The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  “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.”

  “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 brot
her 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 sp
ear 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.