The King of Sleep (42 page)

This was his first real experience of the dreaming state that older Druids taught their students about. And though he often convinced himself of his worthiness, this was the first time he'd truly felt as though he was suited to his vocation. There were realms within
his mind to be explored. The seed of excitement had germinated in his soul. The real adventure was only just beginning for him.

Once inside the cave they soon found their way back to their fire. It was burning brightly, tended by unseen hands while they were gone. Beside the little blaze was stacked a small pile of dry driftwood, gathered perhaps from the shores of the lake.

Neither of them commented on this. It occasioned no more than a questioning glance between them. Aoife and Sárán each had other thoughts to occupy their minds.

B
ROCAN RAN ON DOWN THE PASSAGE UNTIL HE
thought it imprudent to continue. He didn't want to stray too far from the chamber where he'd left Máel Máedóc. The old man was frail and the journey into this dark damp place was obviously more than his body could take. The redcap brew must have strained the Druid's stamina to breaking point.

Brocan stopped in the middle of the passage and held his torch high to light the way ahead. But there was no sign that the corridor might lead him to Eber Finn. In the distance he plainly heard the roaring of water, which he decided must be a massive underground river. Máel Máedóc had mentioned that he intended to bathe in a sacred river before he passed over.

Brocan scratched his head and gave up. It was better to be at the old man's side, he told himself. There was nothing to be gained by rushing around alone in the dark.

He turned sharply on his heel and suddenly glimpsed a flash of brilliant golden light. He shook his head in disbelief and wondered if the seeing brew was affecting his judgment. Just when he had convinced himself his eyes were playing tricks on him he saw another flicker of brilliant light. This was rapidly followed by a shot of red that momentarily illuminated the entire passage as far as he could see.

His first thought was that Máel Máedóc was in danger. He drew his sword and, torch held out before him, retreated back up the corridor to where he'd left the old Druid. At last he caught the faint flicker of firelight which marked the entrance to the chamber where Máel Máedóc would be waiting.

Brocan's pack was still there and the small blaze he'd kindled for the Druid was still alight. But to his horror the old man was nowhere to be seen.

“Máel Máedóc!” he called, and his voice echoed back to him many times before he realized it was probably a mistake to make so much noise. He didn't want to draw the attention of the folk who'd taken his companion. His instincts told him their intentions weren't good.

It was then he noticed many footprints in the mud. Two sets were deeper than the others, which could only mean this pair were bearing a weight, very likely the body of the old Druid.

Brocan tightened his grip on his sword and followed the tracks back up the corridor until he came at length to a low entrance he hadn't noticed as they'd
passed by earlier. He bent double and poked his torch through. Then he stuck his head in to see what lay beyond.

It was another passage, though much narrower and lower than any he'd experienced so far. But he pressed on, unwilling to desert the Druid in what might prove to be the last hours of his life.

This passage led into a chamber which was a crossroads where five corridors met. The floor was flat stone so when he tried to find footprints it was in vain. He ran to each opening and listened carefully. But none of the passages was willing to divulge its secrets. In frustration he returned to the center of the room and held his torch low, waiting in silence. It was only a short while before his patience was rewarded.

From the stone corridor to his left he caught the tiniest reflected glimmer of a far-off red flash. His heart pounded in his chest in relief and he was off as fast as he dared on the uneven ground. This passage was wide and the ceiling high, so he held his torch aloft with his blade thrust forward in case he should suddenly stumble upon the owners of the footprints. An unfamiliar incense caught in his nostrils as he passed under a low arch and soon the cave was filled with thick sweet smoke.

The pounding in his heart was immediately eased by the heady blend of fragrances that washed over him. But his warrior instincts were aroused and he was not about to let his guard down for a moment.

Brocan's progress slowed almost to a halt because
the smoke became so thick he couldn't see but a few paces in front of him. He cursed the incense under his breath as he waved his sword about in an attempt to clear the air. At last he had to stop. The smoke had filled his lungs and he was having severe difficulty breathing. He placed the point of his blade on the floor to rest on the weapon and the soft ground gave way a little.

As the king looked down and noticed the mud beneath his boots, a hand fell upon his shoulder from behind. The king nearly jumped out of his skin with fright.

He spun around, attempting to raise his sword to defend himself. But before he could bring the blade to bear he felt hands upon the weapon twisting it in his grip until he had to let go. It was suddenly whipped away out of his reach and he uttered a cry of despair.

Before he knew what was happening, something thumped him just below his rib cage. The blow knocked the wind out of him and he dropped his torch, which seemed to extinguish itself before it even hit the ground.

The cave was plunged into utter darkness and Brocan sank to his knees in pain, trying to regain his precious breath. The air was not so smoky close to the floor, so he was soon breathing more easily, but there was a thick sweat on his brow that dripped down his cheeks in rivulets.

Blinded by the subterranean night he was at a distinct disadvantage. Whoever had attacked him obviously
didn't need much light to navigate by. These strange folk, whoever they were, probably had highly sensitive eyes from generations of dwelling in the dark.

Mustering all his concentration, Brocan sat still to listen. And as he did so his whole body began to shiver. All around him he could hear little whispers, some light-hearted, some deeply malevolent.

“Who's there?” the king gasped.

An abrupt silence fell over the room. Then there was a groan which he thought was very likely the old Druid slipping in and out of consciousness.

“My friend is dying,” Brocan pleaded. “If you have any compassion at all, please let me comfort him in his last moments.”

He hadn't finished the final syllable of his entreaty when the chamber filled with a blinding red light that stung his eyes. He shaded his face from the brightness as a hundred voices spoke to him at once in a language he'd never heard before.

Brocan curled up on the floor in the mud. Every time he tried to look up a great pain struck at his eyes like spear points prodding at a boar. Even through the cover of his hands the light was painfully bright.

Hands searched his tunic, relieving him of his short black meat-knife and the ceremonial bronze axe he'd tucked into his belt.

“Let me see your faces!” he cried, and instantly the light died away.

Cautiously Brocan raised his head. There was but
one lamp burning in the cave now. It was held by a tall woman with a misshapen head who grinned like a demented child. All around her were gathered the most peculiar faces Brocan could ever have imagined. Some were scarred; others sported boils or hideous sores that oozed pus. Yet others were incredibly beautiful, with long features that seemed unnaturally distorted but nonetheless extremely appealing.

Their dress was all of one color—a dark green that blended remarkably with their surroundings. The cloth was unevenly dyed so it resembled the rough texture of the rocks in this part of the cave.

None bore any weapons that he could see. That eased his mind a little. But there was a threat implied in the way they leaned forward at him with their drooling lips and wild eyes.

“Who are you?” the king managed to stammer at last.

Every one of the strangers took a frightened step back when he spoke. Then the chamber was full of their unrecognizable speech as they all tried to talk at once. It was the woman with the torch who finally silenced this cacophony with a high-pitched screech. Everyone lowered their heads in deference to her words and several touched the hem of her clothes or kissed her hands in reassurance. Clearly this woman was highly respected, perhaps even feared, by most of these strangers.

The woman moved forward, her gait twisting her body awkwardly. Her left leg was shorter than the
other so her mass was thrown off center as she moved. Four paces from the crouching king she stopped and drew a deep strained breath into her lungs. When this hissing ceased she raised her right hand and with her three flat fingers spread wide tapped her chest lightly. Then she spoke a word in her guttural language.

Brocan frowned as he tried to repeat the two syllables. A distant memory stirred in him as he pronounced the foreign word over and over. And then at last recognition swept over him and he spoke the word in shock.

“Fomor?” he muttered, disbelieving.

The woman turned the corners of her lips up as saliva dripped from her mouth. Then she stood to her full height, placed her deformed hand on her chest again and cried out in triumph.

“Fomor!”

Dalan's hands were so tightly bound behind his back that his fingers had turned numb. He was exhausted after having walked so far along the slippery river bank. He glanced across at Eber Finn, who struggled to smile reassuringly at his companion through a bloodied lip.

Neither dared speak lest their captors dish out another brutal beating. The Gaedhal had taken the brunt of the assault at the foot of the cliff. Eber didn't have the Quicken Brew flowing in his veins so he was looking the worse for his resistance. Dalan had also
been given a good thrashing but he'd quickly healed. There was no outward sign he'd been punched senseless to the ground while the king leaped to his aid. After their capture they had trudged for what seemed hours with few rest stops, many beatings and no water to moisten their tongues.

They didn't understand a word that had been said to them by the warriors who'd taken them into custody. And if they'd been disoriented before the fight at the foot of the cliff, they were now totally lost.

At last the party of twelve guards and two prisoners rounded a bend in the river. Immediately they climbed a steep stairway cut into the rocks and then stepped onto a wide flat platform chiseled from the dark gray stone.

Dalan stopped, frozen by shock at the scene laid out before him. He shook his head, believing this was a hallucination brought on by the seeing herbs.

Eber Finn was struck speechless at the spectacle. His feet continued to march on but his mouth was wide open and his eyes round with amazement.

On a cliff face not unlike the one they'd descended a thousand tiny yellow lights shone out in the half-darkness. Each one was a dwelling carved into the rock with a narrow path outside the door. The paths all converged along the bottom of the cliff to form a wide road. And this was the route they were following toward the city that hung over the underground lake.

“By the breath of Danu!” Dalan gasped in awe, and he felt a hand across the back of his head.

“Who are these people?” Eber whispered, but the Brehon nodded sharply to silence him.

A big brute of a man with a massive jaw and a skull that swept back almost to a point at his crown grabbed the king by the shoulder. He grunted a few unintelligible but obviously threatening words and Eber turned away to avoid the foul stench of his rotten teeth. The warrior pushed the Gaedhal on toward the under-ground citadel. Eber stumbled for a few steps but soon regained his feet, glaring in fury at the guard.

All about them now were hundreds of figures silhouetted against the doors and windows of their homes. The entire city was turning out to get a glimpse of the two prisoners. Before they'd come to the main crossroads which led to the town the guards halted and Eber and Dalan were led down a side road into a small cave. As soon as they were inside, a massive wooden portcullis descended from the ceiling on a rope and pulley.

They were trapped.

The Brehon and his companion were left to stare out through gaps in the gate at their captors who now busied themselves kindling a fire and keeping onlookers at bay. Eber slid down to his knees and sighed in defeat.

“Why are they keeping us here?” Dalan asked under his breath.

Then a man spoke up from the rear of the cave. “Because the Fomor never allow strangers within their settlements.”

The Brehon spun around and a familiar warrior arrayed in the manner of the Fir-Bolg stepped from the shadows.

“Brocan?”

“It is,” the king confirmed.

“How long have you been here?” Dalan pressed.

“An hour or two. They set upon Máel Máedóc as he was resting and dragged him away.”

“Why weren't you at his side to protect him?” Eber snapped.

“The old Druid sent me off in search of you,” Brocan replied sharply. “If it hadn't been for that I might have been able to hold them off. But I would have been forced to yield before long—there were simply too many of them.”

“What was that you said about the Fomor?” the Brehon cut in.

“These folk who dwell in this underground town are Fomorians. Perhaps the last remnants of that people on this Earth.”

Dalan put a hand to his chin and shook his head. “There haven't been any Fomor in these parts since the time of Balor of the Evil Eye,” he scoffed. “How can you be sure?”

“That's what they call themselves,” Brocan shot back. “Their queen told me so. And I seem to remember a great tribe of owls who attacked my people in a forest not so many winters ago. They were Fomorians, weren't they?”