The King of Sleep (5 page)

“My people are not foreigners in this land,” he snapped back. “We won the sovereignty of this island in open combat. This is our country now and your folk made a treaty to withdraw behind the veil of enchantment. You're trespassing in the country of
Eirinn, ruled over by King Eber Finn, son of Queen Scota.”

She gave no reply. All her attention was suddenly focused on a point further down the hillside. The Gaedhal frowned as he turned to look behind him but he couldn't discern what had distracted her.

“I am Aoife, daughter of Brocan, King of the Fir-BoIg of the Burren,” she cried, Iobhar still squinting to follow her gaze. “My father made no treaty with the Gaedhal. If you don't believe me, you can ask my brother and my betrothed. They'll be here shortly.”

All Iobhar's jubilation departed as he beheld two armed warriors sprinting over a field toward the foot of the hill. A third man followed some twenty paces or so behind them. The Gaedhal would soon be out-numbered.

He took a full draught of air into his lungs, shook the long brown wisps of hair from his face, then let out another battle cry. His voice echoed down the hillside, passing from boulder to boulder like a hurled rock bouncing down the slope.

No sooner had the call left his mouth than Iobhar took up the chase again. By the time Aoife had disappeared over the lip of the ruined walls he had gained much valuable ground. Only twenty paces lay between them.

Near a jumble of stones that had once been a stout defensive wall, Iobhar felt his own foot slip on the grass. He fell hard on his elbows, nearly losing a grip on his blade as he did so. Then he realized how stupid
he was. Aoife would likely be waiting for him to emerge at the same spot where she had clambered over the wall. It would then be a simple matter for her to strike him down. Iobhar thought a moment then decided to surprise her instead.

In the next second he was scurrying quietly around to the far side of the wall where the stones were not as high and the climb into the hill fort not quite so treacherous. His hands were cut and grazed from the strenuous pursuit up the hill; his legs ached for rest. Below were two well-armed warriors making good speed on the steep ground. Yet Iobhar knew he still had a slim chance of victory, provided he was swift about it. To tarry too long would be disastrous.

“Aoife!” one of the young warriors called out from below. “Don't try to take him on by yourself.”

She did not reply.

Alone on the flat expanse of grass where her fore-fathers had constructed a great defensive work the young woman gazed steadily at the section of wall before her, awaiting the Gaedhal. The light breeze teased her red ringlets.

Aoife stilled her breath to listen but she could hear no sound of the enemy's approach. She gripped her sword in readiness for the first swing the very moment he showed his head above the stones.

Around her stood the blackened shells of ruined buildings, silent ghosts with empty eyes and lonely spirits. All this destruction had been wrought by the Gaedhals, by Eber Finn who called himself the King of
the South. He and his kinfolk had brought this misfortune on her people.

Aoife felt righteous anger rise in her. And for the first time in three winters her heart desired nothing but vengeance. She cast her mind back to the night when this hill fort had been attacked and saw again the leaping flames devouring timber and thatch. It was a cowardly, skulking assault on her home. And these empty walls were testimony to the treacherous ways of the foreigners. That night had changed her life and those of all her people forever.

“You won't catch me!” she hissed at her assailant, though she still couldn't see him. I'd gladly die before I'd fall into the hands of a Gaedhal.”

The wind picked up and whipped at her tunic with cold fingertips. Aoife calmly raised her blade above her, set her feet firmly apart and bent her knees, ready to spring forward to the fight. She had taken no more than three breaths when a rock dislodged from its place in the wall behind her and tumbled down the hill. The young woman turned sharply just in time to see Iobhar leap over the ruined defense and stand with his blade pointed directly toward her throat.

“Throw down your weapon,” he demanded, “and I promise you'll not be harmed.”

Aoife's answer was short, sharp and direct. The sword above her head swung down as she retreated one short pace. Her bronze blade sang as it struck the strong foreign steel. Then, with all the grace of a dancer, the young woman spun around on her heel,
dragging her weapon whistling through the air.

The Gaedhal hadn't expected her to offer this much resistance. After the long chase he thought she'd be exhausted and unwilling to face him down alone.

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 protested.

“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.”