The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  He raised his sword instinctively to block her blow. Their weapons met with a heavy clang that echoed around the deserted hill fort.

  The young woman sidestepped as she slashed her blade again at her opponent. The point of it tore at the sleeve of his saffron shirt, leaving a gaping gash in the fine linen. No blood was spilled but the young Gaedhal grasped the damaged garment as if the cut had torn into muscle.

  Now red rage gripped him.

  In a practiced move, Iobhar pivoted on one foot and swung his sword wide. As he did so he crouched low to avoid Aoife’s blade. Then, with the flat of his weapon, he slammed the young woman behind the knees. He lacked her grace but the manoeuvre was nevertheless effective.

  The weight of the Gaedhal’s sword shocked the breath out of Aoife. But she used the momentum of her fall to carry her out of harm’s way so that by the time Iobhar had taken up the distance she was already standing at her defense again.

  “That was an admirable recovery,” the Gaedhal gasped.

  Her reply was another slash with her blade which caught and tore his sleeve again. Iobhar’s admiration instantly turned to outrage.

  “You savage!” he screamed, thrusting forward in vain with the point of his sword. Aoife easily parried the attack, pushing his blade to one side with the flat of her own weapon. But this manoeuvre brought them close enough for Iobhar to make a grab at her.

  As she was stepping back to regain her balance, the young Gaedhal caught Aoife by the shoulder of her tunic. His strong hand twisted the linen around at her throat to restrict her breathing. In this position Aoife could not bring her sword to bear upon the warrior. His blade arm, however, was free, and he was able to lift the point of his weapon to her slender neck.

  For several moments the two of them stood breathing hard, staring each other down as Iobhar pressed his blade into Aoife’s flesh near the collarbone. Aoife stubbornly gritted her teeth but gave no sign that she would surrender.

  The Gaedhal pushed harder until the sharp point made her gasp. In the next breath she dropped her sword to the ground and held up both her hands to indicate she would offer no further resistance.

  Iobhar was overjoyed. He released the pressure of his weapon against her chest, though he still kept a hand on her tunic.

  “Do you submit?” he panted.

  “My rescuers will be here soon. How will you fight them off? They are two seasoned warriors who fought at the Battle of Sliabh Mis.”

  “I fought at Sliabh Mis among the host of Gaedhals. And we were victorious. As I recall, your people fled the battlefield then came crawling back with their tails between their legs to seek a treaty. I have no fear of your people.”

  “Your folk won that fight because we let you,” Aoife laughed. “It suited our purposes.”

  “I’ve heard of many battle tactics employed to confuse an enemy,” Iobhar chortled, “but I’ve never heard of a war-leader inviting a crushing defeat in order to win what he wanted. You must think I’m stupid.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Iobhar grasped her tunic tighter. “Do you submit?” he hissed.

  Aoife leaned in close to his ear to reply. “No,” she answered softly.

  The word had hardly left her mouth before she managed to place her hands firmly on his shoulders. Iobhar tried to lift his blade but it was too late—a blinding agony pierced his guts as Aoife’s knee connected with his groin.

  He slumped down to the ground on his knees, clutching at the bruised flesh between his legs and struggling not to vomit with the intense pain. Through tear-filled eyes he saw his sword lying in the grass beside him but he was powerless to pick it up. All his thoughts were on this wrenching agony.

  By the time Iobhar had recovered his senses Aoife was standing over him with her weapon point placed lightly but strategically on the nape of his neck.

  “Do you submit?” she asked.

  “Never,” he gasped.

  “I would advise you to give yourself up,” a male voice interrupted. “My sister is a ruthless fighter and now you have three of us to contend with.”

  Iobhar rolled over. Two warriors, one with golden hair, the other with jet black, stood watching him with mirthful grins on their faces.

  “Come on, lad,” the black-haired man laughed. “It would be wise to admit defeat if only to save yourself further bruising.”

  “Admit it,” Aoife teased. “I outwitted you.”

  “You cheated,” Iobhar snapped back. “No warrior with any honor would have done what you did.”

  “Did you hear that, Mahon?” the young woman laughed. “He says I didn’t play fair.”

  “He shouldn’t have challenged you in the first place,” the fair-haired warrior replied. “But I have to agree with him. You don’t fight honorably.” Mahon turned to Aoife’s brother. “Lom, do you remember that time she lured us into that little valley, slipped by us in the shadows and left us searching for her the rest of the afternoon?”

  “It rained heavily,” Lom recalled.

  “We were soaked through,” Mahon agreed.

  “I caught a chill that day which I carried around for weeks,” Lom mumbled, beginning to sympathize with the Gaedhal. “She shouldn’t be playing warrior games anyway.” He turned to his sister. “You’re a Druid. Your kind is forbidden to take up the sword. What would your teacher say if he knew you were out on the Burren making sport with three warriors?”

  “Dalan doesn’t mind how I spend my days,” she snapped. “He’s too busy with business of his own. And in any case, I am not a very adept student of the Draoi craft. I’m more suited to the Warrior Circle.”

  “Your path was decided for you,” Lom reminded her. “Dalan was merciful to you in his judgment and you should be grateful. It’s not for you or I to say what our future will be. It’s time you accepted that and started making the best of your lot in life.”

  With that he stepped forward, grasped Iobhar by the hand and dragged the Gaedhal to his feet. “You should be glad there’s peace between our peoples now,” Lom noted, brushing the grass from the other man’s clothes. “If a half-trained Druid girl could bring you down in a mock skirmish, I fear for your life in a real battle.”

  Iobhar ran his hands over the tears in his shirt, holding the tatters between his fingers. “This shirt was a gift from King Eber Finn,” he moaned.

  “A fine gift too,” Mahon cut in. “But if you’ll accept a better one from me then I’ll know you’re not offended”

  “You’re a hospitable man,” Iobhar conceded. “And you’re calm in a crisis. You deserve a woman with an even temper and a quiet disposition.”

  “I’m level-headed!” Aoife snapped.

  All three men passed knowing glances between them.

  The young woman noticed their reaction and shrugged her shoulders. “I was caught up in the excitement of the chase,” she admitted. “The way he taunted me was infuriating.”

  “Maybe you’ll calm down when you’re wed to Mahon,” Iobhar suggested.

  Before he had a chance to regret his words the young woman dropped her sword, took two steps forward and punched the Gaedhal square in the jaw. He fell to the ground senseless.

  “Aoife!” Mahon protested.

  “It’s time he learned to be polite. I won’t have a Gaedhal insulting me.”

  Mahon tenderly placed a hand on her shoulder to calm her. “Go easy on the lad. He didn’t mean to insult you. Try to remember he’s a guest at your father’s court. You can’t go around beating visitors into submission just because they suffer a momentary lapse of good sense. I told you this wager was a stupid idea.”

  Aoife grudgingly apologized. “I hope you’re not too badly hurt,” she offered. “Don’t forget you promised to teach me how to use a bow in the style of your people.”

  But Iobhar didn’t respond. He was utterly senseless, or at least smart enough to appear that way.

  “I don’t like the idea of you being given lessons in the arrows of the Gaedhal,” Mahon prot
ested.

  “I don’t much care whether you like it or not. Besides, Iobhar gave me his word,” the woman insisted.

  As she spoke a figure cloaked from head to foot in a dark green mantle climbed over the wall and dropped onto the grass nearby. Lom drew his sword instinctively and Mahon spun around to challenge this unexpected intruder.

  Of all of them only Aoife remained calm. She had glimpsed him earlier and had guessed who this hooded stranger might be. “Put your swords away, boys,” she gently rebuked her brother and her lover. “Don’t you recognize this fellow? He was following you all the way up the hill.”

  Mahon looked at Lorn with a frown, then turned back to the intruder.

  “Who are you?” Lorn demanded.

  The stranger slowly pulled back the hooded breacan cloak from his eyes and as he did so Lom’s expression transformed from concern into recognition. There before him was a man whose face was exactly the same in every detail as his own. The long black hair tied at the back of the neck was his. The smooth clear skin and the dark eyes were also his. Even the way this fellow curled his lip on one side as he grinned was the very way Lom himself smiled.

  “Sárán!” Lorn cried out as he ran forward to take his twin brother in a warm embrace. “I haven’t looked on your features for two winters.”

  “Except in the cold reflection of a still pool,” Sárán noted dryly.

  “What are you doing here?” Aoife begged as she ran to her brother’s side. “We thought you were away in the east with your teacher, Fineen.”

  “We returned this morning,” Sárán replied as he bowed politely to Mahon.

  It was then he noticed the unconscious form of Iobhar sprawled out upon the grass. He raised his eye-brows at the scene before he went on. “Father ordered I be sent out to search for you. He had a notion you might come up here to the ruins of Dun Burren to waste time play-fighting.”

  “Brocan was informed that we intend to spend the night here,” Mahon cut in. “We’ll return tomorrow.”

  “You are to come back to the caves with me before sunset,” Sárán announced sharply. “You all have duties to fulfil and Fineen has brought news which concerns all the people of the Fir-Bolg.”

  “Surely it can wait till first light,” Aoife protested. “Even if we left straightaway it would be dark before we arrived home.”

  “Your king, your father, has commanded it,” Sárán asserted.

  “We’ll come then,” Lom conceded, taking his brother by the arm to shake him affectionately. “It does my heart good to see you again.”

  “I’m glad,” SŜrán answered in a restrained tone, and for the first time Aoife realized that a great distance had come between the twins since they had taken up their separate vocations. They so resembled each other physically it would be hard for most folk to tell them apart. But Sárán had developed an air of seriousness, while Lom had retained the carefree demeanour of a warrior youth.

  “Let’s go then,” she reluctantly agreed. “I’m disappointed we couldn’t spend a night under the stars in our old home. Iobhar was going to instruct me in the bow.”

  “What about the Gaedhal?” Lom laughed, pointing at the unconscious youth.

  “I suppose I’d better carry him home,” Mahon sighed. “We can’t leave the emissary of King Eber out on the hills at night. He might imagine we don’t think highly of him.”

  “Where would he have got that impression?” Lom asked in mock horror. “Would it be the manner in which our sister has welcomed the poor lad to her bosom?”

  “Be quiet, the both of you,” Aoife snapped, “or you’ll feel the back of my hand!”

  “It’s the knob of your kneecap I’m fearful of,” Mahon grunted as he carefully lifted the limp body over his shoulder.

  “You did this?” Sárán sneered at his sister. “You brought this warrior down?”

  Aoife shrugged and did her best to look as if it had all been a mishap. “We had a wager. He reckoned he could run me down before noon. I knew it would take a better man than he.”

  “You’re a Druid!” her brother gasped, stepping closer to look her in the eye. “You’re forbidden to engage in such sport. Does your teacher know of this?”

  Aoife gritted her teeth, picked up her sword and sheathed it. “I’ve already had this discussion once today,” she hissed, tired of being rebuked. “It’s time we were heading back to Aillwee.”

  Her brother watched the way she handled her blade with confidence and familiarity. He could hardly believe his eyes.

  “You have no right to bear such a weapon!” Sárán whispered in stunned shock. “What has become of you? Have you strayed from the path?”

  “My teacher holds no objection to me bearing arms,” she told him. “He understands that I was born to the blade, not the Bard craft. I’ve never made a secret of the fact that I would be happier following the ways of the Warrior Circle.”

  “Your life has been chosen for you! There’s no turning back. We must pay the price for our misdeeds. Devotion to the Druid Circle will annul our sins. It is the only hope we have of washing our souls clean.”

  Mahon and Lom both looked away, embarrassed by Sárán’s outburst.

  “Hush! That’s enough,” Aoife appealed. “I’ll not talk of this with you now. This isn’t the time for such things.” The young woman glanced nervously at Mahon, who had propped Iobhar beside the ruined wall that overlooked the bay.

  “Have you forgiven us?” Sárán asked the blond warrior.

  “I know what happened to my brother Fearna on that night long ago,” the warrior replied without turning to face Sárán. “I’m aware that you and Aoife led him into the winter’s night and abandoned him to his death. But I believe the judgment that was brought down on the pair of you was just. So I can’t bear a grudge against either you or your sister.”

  Sárán screwed his face up into a sneer of contempt. “You are blinded by your love for Aoife in the same way young Fearna was.”

  “That was long ago,” Aoife protested. “I’m older and wiser. I have learned from my misdeeds.”

  “My brother passed away a long time ago,” Mahon cut in. “I miss him and I mourn for him. But nothing will bring him back to me.”

  “You must have hay between your ears to follow her around the way you do,” Sárán scoffed.

  “Then you’d have a barnful yourself,” Mahon replied. “How many times has she led you into trouble?”

  “How dare you speak to me like that? I’m a member of the Druid Circle! And so is my sister. If you had any respect for our standing you’d dare not utter a sound in our presence. That’s the trouble with you warriors. You lack any real discipline in your lives. Anyone can learn to throw a blade about. But let’s hear you speak on tradition and tales of old.”

  “The Druid Circle is a fine vocation for one who enjoys a life of the mind,” Aoife interrupted. “I’m not such a one. Endless chanting, learning songs I’ll never have the chance to sing before an appreciative audience. It drives me to despair. And what do I care for all those law-tracts from days gone by?”

  “You are a gifted harper,” Sárán reminded her. “Would you abandon your talent for the way of the sword?”

  “A warrior is not forbidden to take up the harp for their own entertainment,” she pointed out. “And I don’t want to just sing songs about the valorous deeds of others. I want to live to hear songs sung about me.”

  “No one has ever been permitted to leave the Druid Circle to take up the blade,” her brother told her flatly. “You are wasting your time wishing for such a thing.”

  “Many a seasoned fighter has left the Warrior Circle for the Draoi path,” she countered.

  “That is a natural progression,” Sárán explained loftily. “It’s a sign of maturity and wisdom for a warrior to move into the Druid Circle and abandon the foolishness of fighting.”

  “Let’s go,” Mahon interceded, tired of their bickering. “It’ll be dark by the time we reach the caves. We can ta
lk about this on the way.”

  Sárán turned to the Danaan and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Be silent!” he stormed. “You are not worthy of this discussion. You are neither a Druid nor of the Fir-Bolg blood. You will not interrupt the conversation of your betters.”

  “Don’t rebuke Mahon!” Aoife protested angrily. “He’s done nothing to offend you!”

  “He’s the one who’s led you to this foolish behavior,” Sárán shot back. “If you hadn’t lost your silly heart to him you would not have fallen under his influence. I can see now your teacher has been too lenient with you. I will speak to Dalan when we return to the settlement. I’m sure he’ll willingly remedy that situation.”

  “Dalan’s away in the east looking for some Draoi master,” Aoife jeered. “Why don’t you go off after him?”

  Sárán didn’t dignify this with a reply. He turned up his lip in a sneer then turned his back on his sister to climb over the wall.

  “Brother,” Lom called, touching his twin on the shoulder, “will you not wait and journey with us?”

  Sárán spun around and looked his twin coldly in the eye. “You should have been taking more care of her. She is not a child any longer who can roam the hills to her heart’s desire. It may be fine for you lads to spend your days playing at mock fights, but she is a Druid in training. Druid song-makers keep the traditions of our people alive. She should be at home tending to her duties and studying the law-tracts.”

  He turned his face to Aoife to make sure his words touched her.

  “We are the guardians of our people’s memory. We make the songs that praise or ridicule those of the Warrior Circle. It is clear which is the nobler profession.”

  He turned back to his twin brother and began climbing over the wall, all the while speaking. “You will not interfere with her education any more. Do you understand?”

  Lom nodded, even though he did not understand his brother’s anger. In the next instant Sárán had leaped the wall and was gone, leaving behind him an uncomfortable silence.

  Mahon, Aoife and Lom stood for a while watching him make his steady way down the hill. At length his green cloak passed out of sight behind the bushes near the spring.