The King of Sleep (24 page)

“Are you a servant of Eber Finn?”

“My brother's a servant to no man!” spat another warrior.

“Be quiet, Conan,” Goll snapped. “I'll fight my own battles.”

“You must not fight!” the woman warrior exclaimed, and Goll faltered for the briefest moment.

That was just long enough for Fergus to make his move. In a desperate and dangerous maneuver he sent his sword spinning wildly toward Goll, who moved deftly aside to miss it. But even as the champion Gaedhal avoided the weapon, Fergus lunged forward, thumped the war-leader hard in the chest and wrested the steel blade from his hand.

“Now the fight will be fairer,” he declared as he swung the weapon around to get a feel for its balance and weight.

But he barely had the chance to size up the sword
before Conan was upon him, roaring a wild battle cry. The ferocity of the attack took Fergus completely by surprise and he immediately retreated a few paces with his weapon raised to parry the Gaedhal's blows.

As soon as Goll recovered he snatched Mughain's blade and joined in the affray. But Conan yelled at him to stay back.

“Two of us will beat him easier than one,” Goll replied.

“You've putting yourself in danger!” Conan insisted. “Let me deal with this.”

But the king's champion wasn't going to fall back with his tail between his legs. He pushed his brother aside and advanced against Fergus with fire in his eyes. The Fir-Bolg veteran ducked and weaved, avoiding his opponent's blows and launching a few of his own.

“You're a fine fighter for an old man,” Goll complimented his foe, using his sword to block the attack.

“And you aren't bad for a young man,” replied Fergus.

Suddenly the veteran was stirred by a warrior instinct to move quickly in order to save his life. He lunged forward and caught a glimpse of Conan readying to strike at him from behind. In a graceful move the Fir-Bolg raised his weapon high in the air and spun around on one heel. Then, in a magnificent move as well executed as that of any dancer, he swung his sword arm around in a wide arc. He brought the blade
close to his chest after it flashed past Goll's head. Then, using the momentum of the move, he struck out at the king's champion with his elbow. Goll fell back, caught completely by surprise.

Conan saw the wide gap in the veteran's defense, raised his weapon and stepped forward to bring the blade down hard on the Fir-Bolg's head. But Fergus had been expecting such an answer to his assault. In an easy sweep he lifted his blade, spun around and lunged down at his enemy with the point of his sword.

The weapon struck home with such force that Conan's leather armor was split at the shoulder. The cold steel ripped the tunic he wore beneath and then it bit into his flesh. The young warrior fell back on his knees, screaming with agony.

As Conan stumbled, Fergus's weapon was torn out of his hands and he was suddenly defenseless. In moments there were Gaedhals all around him and every one of them was armed for war.

They thrust their sword points toward him, threatening and goading. Fergus caught a cut across his arm and another drew a line of blood on his cheek. But he kept a cool head about him, as was his way when all seemed lost.

The foreigners were taunting him now and the veteran knew they were trying to wear him out in readiness for the kill. As another weapon struck him in the back of the leg he teetered forward. In the next moment he was dodging a great long heavy boar-spear
that Mughain had dragged out of his mother's house. Fergus had to grab at the shaft of the weapon to fend it off. The young warrior woman was very skilled with the spear, and with half a dozen swift slashes she had his tunic in shreds.

“You've killed my friend Conan!” she screamed in a high-pitched wail of hatred. “Now I'm going to cut you to pieces and no sorcery will save you.”

Fergus heard his mother crying out for mercy. He smelled the coppery stench of his own blood and felt an aching in his limbs such as he had never known before.

But he wasn't about to surrender and allow these poor farmers to be pillaged. With a final burst of strength and determination he grasped the spear shaft firmly the next time Mughain thrust the point at him. To her horror he twisted the weapon around in her hands until she lost her grip on it. She got clear of him as quickly as she could and he swung the spear over his head to keep the other warriors at bay.

All the Gaedhals retreated to a safe distance and the Fir-Bolg farmers stopped their entreaties. One Gaedhal foolishly leaped forward but the veteran stuck the spear in his arm and he rolled away, crying out for the pain of his injury. Another man came hesitantly forward but a ferocious grunt from Fergus was all it took for him to back down.

Soon the only sound the veteran could hear was the straining of his own breath. He still turned to face the surrounding enemy so they could see the hard
resolve in his eyes, but he was feeling weak and unsteady on his feet. He couldn't possibly keep up this defense much longer. The time had come for talking.

“Let these people alone,” he hissed. “They've done you no harm.”

“Drop your weapon and we'll discuss it,” Goll offered as he strode forward.

Fergus held his spear directly toward the chest of the leader of the Gaedhals. “Get back or I'll open you up for the crows to feed on.”

Goll mac Morna let a faint smile turn up his lips. He took one step then another toward the Fir-Bolg veteran until the point of the spear rested hard against his leather armor. The two men faced each other eye to eye, faces painted with sweat but neither ready to move so much as a finger width to withdraw.

Then, in a sudden and unexpected move, the war-leader turned his back on Fergus, untied the straps that held his armor in place and let it fall to the ground. In moments he was facing the Fir-Bolg warrior again but now there was nothing but a linen tunic between the spear point and his chest.

“I've faced death a hundred times,” the Gaedhal declared in an emotionless tone. “Do you think I'm going to show any fear now?”

“Stand back from him, Goll!” Mughain cried out. “He's already murdered your brother.”

“The boy's not dead,” Fergus scoffed. “I didn't
strike him deep enough to kill him. But he'll think twice before he matches weapons with my folk again.”

The veteran turned his attention back to the Gaedhal who stood before him. “If I took your life now,” he stated confidently, “there isn't a Brehon judge who'd find me at fault. You've broken the treaty of Dun Gur. You've brought dishonor on your people and your king. If Eber Finn knew of this he would have you placed under banishment.”

“How do you know my king hasn't sanctioned this action?” Goll shot back.

Fergus let the spear point drop a little before he spoke. “I know because I'm carrying a message and a gift from my king pledging our alliance with your people. This is in answer to an offer from your king.”

As he heard these words Goll mac Morna's face grew pale and his expression changed from one of arrogant contempt to disbelief. He quickly glanced around the gathering of warriors and saw they were whispering among themselves.

“If Eber made an offer of peace with your people he would have informed the Council of Chieftains,” the war-leader noted. “I sit on that council and I have heard of no such plan.”

“Perhaps King Eber doesn't trust you,” Fergus snapped, and a murmur of outrage passed around the Gaedhals. Mughain spat at the Fir-Bolg's feet. But Goll knew the old warrior was probably right. This new treaty had been arranged without his knowledge.

The king's champion knew he had to act. Eber had
betrayed them. Goll shuddered at all the pretty titles he'd been given. They had been bestowed by a king who had misled his own people. If Goll was going to salvage his pride and the respect of the Fian, it was his duty to remove Eber Finn from office and provide effective leadership to the people of the Southern Gaedhal.

“I did not agree to the treaty of Dun Gur,” he informed the veteran. “Nor did I have any idea my king was negotiating an alliance with your people.”

Once more he glanced around at his warriors and noticed they had fallen silent and were listening intently to him. Goll looked down at the spear point and decided to deal with this Fir-Bolg quickly and expeditiously. There was work to do and this old man was keeping them from it.

“Throw down your weapon and I guarantee no harm will come to you,” the king's champion soothed. “You and I have no quarrel. You're obviously a man of honor. If you yield to me I'll see you're well treated.”

“You're raiding my family's home!” Fergus spat. “If we have no quarrel, why do you have the point of a boar-spear above your heart? Give me an assurance you'll leave my mother's people in peace and I'll hand over my weapon.”

Goll tightened his lips and narrowed his eyes. “You've injured two of my best warriors, one of whom is my own brother. You're surrounded and outnumbered ten to one. I don't believe you're in a position to press terms.”

“You have a spear pricking at your chest,” Fergus countered. “I don't believe you've in a position to refuse my terms.”

“What good would it do to murder me?” Goll asked. “You'd be dead a few seconds after me. And this settlement would be plundered anyway, though I suspect it would be a more thorough sacking if my blood were spilled.”

The war-leader smiled. “Lay the spear aside and we'll talk.”

“Don't trust him, son,” an old woman's voice called out.

An ancient crone stooped by her ninety winters lifted her staff in the air.

Fergus was strengthened in his spirit to hear such defiance in his mother's frail voice.

“Don't believe a word this ruffian tells you!” she yelled.

Goll smiled when he realized the mother/son relationship and briefly considered using the old woman as a hostage.

“You'd better pray that he does, old woman,” mac Morna advised over his shoulder. “If he doesn't do as I say, I guarantee this settlement will be scattered stone by stone until there's no trace left of it or its people.”

“Eber Finn would never have sanctioned such a raid,” Fergus noted. “You savages may all be cast in the same likeness, but your king is wise enough to keep his word.”

“He won't be king much longer,” Mughain cut in.

That confirmed for the old veteran that these folk were renegades who held no respect for King Eber's treaty. For the first time since he was a young warrior, Fergus was stung with an oppressive fear. Every pore of his body shivered with anticipation of an awful blood-letting.

“Order your warriors to leave the rath,” the veteran demanded as he pushed the point of the spear hard against the war-leader's chest.

Goll didn't move. His eyes were fixed on those of his opponent. And the two stood like that for a long while, facing each other down. At last the Gaedhal turned his head slightly and spoke to his warriors over his shoulder.

“I want you all to leave the rath,” he began.

There was an immediate chorus of objections from the Fian.

“You can't give in to him!” Mughain protested.

As she spoke, Fergus nudged forward with the spear and the pressure of the point between his ribs caused Goll to flinch. His eyes caught those of his enemy again. And suddenly his brother's dream came to mind. Perhaps he really was going to die here at the hands of this old man.

“Hear me!” the Gaedhal commanded. “You will retreat from this rath. But not until this veteran has surrendered his weapon.”

Fergus raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I won't yield to you.”

“Then we'll stand here until one of us falters,” Goll
shrugged. “I'm a young man. I have a good ten hours in me before I'll need to rest. How long do you think you can last?”

The veteran knew the war-leader was right. He had run a great distance. He was an old man. He was already exhausted. Gently closing his eyes in resignation, he let the deadly spear point drop until it touched the ground at his feet. Then, after a short hesitation, he let go of the shaft.

The weapon fell with a clatter.

Goll smiled and took a step closer to the veteran to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Then in a flash he drew a long dagger from his belt and, before anyone had a chance to gasp, he drove the weapon hard into the underside of Fergus's ribs.

The veteran's eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped. He threw his head back in inexpressible pain. He reached out a hand to grasp Goll's tunic but the strength was already draining from his body. Fergus leaned forward to support himself against his enemy and the knife bit deeper into him.

Then with his last few breaths he spoke a curse. Part binding spell, part prophecy, such a pronouncement was a powerful declaration that constrained the life of the recipient.

“I lay a Geis on you, Goll, son of Morna,” the veteran whispered hoarsely. “You'll never sleep in one house more than three nights in a row. You must never show mercy to a stranger as long as you live. If a black
pig should come into your possession, not a drop of blood must fall from its body. If your king summons you, you must not tarry but travel to him by the most direct road. No woman may come between you and your next meal. Your brother will be the instrument of your downfall.”

The Fir-Bolg's mother pushed forward but was restrained by a Gaedhal.

Then Fergus slipped to his knees, dead before his body hit the ground. Goll stood grasping his bloody knife but he did not look down. A Geis was an overwhelming burden and the Geis of a dying man was the strongest of all.

As strange as the words sounded to everyone present, every single person knew that Goll mac Morna's fate had been sealed. One by one each of these prohibitions would be broken, there was no doubt of that. And when the last prohibition was concluded it would signal the end of the war-leader's life.