The King of Sleep (23 page)

The Brehon climbed down from the rock in the sprightly manner of a younger man. He found the skins by Sorcha's pack and waded into the pool to get close to the spring. All the while the water gurgled cheerfully out from its secret depths within the Earth. And Dalan thought he'd love to live here in the forest far from the cares of the world beyond.

Goll woke with a start and sat up. Despite his desperate desire to see he couldn't seem to focus. He was still drowsy and he hated to be in such a state of unreadiness. The warrior shook his head as his hand found a cup full of some liquid. Without thinking he put the cup to his lips and drank the contents.

Almost immediately his vision cleared and he knew the sun had already risen. By his side among the furs was a mass of black matted hair which puzzled him at first. Then he remembered that Mughain had come to his shelter after all the other warriors were asleep.

“The sun's up,” he said, prodding her in the back with his finger. “This is no time for sleeping. We've work to do.”

Mughain grunted and pulled the furs up over her
head so she couldn't hear him. As she did so Goll stood up to get dressed in his fighting gear. He was arranging his breacan cloak when a head poked in through the tent opening.

“Good morning, brother,” Goll said when he recognized Conan's face in the shadows.

“Good morning,” the younger warrior replied. “I'm sure it will be a wonderful day.”

“Conan, why didn't you wake me?” Goll hissed. “I told you to make sure I stirred at dawn.”

“The raid is cancelled,” Conan announced flatly. “I had a dream last night that warned me of your death.”

“Brother, have you been drinking again?” The war-leader stepped forward and sniffed his brother's breath. “I gave orders there was to be no drinking.”

“I haven't touched a drop,” the younger man protested.

“You're a poor liar.”

“I promise you on the names of the gods our people swear by,” Conan answered solemnly. “I am not lying to you. Last night I saw your death in my dream.”

“You're mad.”

“If you go down to that settlement this morning with the intention of raiding you will die at the sword of a Fir-Bolg champion,” Conan insisted.

Goll took a few deep breaths, determined not to waste any energy on this foolishness. He would need all his strength for the coming raid.

“Call the Fian together,” he ordered. “I want to reach the village before the women take the cows out to pasture and the other folk go out in the fields.”

“Didn't you hear what I said?” his younger brother gasped. “If you go down to that rath you'll forfeit your life.”

“There isn't going to be any fighting,” Goll snapped back. “We'll be too busy driving cattle and loading grain to have time to draw our blades.”

“But there are four old Fir-Bolg warriors within the walls. They'll surely put up some resistance. And they are a strange race with an uncanny influence over the elements.”

That was enough for Goll. He could bear his brother's prattling about dreams and omens. He'd put up with that since they were children. But now Conan was refusing to obey commands.

The war-leader grabbed his brother's tunic close to the throat and hauled the younger man close. When Goll was certain Conan could see every pore of his skin, every flick of his eye and every twitch of his mouth, he spoke in a low slow menacing tone.

“You'll do as I tell you or I'll give you the beating I should have given you when you were a boy.”

“I'll not see you waste your life on a dozen cattle and a barrel of smoked fish. You could be King of the Gaedhals one day if you're careful. Don't tempt disaster by fighting with the Fir-Bolg.”

“There'll be no fight!” Goll spat back. “There'll be
no need. The Fir-Bolg warriors have nothing better than bronze swords. Those archaic weapons are no match for silvery steel. If those warriors are wise they won't even leave the hearth fires where they slept last night.”

“Brother, I fear for your life,” Conan sobbed, his eyes welling with tears.

Goll frowned. In the past he'd seen his young brother suffer through many delusions, usually related to his overindulgence at the mead barrel. But this was different. There was something in Conan's eyes that spoke of real fear.

The war-leader began to wonder whether he should listen to the warning. As the first doubts crossed his mind he heard a stirring growl from the bed of furs.

“Come back to bed, Goll. It's cold and I'm sleepy.”

Goll pushed his brother away with a sneer. Then he turned around, grabbed the furs and pulled them from the woman warrior. Mughain curled up to cover her nakedness. Then, suddenly wakened by the cold air, she shook her head to clear it.

“The Fianna are becoming weak,” Goll grunted. “They have no work to do and so they grow lazy and frightened. Well I'm not going to stand by and watch the Fian bands decline until they're all too afraid or too drowsy to go raiding.”

He turned to his brother. “Go and fetch the warriors. If you haven't returned with them in the time it takes for me to put on my boots and fasten my cloak,
then you'll answer to my blade. Do you understand?”

“Yes, brother,” Conan bowed, shaken by the threat.

In a moment he was gone. Then Goll turned to Mughain. “You shouldn't encourage him. He's getting worse day by day. I'm certain he's losing his mind.”

“And what if he proves to be right?” the young woman asked. “Would you throw away all hope of becoming king?”

“I've never aspired to the kingship.”

“But those who have traveled with you and fought under your guidance have considered it for you,” Mughain told him. “There are those of us who would risk our honor to depose Eber Finn tomorrow if you gave the command.”

“Are all the other warriors of the same mind?” Goll asked, stunned.

“Everyone in our band would stand for you.”

“Even my brother?”

“Especially your brother. You have a loyal and devoted follower there. That's why you should be a little easier on him.”

She wrapped a fur about her body then stood up. “Don't throw your life away,” she begged him as she came close. “Conan may be right in his prediction.”

Goll placed his strong hands on her shoulders. “Who knows of Conan's prophecy?”

“Every warrior in the band has heard him speak of it,” she replied. “He told them as soon as he woke.”

“Then I must carry out this raid,” the war-leader decided. “I must show that I'm not afraid of prophecy.
I will prove that nothing can turn me away from my goal once I've set my mind on it. I can't be seen to back down just because of a dream. I want the warriors to follow me to the last.”

He looked into her eyes. “Don't worry. I intend to be very careful. But if I can survive my brother's prophecy I will ensure the continuing respect of the Fian. I have a feeling I'm going to need that.”

“I can see your heart is set on it,” Mughain sighed. “At least let Conan and I guard you.”

“Very well,” the war-leader nodded. “If I'm killed I'll lay the blame on you. You can pay my family the appropriate compensation.”

“Don't joke about such things,” Mughain warned him. “I don't want to lose you and neither do any of our band.”

“Get dressed,” he told her as he sat down to pull on his boots. “We've a long walk to the settlement. I don't want the morning to be too far advanced before we get there.”

Fergus looked up at the clear morning sky and found the sun. It was over three hours after the dawn and he judged he would reach his mother's rath within the hour. Up ahead there was a fork in the path which puzzled him.

He hadn't traveled down this northern road for many seasons because when he lived at the old fortress of Dun Burren he would journey on the southern track. The old veteran stopped when he
came to the fork and wondered which path would take him to his mother.

When he couldn't make his mind up he decided to climb a little bare hill that nestled against the path to the left. At the top he looked out to the south trying to spot familiar landmarks. At last he spied a road he recognized winding around some hills to the southeast. This confirmed for him that he should take the left-hand fork.

Taking advantage of these few moments to rest he took out his leather mead bottle and swallowed a mouthful of the honey-golden brew. Just as he was replacing the stopper a flash of reflected sunlight caught his eye and he noticed some movement along the winding road he had observed earlier.

The old veteran put a hand to his beard. There was a large party of warriors running down the track toward his mother's settlement. They were far off so it wasn't easy to discern who they were.

They could not possibly be Fir-Bolg warriors, he reasoned, because every able-bodied person had been employed to the task of building a new fortress at Aillwee. Only lone messengers traveled the roads these days. Then Fergus realized the flashes of light were too bright for bronze weapons.

These warriors were armed with the steel of the foreigners.

“Gaedhals?” Fergus whispered to himself, confused that so many would be abroad at such an early hour.

An overwhelming sense of foreboding descended upon the veteran. His heart jumped a beat. These folk were about to launch an attack on Rath Carriaghe. Visions of Eber's raid on Dun Burren swamped him. The Gaedhals were a vicious and treacherous race. They would not scruple to raid a quiet village without warning.

Before the realization had a chance to fully form in his mind, Fergus was hurtling down the hillside toward the road as fast as his old legs could carry him. At the fork in the path he veered to the left, his thoughts scattered by fear for the defenseless Fir-Bolg farmers. He knew his mother was already very ill and he worried that any shock might prove fatal. As he sprinted he begged the spirits of the Otherworld to help him reach her in time.

His legs were already tiring by the time he reached that part of the road where he'd first spotted the running Gaedhals. His chest was heaving hard and strained. But Fergus didn't slacken his pace for a second.

A thousand sprinted steps from the settlement he thought he'd have to give up the furious pace. His body was racked with agonizing pain; his head was pounding with the rush of blood and the raising of his battle fury.

At the summit of a small rise he glimpsed the rath in the distance. And there he reluctantly stopped for a moment, bent double to catch his breath. After a few deep lungfuls of air he straightened up
and looked toward the home of his kindred.

There were strangers in the rath. That was certain. Four men and two women wearing the silvery helms of Gaedhals were driving the cattle out of their hut into the center of the enclosure. A few others were rounding up the goats and sheep. But Fergus had seen at least a dozen fighters on the road. These accounted for only half that number. His fears renewed, he set off again.

He was slowed by the exertion of his run, his body unable to maintain the pace he demanded of it. Fergus considered dropping his pack by the side of the path to lighten his load, but he remembered that he was carrying Brocan's gift to Eber Finn. If he didn't hide the pack well these raiders would surely find it. And he wasn't willing to waste time doing that. So he ran on until he came to within a hundred paces of the rath.

There he stopped again and found a place under the trees to catch his breath and ready himself for a fight. This took longer than he would have wished but he knew it would be senseless to charge into the fray straight after such a strenuous run. In his urgency he cursed his feeble body that once would have been able to sprint twice that distance, swim a river and still be ready to raise an axe to the enemy.

When Fergus had calmed his breathing he stepped out onto the road. There he had a clear view of the hilltop settlement. And what he saw almost stopped his heart from beating altogether.

Two foreign warriors were dragging an older woman from her house. Fergus knew it could only be his mother. Now his blood rose into a rage that almost blinded him. There was one thought on his mind—to rescue his loved ones from this cowardly attack.

As he redoubled his pace he saw his mother forced to kneel before three Gaedhals, two men and a woman. All three were looking down at her with contemptuous laughter. As the veteran reached the gates of the settlement he drew his sword from the scabbard across his back. He well understood that his bronze blade would be no match for weapons of steel. But he thought that if he could avoid their swords and get a good blow in, he might frighten the Gaedhals into backing off.

It was the woman standing over his mother who saw him first. In a flash she had drawn her sword and stepped up to challenge him. As she came forward the warrior at her side took three paces back and the other man drew his blade also.

“Stand your ground, Fir-Bolg,” she demanded.

Without even hearing her words Fergus raised his weapon and brought it down across her blade with such force he was certain it would shatter into a thousand pieces. But miraculously the bronze sword did not break and the woman warrior was forced to fall back.

“Mughain, come back by my side!” a warrior called out.

Fergus immediately realized this man was the
leader of the raid. In the next second he'd managed to get close enough to the woman that he could push her hard. She fell backward onto the ground with a grunt.

The war-leader stepped up, drew his sword and prepared to meet the challenge.

“What's your name?” Fergus bellowed, his rage getting the better of him. “I've never killed a warrior who was unknown to me.”

“I'm called Goll mac Morna,” the war-leader replied as he leveled his blade at his enemy. “I am also known as the king's champion, the Lord of Slaughter and the Guardian of Sliabh Mis.”