King of Sleep

No cloud showed a face in the darkening sky. The old fisherman looked up as he gathered the nets from his leather curragh at the seashore. The western horizon glowed red-gold and he knew from experience there would be no rain tomorrow.He ventured a silent prayer to the Goddess Danu that she would see fit to gift him with a storm. Not a full-fledged tempest, just a squall with water on its fingertips to wash the land clean and entice the fish closer to shore.He turned his attention to the handful of sea creatures he'd dragged from their watery home. His nimble fingers sorted the catch and he counted under his breath as each one fell into his basket.The fisherman had tucked them all away for the journey back to his family when a strange scent wafted in on the faint breeze. It was not salt, nor the briny rotting seaweed that had washed up on the shore. This was something familiar yet out of place.In the same instant he felt a soft thudding on the sand beneath his toes and he glanced over his shoulder at the rocks above. But there was no sign of anyone so he turned back to his nets.But a sailor's instincts are impeccable. And this old man had been going to sea longer than anyone he knew. A nagging urgency tugged at his attention and he looked up again. Almost immediately he spotted a group of strangers running barefoot along the beach toward him. Their clothes were strange, their faces fierce and they all carried long silver swords."Gaedhals!" the fisherman gasped.Without a thought for his own safety the old man drew a leaf-shaped bronze knife from his belt and stood up straight, waiting for the strangers to come on him. There was no doubt in his mind from their jeering laughter and yelping cries that they meant to take his precious catch.A warrior with long golden hair flowing freely behind him sprinted out ahead of the others. He called out that he'd settle with the fisherman and his comrades could just sit back and watch.But this old fisherman had not always farmed the sea. He'd been a warrior in his youth before he took to boats and nets. And he was a proud Fir-Bolg determined not to submit to some boastful foreigner.The stranger ran directly at him but the fisherman dodged aside, tripped him up and slashed his knife across the warrior's face. The man cried out in agony, dropped his sword and crawled around in the sand until he found the sea water. Then he sat washing his wound while his comrades came running over.The fisherman counted a dozen well-armed Gaedhals and knew he didn't stand a chance against them. He began to regret his hasty attack.The warriors laughed heartily at the old man's misfortune as they swiftly surrounded him, but only one among them dared to come within reach of his knife. This Gaedhal was broadly built but no more than thirty summers old. His long brown hair was carefully combed so it looked perfectly clean, an unusual style for a warrior."Throw down your weapon," he commanded. "We're going to feast on your fish tonight and there's nothing you can do about it. So you might as well stand away and save yourself a beating."The golden-haired warrior who'd led the pack recovered himself at these words and stood up, picking up his blade in a rage. With blood streaming down his face he charged through the circle of his comrades, pushing them out of the way."Stay where you are, Conan," the warrior with the brushed hair bellowed. "I don't want it said my brother wasted his foolish life for a boatload of fishes.""Half a boatload," the old man corrected him defiantly.The warrior caught the fisherman's eye and couldn't help feeling some degree of admiration for the old man. "Half a boatload," he smiled."He's right," a woman pleaded, grasping Conan by the shoulder. "Listen to your elder brother.""Shut up, Mughain," Conan shouted, blind with rage. "There'll be a bitter brew in the mead barrel before I'm bested by aMor, Caiseal is the author of 'King of Sleep' with ISBN 9780743424394 and ISBN 0743424395.