The King of Sleep (38 page)

E
BER
F
INN MUST HAVE RUSHED ON AT A FRANTIC PACE
for another hour when he suddenly stopped in his tracks and without a word to Dalan lay down. By the time the Brehon caught up with him the Gaedhal was fast asleep once again, curled in a tight ball.

Dalan, however, wasn't the least bit tired. His senses had begun to awaken and he resented having to stop their journey on the whim of his companion. It crossed his mind that it would do no harm to go on a short way and scout the passage ahead, but his sense of duty restrained him. So he sat down, bundled some twigs out of his pack and prepared a little fire to keep himself warm while he watched over the sleeping king.

A long while passed. The only sound to be heard was the crackling of the flames. Dalan began to wonder why he hadn't been affected by the seeing brew. True, he had suffered some discomfort in the stomach, but his other senses had remained largely free of any hallucinations.

The Gaedhal was breathing deeply now and so it seemed Eber had also escaped without having his consciousness disrupted too much. Dalan sat back against the hard stone wall and relaxed. His thoughts bounded from one subject to another as he began to drift off. Every once in a while Eber would twitch in his sleep and the Brehon would stir to check the fire or listen to the silence beyond their little camp.

Knowing the king would want to press on as soon as he awoke, Dalan closed his eyes to rest.

When Eber Finn finally stirred he was instantly awake. He had been engulfed in one of the deepest sleeps it had ever been his pleasure to experience. His dreams had been so pleasant and peaceful that they'd added to the sense of contentment that flooded his consciousness. Every fiber of his being was now tingling with anticipation and excitement. And his mind raced ahead to the future where he would rule as king of all the Gaedhals of Eirinn.

He resolved to do it all without Isleen. She had seduced him and drawn him into this current course of events. But if she truly was the Watcher Dalan was seeking, then she was a dangerous person to have about.

He sat up before the dying fire, noted that the Brehon was sleeping soundly, and placed a few more kindling twigs around the coals. Then he gently blew into the fire to stir up the heat and get the flames
going again. As he did so he thought he glimpsed a familiar face. The king shook his head. Surely he couldn't have seen Goll mac Morna's eyes staring back at him from the fire.

But when he looked again there was the warrior's arrogant grin and his confident nod. Eber Finn was fascinated. He stared deeper into the flames until his eyes began to lose focus.

It was then he saw a wider scene laid out before him. And it was the aftermath of a terrible bloody battlefield. All around the muddy field there were strewn hacked and mauled bodies. Most were dead but some still writhed about in agony, the looters moving through their ranks with clubs to silence their screams. Old women vied with young brigands for the best boots and clothes. Young girls sang sweetly as they rifled the pouches of the slain, their hands caked in blood.

Eber's face paled in horror at the sight. This was a side of battle he'd never witnessed. There was no honor for the dead. They'd been left where they lay without so much as a word spoken over their bodies or a relative come to claim the corpses.

Without warning the King of the South suddenly found himself walking through this horrific scene. And the stench of spilled blood was everywhere. He covered his face with his sleeve as he picked his way through the carnage until at last he came to an open space where there were fewer bodies.

In stunned silence he sat down cross-legged to look
back over the field and wonder what kind of battle had gone on here and where this place might be. Just then he heard a movement behind him. He turned around and there were three horsemen astride enormous animals, larger than any he had ever seen.

“What's your name?” one of the men demanded.

“Eber Finn,” the stunned dreamer replied.

All three of the horsemen laughed loudly, and one of them dismounted, striding over toward him.

“I suppose you're going to tell us you're the High-King of Eirinn?” the warrior scoffed as he drew his sword from its sheath.

“I'm the King of the Southern Gaedhals,” Eber snapped, not taking kindly to this fellow's tone.

Once again all three warriors laughed heartily.

“Which side were you on?” the warrior demanded to know.

Eber shook his head. “I don't know what you mean?”

“In the battle. Which side did you fight with? Lom of the Dark Glen or the Fianna of Dun Éremon?”

“Éremon is my brother,” the king stuttered.

The warrior stepped forward and grabbed Eber by the throat. In a second he'd tossed the king to the ground.

“Stop playing games with me,” he bellowed. “Which side did you fight on? I haven't got all day.”

“I told you, my name is Eber Finn. I'm King of the Southern Gaedhals.”

“King Eber is at Teamhair,” the warrior replied
coldly. “And you're too shabby to even be admitted to his court. Now tell me who you sided with if you don't want a beating for your insolence.”

One of the other warriors rode forward. “Slit his throat,” he suggested. “I wouldn't like to risk letting any of those buggers get away. Lom would skin us alive.”

“It's his brother I fear,” added the third man.

Suddenly Eber understood what he was witnessing. This was a glimpse of the future. He quickly decided to glean as much information as possible from these men.

“I fought with Lom,” he chirped up. “I'm sorry, my head is still spinning from the fight. I must have been struck from behind.”

The three warriors looked at him with suspicion but the dismounted man seemed convinced.

“I know how he feels. I was knocked on the head myself and thought I'd never get my senses back.”

“A thick skull usually protects a small wit,” the first warrior laughed. “Get up on my horse and we'll take you to our commander.”

“I'd rather be left here to rest a short while first.”

“You'll come to Goll mac Morna and let him decide what to do with you,” the warrior told him. “I don't care if you're the High-King himself, I can't let you roam the battlefield in case you're one of Éremon's men. They're under banishment all of them, though they've ignored the orders for the most part.”

“Eber Finn's the High-King?”

“You poor fool. You've really lost yourself, haven't you? Come back with us. Have a meal, sit by the fire with a jug of mead and before you know it you'll recall your name.”

Eber was about to protest further when he heard the unmistakable sound of a chariot being driven hard. He turned around in time to see Goll mac Morna at the reins and then his heart began to pound that he might be recognized.

Goll stopped the war-cart and dismounted. Then he strode over to where Eber was struggling to his feet.

“What's going on?” the Fian leader demanded.

“We found this straggler crawling among the dead,” the first warrior reported. “We were about to bring him to you.”

“What's your name?” Goll asked.

“He reckons he's King Eber Finn,” the warrior laughed.

Goll squinted as he examined Eber's face. All expression left his eyes. And then he turned to the warrior who had pushed the king to the ground.

“Poor bloody fool!” Goll scoffed. “Even in the state he's in with his brains knocked about he'd be a better king than the one we're stuck with.”

He leaned over Eber again.

“I wish you were King Eber Finn,” he told him. “I'd slit your throat now and save myself the trouble of chasing old Éremon's people around the countryside.”

Then the Fian leader frowned. “I know your face
from somewhere,” he declared. “Are you one of Lom's people?”

Eber nodded.

“And what do you think of our High-King?”

“I always think highly of kings,” Eber answered. “It's the polite thing to do.”

“But kings are meant to be the guardians of the people,” mac Morna argued. “Surely you wouldn't say the High-King has been on the side of the common folk.”

“I'm just a humble warrior. I know nothing of such matters.”

“Are you with me?” Goll whispered.

Eber shook his head and threw up his hands to show he didn't understand.

The war-leader laughed. “Perhaps you're not as witless as you seem. When I go to Teamhair I'll need some loyal warriors behind me. If I'm going to rid this country of Eber Finn I'll want reliable men to do my bidding. You look like a strong fellow who doesn't answer back when he's given an order. How would you like to serve the new High-King of Eirinn?”

Eber Finn felt the blood drain from his face. He wanted to scream out that this man was a traitor to his king and an oath-breaker. He was tempted to make a grab for a sword and stab the treacherous son of Morna between the shoulders. But he knew this was merely a dream vision.

“I am Eber Finn,” he declared. “I am King of the Southern Gaedhals.”

The large warrior who had thrown him to the ground stepped forward to whisper in Goll's ear. “He must be mad after all, my lord.”

“Let him be,” Goll decided. “He's no use to us like that. Poor fool.”

With that the Fian leader returned to his chariot, took the reins and drove off, followed at a discreet distance by the three mounted warriors.

Eber Finn was left there in the mud to consider all that he had witnessed. He took one more look at the battlefield before his head began to swim. He closed his eyes to wipe his brow and when he opened them again he was staring into the dying flames of the tiny fire and Dalan was wide awake, watching him intently.

Sárán ran on through a wide low opening until he realized he'd entered another chamber. His torch was still burning fierce and bright, but it might as well have been a candle for all it revealed to him. Aoife had lagged behind him for a while and when she caught up she was breathless. The two of them leaned against each other and listened for any further cries.

“I could have sworn I heard someone calling your name,” Sárán told his sister.

“I heard a call for help,” she gasped. “Who would be calling out to me? No one knows we're here.”

As she spoke the cry was repeated, and without any hesitation they were off again in search of the disembodied voice. Before they had gone another two
hundred paces their feet were suddenly wet and they had to stop in their tracks.

When Sárán held his torch aloft they were both shocked to find that a great dark lake extended out into the blackness before them. They were standing on a sandy shore lapped by tiny waves. A slight breeze caressed their faces, which surprised them, for they were deep underground.

The calls had ceased but they were both led on by a desire to track down their source. So they edged their way around the waterline until they came to a rocky outcrop that jutted into the water and blocked their access to the next part of the beach.

Neither of them hesitated to climb up over these rocks, though the going was tough and Aoife was beginning to tire. She had moved around from the landward side of the rock to get a better footing when her exhaustion finally got the better of her and she slipped.

Sárán managed to grab her before she tumbled into the icy waters but within seconds he'd over-balanced and the pair of them slid over the loose stones into the lake. The water was deadly cold. It instantly sucked the breath from Aoife's lungs. She couldn't even scream out in shock.

Her brother hardly fared any better. And what was worse, they lost their lighted torches and were plunged into total blackness. By the time they managed to struggle back to shore their clothes were soaking wet and they were exhausted and near to half drowned.

On the sand at the water's edge Sárán went through his pack by touch until he found the leather pouch he kept his flints in. The tiny firestones were dry and so was the small amount of tinder he'd stuffed inside the pouch. But everything else they possessed was wet through.

The spare torches were well coated with pine resin so he decided to try to build a small fire. Aoife was shivering from the cold and huddling close to him for warmth. In the total darkness it was difficult to make a spark let alone build a fire. But somehow, with luck and perseverance, he soon had a small blaze going, not enough to dry their clothes but certainly enough for a little light and some warmth.

They held each other close to preserve body heat while the fire took hold, and for a long time neither of them could speak for shivering. When Aoife finally managed to say something it was just a stuttered expression of her extreme discomfort.

“Stay still,” her brother advised. “We'll rest before we move on. If we sleep we'll conserve energy.”

He pulled a wet oatcake from his pack and found his knife. Then he cut a piece of meat from the smoked pork and handed it to his sister. But her stomach was still strained from the after-effects of the seeing brew so she refused the meat.

Sárán forced himself to eat a few morsels then lay down and snuggled into Aoife's back.

“I'm freezing,” she cried.

“Be quiet.”

“I'm cold.”

“I told you to be quiet,” her brother snapped. “We wouldn't be in this situation if it hadn't been for your foolish desire to prove yourself. Now it's up to me to find a way out of this cave before we die of cold. You will rest and when you awake be ready to move on under my direction. I'll not be following you any longer. Do you understand?”

Aoife didn't reply. She was already asleep. And considering the unbearable cold, Sárán was quite surprised. But then he began to feel his own body slowing into sleep. At first he wondered if this was what it was like when death came and he panicked for a second. The he recalled the Quicken Brew. Confident he would wake again after a short rest, he closed his eyes and surrendered to his exhaustion.