Read Online The King of Sleep by Caiseal Mor - Free Book Online Page A

companions. And if that should come to pass I will need some sweet memories to dull the edge of eternal imprisonment.”
    Lochie touched her face with his fingers, stroking the soft skin of her cheek. His eyes were full of wonder as if the experience were completely new to him.
    â€œWe will not fail,” he assured her in a deep, confident tone.
    Then Isleen and Lochie, the last two Watchers of the nine, locked in an embrace. And for a while put away all their cares.

Chapter 3
    A FINELY WROUGHT TWO-WHEELED CHARIOT ROLLED smoothly along behind the proud black mare. The warhorse neighed as she shook her head nervously. She hadn’t worn a harness for nearly four cycles of the seasons. She constantly turned her noble head, striving to catch a glimpse of King Eber Finn at the reins. He had raised her from a foal and his presence reassured her greatly.
    The black mare was the king’s favorite warhorse. A special ship had been sent back to the homeland to fetch her once the warriors had been landed. She was a powerful animal and more than up to the task of pulling this flimsy vehicle.
    By the time they had nearly reached the line of trees at the far edge of the field, the mare was much more relaxed. The king decided to let her have her head to test the strength and maneuverability of his new vehicle.
    With all the caution of a seasoned charioteer, Eber slowly let out some slack upon the right rein while pulling back gently on the left. His warhorse understood immediately the meaning of this almost imperceptible change in pressure on the bit. And she knew that if she ignored the request it could suddenly turn to cruel command.
    Eber hummed with satisfaction as his chariot wheeled to the left in a great arc. In the first joyous throes of a new acquisition he laughed out loud and then began whistling through his teeth with an earpiercing intensity. With both reins securely held in his left hand, he lifted the whip in his right. The handle of this instrument was adorned with bright red feathers taken from a bird native to the homeland of his people. In triumph he waved the whip high in the air.
    Far away on the brow of a hill, three figures waited for his return. The lame blacksmith sat securely in a leather harness strapped to the back of his old friend and constant companion, the blind wheelwright and chariot maker. Beside them stood an old man with gray hair and a long beard. He was dressed in the dark blue robes of a Druid coxmselor and he held a finely carved staff of honey-gold hazelwood in his thin bony hands.
    None of them had the slightest notion what was on the mind of their king. To them he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. But in truth, Eber Finn was also taking this opportunity to give expression to his frustration.
    That morning he’d received a messenger from his brother Eremon, King of the North. The warrior had addressed him as Eber of the Leth Moga, the province of the servant. This was the name the northerners gave to the southern kingdom of the Gaedhals. The messenger had referred to his own king as ruler of Leth Cuinn, the province of the chieftain. The inference was clear. Eremon considered himself of a higher status than his brother. If this were not bad enough, the northern king had also demanded taxes from the people over whom Eber ruled. The king raised his whip again and the red feathers fluttered above his head.
    â€œThe king is signaling to us,” Méaraigh the black-smith whispered into his friend Tuargain’s ear. “He’s turning the chariot around with remarkable skill. Surely he’s a sight to behold dressed in his scarlet tunic and his dark green cloak. There never was a king like him. Not even in the legends of the ancient days.”
    â€œHe’s already surpassed his father,” the wheelwright declared. “And Mil was certainly the greatest warrior who ever lived. Do you think the king is happy with our work?”
    But Eber was too far off for