The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  Then a realization came to him like the sun peeping from behind a cloud to light a path for him.

  He must try to be more like his sword and his shield. He would not weaken. He would do his duty as a warrior.

  The champion sat forward again and scanned the lands around the Fir-Bolg settlement for any sign of life. A few farmers were out in the fields preparing to harvest their barley.

  Further off toward the river some laughing women were driving their cows to fresh pasture. They were followed by a group of noisy playful children. Goll counted the cattle. There were twelve cows, a healthy number for so small a community. Elsewhere he noticed goats and long-horned sheep. A leather curragh was leaning up against the outer wall of the settlement. Clearly these people had fisherfolk among them.

  Just then Goll’s attention was drawn to two men who appeared from behind a hill. They were carrying a curragh triumphantly above their heads. And they had their catch hanging between them. Goll’s mouth watered at the thought of all that fresh fish baking by the fires in the warm houses. The fishermen put the curragh down by one house then went into a smaller building, which Goll guessed was their smoke house.

  The warrior squinted as he tried to discern which building was the grain store. In the end he made a guess, then lay back down among the grasses to stare at the sky once more.

  As his mind drifted off with the clouds Goll wondered what it would have been like to have been born into a farming family. His father, Morna the Fighter, was a legendary warrior in his day and a companion of old King Mil, father of Eber Finn.

  If life had given him other chances, he told himself, he might have been content to work hard for his food and live among folk whose only care was for their children, their cattle and the coming winter. Perhaps instead of swordplay and spearcraft he might have learned to fish with a net.

  Just then, Goll mac Morna heard the muffled whisper of his name not far away. The sound plucked him swiftly from his daydream.

  “I’m over here!” he answered gruffly, not bothering to lower his voice. The Fir-Bolg were a long way off. They weren’t going to hear him.

  A woman dressed in warrior clothes of brown deerskin ran toward the champion in a crouch, trying to remain as close to the ground as possible. Her black hair was knotted in long, winding, unwashed tresses which were gathered behind her head and fell lankly over her left shoulder. Her tunic was belted close about her waist, her breeches weather-worn and tight-fitting underneath. A short sword in a red leather scabbard hung at her side and a plain breacan cloak was wrapped up under her arm. She moved with all the steady discipline of a warrior, her right hand ever ready to draw a blade for battle.

  Goll mac Morna looked up at her with impatience, annoyed at being disturbed. But before he could reprimand her the young woman drew her sword so she would be able to stretch out beside him on the hillside. Then she rolled down into the grass and slid closer. Without taking her eyes off the rath for a second she spoke lowly to make her report.

  “There is a Fir-Bolg warrior traveling in this direction from the coast.”

  “He is alone?” Goll demanded, raising his eyebrows in interest.

  “Yes.”

  The king’s champion laughed. “Just a traveling messenger.” He turned his head. “Mughain,” he began, speaking slowly so she would catch the tone of a teacher in his voice, “we are twenty. Twenty Fian of the King of the Southern Gaedhals. One Fir-Bolg with his brittle bronze axe is no challenge to us. In any case he’s likely only a messenger. Let him pass.”

  “The Fir-Bolg have the force of enchantment on their side,” the warrior woman countered nervously.

  “Who says so?”

  “Your brother was just speaking of it when we saw the Fir-Bolg warrior,” Mughain stuttered, a little taken aback at being challenged.

  “Conan has become too familiar with the ale cup,” the champion snapped. “His imagination has been given too much freedom of late.”

  “It isn’t his imagination, nor ale that makes him speak so. Everyone’s talking about the magic powers of the dark people.”

  “My brother missed his calling,” Goll replied sharply. “The field where he nurtures his idle thoughts is a fertile one. Perhaps Conan should have been a storyteller or a Bard. His aspirations to the warrior path were certainly misguided. I’m certain I could call the spirit of a certain old fisherman to attest to that fact.”

  “Your brother might be misguided and at times a little confused, but I and many of the Fian believe he may be right. He is so much like you many respects. Perhaps that’s why you shun him.”

  Goll rolled his eyes dismissively. “You’re as mad as he is. I should have punished him more severely for the death of that fisherman. He hasn’t been the same since Sliabh Mis.”

  “I was also at the Battle of Sliabh Mis,” the young woman answered defensively. “I saw the wounded heroes of the Danaan rise up from where they had fallen. And they were healed of all their injuries by the time they stood on their feet again.”

  “The Danaans are a different matter,” Goll conceded. “The Fir-Bolg have no such enchantment skills. Have you forgotten our first fight with them? You were with me in the raiding party that burned Dun Burren, the home of the King of the Fir-Bolg.”

  The king’s champion turned his head to look her in the eyes before he went on. “Their houses smoulder and their cattle may be raided the same as any other people. Their grain can be taken and their smoked fish make a fine feast. Fir-Bolg mead is the best I’ve ever tasted, and I’ll wager their children make hard-working slaves.”

  “Slaves?”

  Goll caught the surprise in the woman’s voice but he was expecting it. “In my father’s day raiders came from the hot countries over the sea and made incursions on the lands of Iber. Any captives taken in battle were treated as a source of indentured labor. With hard work and loyal service these captives could earn their freedom and were allowed to return to their own kindred.”

  He noticed the young warrior woman frowning but he continued to present his argument with a calm firmness. “The punishment for taking up arms against the tribes of the Gaedhal has always been to pay a fine. It doesn’t matter whether the penalty is paid in cattle, gold or, for those who have no wealth, in service. The warrior class are entitled to claim the best of these hostages because we risk our lives each day in the defense of all our kindred.”

  “Have you forgotten that a treaty was agreed with the Fir-Bolg and the Danaan?” Mughain gasped.

  “That agreement was not presented to the warriors for their approval. Our losses on the battlefield were not recompensed. Eber Finn overlooked the debt he owes us when he negotiated his treaty with the enemy.”

  Mughain was clearly dismayed. It was an affront to tradition to talk of a king being indebted to the Fianna.

  Goll mac Morna leaned over and grabbed Mughain’s sleeve lightly, dragging her close to him. Then he looked his trembling comrade fiercely in the eye.

  “Remember all our friends who fell at Sliabh Mis?” he hissed. “Did any of them rise from the battlefield healed of their wounds?” He didn’t give her a chance to reply. “No, they did not. They’re seated now in the Halls of Waiting with their ancestors. They died to secure this island as a new homeland for our people. Did they die in vain? Will you defile their memory by accepting the dishonorable treaty of Dun Gur?”

  “Eber Finn gave his word as our king,” the woman replied with a deep frown of concern. “He’s our war-leader. We must abide by his decisions and respect his wisdom.”

  “Do you think Eber ever really intended to keep his word?”

  Mughain pulled away and Goll did not try to stop her.

  He let go his hold on her tunic, rested on one elbow and spoke sternly.

  “There is no room in this land for Fir-Bolg and Gaedhal to live together unless the Fir-Bolg submit to the will of our leadership. Let them offer tribute to Eber Finn and dwell under the protection of our warriors. Let them abide by
our laws and our customs. Why should we be dictated to by their Brehon Druids? Have we not enough good judges among our own kindred?”

  Mughain didn’t answer.

  “Eber’s treaty sealed our conquest,” Goll nodded. “But what king would trade the traditions of his people for peace? What value the victory if our people cannot govern themselves by their own long-established laws?”

  “The Danaans gave us Dun Gur in settlement of the treaty,” she countered. “And they’ve offered us the wisdom of the Druids since so few of our own folk tread the sacred path. In return our king has pledged peace. Unless the Fir-Bolg or the Danaan break faith with us, we must abide by Eber’s commitment.”

  “They’ll break it. There’s nothing more certain. It’s only a matter of when and how. So we must strike first to let them know who holds this island now.”

  The young woman glared sharply at the champion as the true meaning of his speech dawned on her. “Have you brought us here to make war on that rath?” she demanded, pointing in the direction of the FirBolg settlement.

  Goll nodded. “We are warriors. It’s what we were born to do.”

  “Does this action have the sanction of King Eber?”

  “The king knows nothing of my intentions,” Goll admitted. “Nor should he. If he had any inkling of my plans, his integrity could be called into question later. And he will need to appear honorable when the time comes to settle this whole question once and for all. Even the Druid judges of the Gaedhal would find against him if they thought he had a hand in this.”

  “There is peace between our peoples,” Mughain protested. “You have no sanction from the chieftains or the king to breach it.”

  “I am the leader of the Fian bands. The methods I employ to train my warriors are my own affair. It has been three summers since any among us lifted a sword in battle. That is far too long. The older fighters are becoming complacent. The younger ones are itching for a scrap. If we don’t focus our aggression on a common target, we risk the disintegration of the Fianna into a splintered, ineffectual rabble.”

  The warrior lay back and looked at the sky again. “Aren’t you becoming tired of eating dried beef for every meal?”

  “It’s the food of a warrior.”

  “Only in midwinter when there is no game!” he cried. “At any other time it’s fit only for the elderly and the infirm. It’s not good enough for men and women who risk their lives for the protection of their clans.”

  “Why are we not permitted to hunt for game?” the warrior woman asked.

  “The treaty forbids all hunting except in the immediate vicinity of Dun Gur.”

  Mughain looked to the ground as she spoke.

  “The nearby forests are empty of game,” she noted, “and have been since last winter.”

  “Something must be done,” Goll urged. “The warriors will not silently bear their burdens much longer. Their stomachs rumble in the night for want of a decent meal. How long before that rumbling becomes an outcry?”

  “Have you spoken with the king about the unrest among the Fianna?”

  Goll gave a mocking laugh. “Eber is still full of himself after the victory of Sliabh Mis.”

  “We mustn’t do anything that might bring dishonor on our people,” Mughain offered cautiously.

  “Would you like to see our people end up fighting among themselves?” Goll snapped back. “Do you think the Danaans and the Fir-Bolg would have any scruples about making war against us if they perceived the slightest weakness in our ranks?”

  The warrior woman leaned back on her elbow but her eyes did not stray from the king’s champion for a moment. It was true enough that the other fighters in their band had turned to complaining about their lot in life. As if to add weight to Goll’s assertions, her stomach growled loudly.

  Mughain had to admit she was less than happy. Several times in the last week she had dreamed she was basting a fine roast pig on the spit. She and her comrades ate poorly and slept in the open countryside while the king feasted each night on the finest of meats safe in the fortress of Dun Gur.

  “You may be right,” the young warrior woman agreed at last.

  “I know I’m right,” the champion told her as he reached into his pouch for a piece of dried beef.

  Goll pulled out the strip of meat and offered it to Mughain. The woman winced a little when she realized what it was, but she took it to stave off her hunger. A small section came away in her teeth and she handed what was left back to the champion. He popped it in his mouth, chewed for a few moments and then went on to issue his orders.

  “We will attack four hours after dawn, just after the fishermen go out. No Fir-Bolg lives are to be taken. We’ve come to raid cattle, grain and fish to feed our warriors. No innocent people are to be harmed in any manner. They are to be treated with respect.”

  “Is it not some measure of disrespect to be stealing their cattle?” Mughain shot back.

  Goll chose to ignore this comment.

  “We won’t be taking slaves. I don’t see any sense in stirring up too much trouble. Our grievance isn’t with these poor farming folk. Our message is for Eber Finn and the Fir-Bolg king.”

  Goll looked down as he deftly wove a little ring of green from a few grass stalks he’d picked. When he’d finished he reached out to Mughain and gently stroked her forearm.

  “Tell the others there’ll be no fires tonight. They can make do with dried beef for one more meal. There is to be no talking, no noise whatsoever. I want every man and woman to rest well. And only two sentries will guard the camp. I doubt the Fir-Bolg even suspect there are Fian in the hills, so we need not keep too close a watch.”

  Mughain acknowledged the orders with a nod.

  “Let Conan know he is free to leave my company if he won’t stand by me,” Goll concluded.

  The young woman opened her mouth to protest, but before she could make a sound Goll reached out to her again. He looked into her eyes, put a finger lightly to her lips and hushed her. Then, in the next instant, he slipped the little ring of grass into her hand.

  “When you’ve passed the word around I want you to come back to me,” the champion whispered. “It’s a fine day and I have other sport on my mind than the taking of cattle.”

  Mughain was a little taken aback but she slipped the ring over one of her fingers. Goll’s smile widened and suddenly all her doubts deserted her. She was completely disarmed by his mischievous and flattering way. With a laugh the young woman slapped the back of his wrist playfully. Then she held her hand up before her eyes to admire the ring.

  “And what makes you think I’d want to play at your sport?” she teased.

  Goll shrugged, looked down at the ground and for a moment seemed to her like an awkward little boy. She had to remind herself that he was only thirty summers old. He always seemed to have an air of wisdom about him, such as his father had possessed.

  An unexpected yearning gripped Mughain’s heart, an urgent desire such as she hadn’t experienced in a long while. It was the hunger for excitement. The thrilling rush which always coursed through her body before a battle. It was a knife-edge trepidation that aroused her most deep-rooted instincts.

  “Eber Finn was never much of a warrior,” she remarked dismissively.

  “Indeed he has no stomach for the rigorous training it takes to become a Fian fighter,” Goll agreed.

  “Have you ever thought of making a bid for the kingship yourself?”

  The champion allowed no expression to show on his face. The thought had indeed occurred to him on more than one occasion, but no one had ever suggested it openly to him before. Suddenly what had once seemed a wild dream appeared possible merely because someone else had given voice to it.

  “Go now and do as I bid you,” he said softly, barely controlling a tremor of excitement.

  “I’ll be back soon enough,” she breathed.

  Without another word Mughain was off to find the rest of the warrior band. In her haste she left her own sw
ord lying in the grass beside Goll’s. He noticed it immediately but did not call after her. She wouldn’t need her weapon till the morning.

  As soon as the young woman was gone the king’s champion spat out a mouthful of leathery salt beef. Then he rolled over again onto his back.

  He plucked another blade of grass and held the long stem of it in his teeth to drive off the salty taste of the meat.

  “King Goll mac Morna, War-Leader of the Southern Gaedhals,” he whispered. “That’s a title I understand.”

  Then he closed his eyes in the warm sunlight to rest a little before Mughain returned.

  Chapter 5

  DALAN WASTED NO TIME CLIMBING ACROSS TO THE ROCK where the Druid woman called Sorcha was waiting for him. A rough staircase had been cut into the side of the boulder, allowing for a good foothold.

  “I’ll come down to you,” Sorcha called to him. “Just wait at the foot of the rock until I’ve finished packing my things.”

  “Don’t worry,” Dalan replied. “I’ll be up in a minute to give you some help.”

  Sorcha said nothing more until the Brehon had reached the top. Just before he stepped onto the flat rock platform she held up the palm of her hand.

  “You must come no further!” she warned. “This place is only for those who have been initiated into its secrets.”

  Dalan frowned in confusion but made no attempt to come closer. “I am a member of the inner circle of the Druid Assembly,” he informed her. “I have the personal sanction of the Dagda himself to visit all the holy places in the land. You have no authority to stop me.”

  “This is a sacred precinct. You must not enter.”

  Sorcha took two steps forward and the Brehon noticed she was standing in the center of a perfect circle of countless red-topped mushrooms. Each one had a sprinkling of white about the crown.

  “Redcaps!” Dalan gasped. “I’ve never seen so many growing in summer.”

  He could hardly believe his eyes. There were many stories circulating the college of Druids about the followers of the redcaps, but few folk ever took the tales seriously. Yet there was little doubt about it. This Druid woman must have been engaged in venerating the tiny mushrooms.