded outcrops of white stone that reflected all light brilliantly. Soon enough they lost all sense of direction in this underground landscape and it was then they had their first strange experience.

Far away, perhaps in the unseen darkness ahead, there was a disturbing sound. It started with a low rumble that built into a roar like that of some unidentifiable wild animal gone on a bloodletting rampage.

Sárán was unable to move for fear. He remained rooted to the spot as firmly as any oak tree. Even Aoife, who outwardly showed no sign of fright, stood
perfectly motionless until the sound had passed.

“What was that?” her brother croaked nervously as soon as he'd caught his breath.

She shook her head to indicate she had no idea.

“I hope it wasn't a beast with a skull like the one in your pack,” he stammered.

“Don't be a fool!” she hissed. “What kind of animal could live in the depths of a cave without sunlight and without any game to hunt?”

Sárán shivered. “It may not have had any prey for a long while, but whatever made that sound certainly has some now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Us.”

“Shut up, you coward.”

“If we're set upon, how will we defend ourselves?” he insisted.

“I have a short sword.”

“And an overripe confidence in your ability to use it,” he quipped, but there was no humor in his voice.

“We'd best move on,” Aoife noted. “Perhaps you're right. There may be some creature dwelling here in the depths. And should that be the case, it will find us all too quickly if we stand still too long.”

She strode out, stepping carefully over the stones as she went. Her brother followed but he was already considering the possibility of turning back. It was only then he realized the hopelessness of their situation. Unlike the two kings, they'd not laid a trail to guide them back to the surface.

Here in this immeasurable chamber they had already lost all sense of direction. He had no idea how they were going to find their way out of this maze. All they could do was press on into the dark and hope they found a passage which led home.

Within a hundred hard-slogged steps they came to a blank wall which Aoife decided to follow around to their right. After a further hundred or so paces a small opening just big enough for them both to crawl through appeared in this wall.

There was no discussion. They simply got down on their hands and knees and, pushing their packs ahead of them, squeezed their way through the tiny tunnel to the other side. Their torches scorched the ceiling of the passage but they were careful not to let them go out.

So it was they came to another opening at the end of the tunnel. But what appeared before them was no damp and roughly hewn chamber weathered by the ancient forces of water or the upheavals of the Earth. This was a square-shaped room cut from the stone to form a near perfect box. At the far end was a doorway shaped with an elegant arch above it. And this led off into a further passage.

“What is this place?” Sárán gasped. “Who could have built it?”

“It doesn't matter,” Aoife told him. “It's dry here and we can rest with some degree of safety. No creature can enter this chamber save through the passage we've just traversed or through that doorway over there.”

She pointed to the arch. “I'll guard that door. You rest here. From the rate at which our torches have burned down I'd guess we've been walking almost an hour.”

Sárán needed no further prompting. He was used to traveling on foot across the countryside, following his master on their journeys. But this expedition was another matter. He found himself to be almost completely exhausted and he couldn't believe they'd only been walking an hour.

When he'd lain down on the smooth floor for a short while he remembered they had taken the seeing brew.

“Are you feeling ill at all?” he asked his sister.

She didn't have a chance to answer. Right at that moment Aoife began retching violently. The acrid stench of her bile soon filled the little chamber and Sárán felt his own gut begin to tighten. Before he knew what was happening he was spewing out the small amount of broth he'd consumed just an hour earlier. The instant his stomach was empty, however, he felt completely well again.

The two of them sat for a short while on opposite sides of the room while the color returned to their faces.

“I didn't expect that,” Aoife admitted. “It's a long while since I was so violently ill.”

Her brother was about to express a similar sentiment when they heard another sound which seemed to come from somewhere along the passage Aoife was
guarding. But it wasn't any animal crying, nor was it the noise of falling rocks. It was a human voice, that of a young boy, screaming out to them, so chilling and unexpected that both of them were on their feet in a flash, their sickness forgotten and all strength returned to their limbs.

“Aoife!” came the call echoing down the passage. “Aoife, help me!”

Then the voice faded away sharply and was gone.

Through the arch and down the passage they rushed at a frantic pace, driven on by a primal fear. And before they were aware what was happening they had passed into a new part of the cavern system and the effects of the seeing brew had come upon them.

E
BER
F
INN WALKED TIRELESSLY FOR MORE THAN AN
hour when the Brehon called him to a halt to rest. They had long since passed into a part of the caves that was breathtakingly beautiful but very strange.

Dalan's keen instincts were calling out a warning of danger if they didn't slow their pace and take better note of their surroundings. He hadn't understood the reasoning behind this journey from the beginning.

All he knew was that out of pride two otherwise sensible rulers had decided to endanger their own lives in an ill-conceived attempt to prove their worthiness. The Brehon had never understood the ways of the warrior class. Sometimes they seemed like children playing at some silly game.

The King of the Gaedhals conceded a short rest break but just as he was sitting himself down he felt an unaccustomed rumbling in his stomach. At the same instant Dalan felt his own guts contract and he remembered the warning he had been given to try and control the urge to vomit.

The two men looked at each other as an unspoken acknowledgment passed between them. And both managed to keep themselves from becoming violently ill. But it was a long struggle which left the pair of them exhausted.

At length, when they'd rested and the spasms had passed, Dalan got to his knees, found his mead bottle and took a sip. The Gaedhal watched, unwilling to chance a drop of the liquor lest it make him ill again.

“Why did you accept this challenge?” the Brehon asked him as he put away the bottle.

“To win the respect of Brocan.”

“He's a hard man to win over.”

“I need the aid of the Fir-Bolg,” Eber explained. “Without more warriors my reign will end soon enough. My brother Éremon is a greedy man. He's amassing a force to bring south after the winter. If I don't strike first I'll lose my kingdom and very likely my life.”

“He's your brother. Surely you could sit down together and talk this through. Why must it come to war between you?”

“Because from the very beginning it was his plan to let me conquer the south with my followers while he concentrated on the north. Now that the conquest is done and he holds his part of the country securely, he has his sights set on the south.”

“And why should my people care which of you rules?”

“Éremon may be my brother but he and I are very different. He takes after our father, Míl, who was a renowned warrior but a poor king. War is a tool he uses to distract the chieftains and the people from his lack of skill at peaceful kingship.”

“So once Éremon has defeated you,” Dalan cut in, taking the Gaedhal's story to its logical conclusion, “there'll come a day when he needs to find someone else to fight.”

“And the Fir-Bolg will be his next victims,” Eber nodded. “Unless we unite against him.”

“Brocan is concerned for his sovereignty.”

“I have no wish to deprive him of that. I am only concerned with the survival of my own kingship and all I have worked for these three winters past.”

The Gaedhal reached into his pack and took out an oatcake. “I wish I could see the future,” he laughed before he bit into the hard biscuit.