The King of Sleep (44 page)

“What are you going to do with us?” Eber bellowed.

“You stay here. You find road to Fomor place. You must not go tell Fir-Bolg or Danaan.”

“We were lost,” Dalan explained. “None of us would ever be able to find our way back here again.”

The bear-man made no reply. Clearly he was unmoved by this plea.

“We'll swear an oath of secrecy,” the Brehon offered.

The Fomorian turned around again to face his own folk. He spoke to them briefly and there was cautious assent from the gathering. Dalan's suggestion did not seem to have been met with much opposition.

“Fir-Bolg evil folk,” he told the Brehon when he had concluded his explanation to the gathered Fomor. “Not welcome here. You go down river far away. Not come back. Not speak kinfolk this place.”

“I promise,” Dalan assured him. “If you help us, no word of your settlement will ever pass our lips.”

The bear-man raised his torch in the air as he spoke a few Fomorian words. The portcullis lifted with a groaning of ropes and pulleys. And suddenly they appeared to be free.

But the crowd edged closer, snarling and spitting at the prisoners. Some waved their torches; others wielded clubs of heavy timber. At another word from the bear-man the crowd parted to allow them to leave, but the Fomor were still threatening their captives.

“May we depart?” Dalan called out to the Fomorian Druid.

“You go,” he nodded. “We chase you out. River that way. Run fast or we kill you.”

The three men looked at each other in alarm. Brocan glanced back at the body of Máel Máedóc.

“I'm staying,” the Fir-Bolg king announced.

“You must come with us!” Eber urged.

“I'm in no danger,” Brocan replied calmly. “The Quicken Brew will preserve me. Indeed it is you, Eber Finn, who should be worried. You're a mortal. Death comes very easily to your kind.”

The Gaedhal's face turned white. “They'll kill me!” he hissed.

“Count to one hundred before you follow after me,” Brocan smiled.

In a flash the King of the Fir-Bolg was off down the path, running the gauntlet of countless Fomorian fists and clubs.

Dalan held the Gaedhal by the sleeve to restrain
him. “Do as he says,” he advised. “He's drawing them off so we can get away.”

Together they watched the crowd disperse to chase Brocan. Soon there were only a few children and old folk milling around them.

The bear-man walked up to Dalan and stood close enough that the Brehon could hear the man breathing.

“You a little wise,” he nodded, and then he stood aside to observe what happened next.

D
ALAN COUNTED TO A HUNDRED AS
B
ROCAN HAD
commanded. Then he dragged Eber down the path toward the river as fast as they could run. All the strongest Fomor had chased after the Fir-Bolg king so the going was easy.

A few well-aimed blows fell across their backs as they started out but it was nothing compared to what Brocan must have been suffering. Not far along the track they lost all their pursuers, save for a few young children who continued to throw stones all along the way.

The Brehon tried to place himself between any blows aimed at the Gaedhal. He knew that no matter how vicious the assault the Quicken Brew would heal him.

At length they came to a crossroads. Further down the path which curled to the right they saw a great crowd of folk. Dalan realized these Fomor must have been chasing the Fir-Bolg king. So he led Eber Finn along the path which forked to the left.

In a very short while they had come to the water's edge and, blessing their good fortune, they found a leather curragh upturned on the shore. There were two poles lying alongside the little vessel which would serve for oars. The two men quickly had the craft in the water and were well out on the lake before the Fomorian mob noticed them. By now they were out of reach but they still pushed their poles vigorously through the icy blackness to ensure there was no chance of being recaptured.

It was a long time after, when the lights of the settlement were distant and faint, that Eber finally sat back in the boat with his oar beside him.

“That's enough!” he sighed. “Now we must rest.”

Dalan looked over his shoulder at the shimmering yellow lights. Then he gave in to exhaustion and sat down facing the Gaedhal.

“What will become of Brocan?” Eber said after they'd both lain there in silence for a long time.

At that moment he saw a light on the shore not far off but he didn't have the will to stand up and begin paddling again. The boat drifted silently on and he reasoned that the folk on shore probably wouldn't notice their passing if they made as little noise as possible. But the shifting current of the river that fed through the lake was unpredictable and it was not long before the curragh ran into a submerged rock. The vessel lay caught, barely fifty paces from the shore.

Dalan peeped over the rim of the boat but couldn't see anybody near the fire, which struck him as very strange. But there was no time to question their luck. He whispered instructions to Eber and the two of them slipped over the side of their vessel to free it from the rock.

As soon as they did this, the light curragh was whipped up out of their hands by the current. The boat was swept toward the shore, leaving the pair of them splashing about in the freezing lake. In moments the chill waters began to sap their strength, but the pair managed to make it to the sandy bank. Dalan helped the king out of the water and over to the fire.

There they sat trying to warm themselves. It was the Brehon who recovered first, the Quicken Brew working its magic. He went to the shore and dragged the curragh up to where the current wouldn't be able to reach it.

Then he made his way back to where Eber lay.

“We mustn't tarry here long,” he told the Gaedhal. “The Fomor will be upon us if we don't get a move on.”

“I'm so cold,” the king stuttered.

“Whoever lit this fire can't be far away,” Dalan insisted as he dragged the king by the sleeve.

But Eber wouldn't budge. “Let me warm myself!”

In the end the Brehon relented. He let the Gaedhal curl up close to the little blaze for a while but kept a watch on the rocks nearby, ready to run if the Fomor appeared.

The fire died down to almost nothing in a very short while and there was no other light. So Dalan persuaded the king to get back into the boat. Just as Eber stood up there was a noise behind them which made both men jolt in surprise.

In nervous haste the Brehon grabbed Eber by the back of the tunic and forced him to the shore. But along the way the Gaedhal fell hard and the wind was knocked out of him. He lay on the sand trying to catch his breath while Dalan prepared to meet the enemy with his fists.

Two figures loomed out of the darkness carrying a meager little light between them. The Brehon couldn't make out their features but he feared the worst. In an attempt to frighten them he stood up to his full height and raised his arms in the air.

“Halt!” he cried, realizing too late that the Fomor wouldn't understand him. “Come no closer or you'll meet with your deaths.”

His words seemed to have the desired effect. The two strangers stopped in their tracks and seemed to be whispering excitedly to each other. Then all of a sudden they strode confidently forward.

“I told you to stay where you are!” Dalan bellowed, summoning his most commanding voice.

But the strangers ignored him and in a few seconds were within a stone's throw of him.

The Brehon looked around for some weapon to defend himself. He grabbed one of the poles they'd used to paddle the curragh. With this makeshift
weapon leveled in front of him Dalan prepared for the worst.

“Get up, Eber!” he hissed. “You're supposed to be the warrior, not me. I can't hold off two of them.”

“It's no good, they've caught us,” the Gaedhal replied in resignation. “I can do nothing.”

But even as he spoke the king's eyes widened with curiosity. The two figures walked upright with no sign of any serious deformity, unlike the Fomorians they'd already encountered.

Just then Dalan dropped his pole in shock.

“Aoife?” the Brehon gasped. “Sárán? What are you two doing here?”

“Thank the Goddess Danu you've come!” the young man shouted. “We were sure we'd never find our way out of this maze.”

Eber Finn forgot his pain, astounded at their sudden appearance. “Where did you come from?” he asked incredulously.

“We were hiding behind the rocks,” Aoife admitted. “We saw the boat but thought it best to conceal ourselves until we could be certain you were not hostile. In the end we thought it best to take a risk and ask your help.”

“You've saved us from walking around lost in these caves for the rest of eternity,” Sárán cried as he threw his arms about the Brehon.

“We've barely escaped the same fate ourselves,” Dalan told him, gently disengaging himself from the young man's embrace. “And we've no guarantee that
we're traveling in the right direction. But there's room for you both in the curragh, though I can't say you deserve it after such defiance.”

“I'm sorry,” Aoife offered. “I know we shouldn't have entered the caves but I had to prove myself.”

“I won't speak of this with you now,” the Brehon replied sharply. “I'm angry and deeply disappointed in you. Your behavior is unfitting of an aspiring Druid.”

“I'm not an aspiring Druid!” she snapped. “Can't you get it through your thick tangled locks of hair that I don't belong in your world. I was meant for the warrior path.”

“That's enough!” Dalan bellowed, losing his temper. He instantly regretted his harsh tone but he was appalled at his student's attitude.

“We'll have plenty of time to discuss this if we ever find a way out of the caves,” he added in a somewhat gentler voice. “For now we'd better be moving along. There are creatures dwelling on this shore who bear us great malice and I wouldn't like to be captured by them again.”

Sárán wanted to ask what kind of creatures could possibly live so deep underground. Then he remembered the skull his sister had in her pack and his curiosity took second place to fright. He ran to the boat to steady it, eager to be out on the water where the subterranean monsters would not be able to reach them.

With that the four of them boarded the leather vessel and pushed off into the current. Soon they were
being swept along ever faster, and in the distance they could hear an ominous roar that grew with each breath and thundered across the vast cavern.

Brocan led the Fomor on a merry chase down the narrow paths to the lake and then back again in a huge arc. By the time he returned to the cave where they'd been held prisoner he was tired but not yet exhausted. And he was gratified to find only the Fomorian Druid waiting for him.

His bruises and cuts were already healing. And he was glad he'd found the courage to press on through the melee.

The bear-man bowed to the king when he arrived and Brocan returned the gesture.

“I would like to carry die body of the Druid, Máel Máedóc, down to the lake,” the king told the Fomorian. “He is a man of honor who deserves to have his last wishes fulfilled.”

“You may do so,” the bear-man answered in a clear tone without any of his former accent.

“Are you the same man who spoke with us earlier?” Brocan asked in surprise.

“I am.”

“You don't have a Fomorian accent.”

“I'm not of the Fomor,” the bear-man shrugged. “Though I have a knowledge of their tongue. I am a Fir-Bolg like yourself.”

“How came you to live among them?”

The stranger laughed. “I don't live among them. I
haven't even spoken with any of the Fomor for longer than I can remember.”

Brocan frowned in confusion. “I don't understand.”

“The Fomor were scattered to the four winds long ago. Certainly there are none now living in Innisfail.”

“But …” the king began.

“You saw a vast host of them,” the bear-man stated with a nod. At that he slipped off the skull that covered his face to reveal a bald head and a pair of bright green eyes.

“Who are you?” Brocan gasped, feeling as though he should recognize this fellow.

“I have had many names. But you may call me Lochie.”

“Lochie the Bard?”

“You remember me!”

“Dalan told me you were one of the Watchers.”

“I have that honor,” Lochie nodded.

Brocan felt a cold shiver grip his body. He half turned to scout out a path to escape.

“You won't get far,” the Watcher warned him. “And in any case I have a feeling you'll be happier here.”

“What are you taking about? Why would I want to live among the Fomor? They are the enemies of my people.”

“Didn't you hear me?” Lochie laughed. “There are no Fomorians. I created them. They were an illusion helped along by the seeing herbs I administered to you before you started out on this foolish journey.”

Brocan shook his head, struggling to understand what was being revealed to him.

“I've been posing as Fineen,” the Watcher admitted. “I was very convincing, wasn't I?”

The king numbly nodded his agreement. “Why did you do such a thing?”

“It suited my purposes,” Lochie explained. His voice was soothing, like that of a doting parent indulging a child. “Don't worry about Fineen. He's safe. No harm will come to him.”

“Dalan told me you are an enemy of my folk,” Brocan ventured. “He told me you would do everything in your power to bring havoc and misery to the Fir-Bolg.”

“Dalan is a fine storyteller with an impressive imagination,” the Watcher noted with a gleam of mischief in his eye. “But he hasn't quite got a grasp of what I'm up to yet. Let me assure you, I have no intention of bringing misery to your people. They are quite capable of doing that without my help. I'm merely pushing events along to their conclusion.”