Free The King of Sleep by Caiseal Mor

argued that to arm for war was a necessity his people could not afford to neglect. He called for the building of a fleet of war-carts and easily won over the majority of elders to his cause. They all remembered the Battle of Sliabh Mis and believed that the Danaan treaty had to be guarded with weapons that could not be challenged by a people who seemed impervious to swords and arrows.
    Máel Máedóc had not stood up then to voice his concerns, having no good reason for his misgivings. It was only his intuition which led him to question the wisdom of building these chariots, for he knew no lang ever equipped his warriors unless he meant them to fight.
    The Druid was suddenly woken from his meditations by the sound of yelling and shouts of delight. He lifted his steely blue eyes and drew back his cowl to watch the young king put his war-cart through its paces.
    Even though he suspected Eber’s motives, he had to admit the king was gifted at the storyteller’s art. His words at the council had stirred the chieftains, and by the last evening of the gathering they were all calling for chariots like as many dogs baying at the moon. And the king had granted their demands after a short consideration, as if he were bowing to popular acclaim.
    â€œHe’s a fine charioteer,” Méaraigh observed once more, his voice full of admiration as Eber charged ecstatically around the oat field in his war-cart like a child chasing dandelion feathers on the breeze.
    â€œHe’s a clever man,” Máel Máedóc countered, and the blacksmith frowned.
    The Druid lifted his eyebrows so that deep ruts formed across his brow, and reminded himself to keep his opinions to himself. He knew that if he spoke out about his fears it would mean denouncing Eber to his kinfolk. And tradition dictated that the denunciation of a king must be in the form of a special poem addressed to everyone of importance in the king’s household. Such a verse had to be specifically composed to ridicule the recipient. It was known as a satire.
    Kings, queens and war-leaders all through the generations had been kept in check by the power of poetry. But a satire was not something to be undertaken lightly. Máel Máedóc quickly determined to try to reason with Eber just one more time.
    If the king refused to see sense, then and only thenwould he create a satire to shake the chieftains and the elders from their complacency. Eber did not mean to use his weaponry to defend his people, he meant to use it to go to war.
    â€œThere has been too much war already,” the Druid told himself under his breath.
    But his voice was loud enough for both the black-smith and the wheelwright to hear him. The pair of them coughed uncomfortably but the Druid didn’t notice. He was rattling through his mind, searching for a way out of this dilemma that would preserve King Eber’s dignity and diminish the threat of war. Deep in his heart Máel Máedóc knew Eber would easily win any debate in the Council of Chieftains. The king had gained their ears with flattery and fine deeds. And there were not enough Brehon judges among the Gaedhal folk to enforce a judgment by consensus of the Great Council of Druidry. Because warriors were given priority, only a dozen trained Druids had set sail from Iber with the invasion force. Originally it had been proposed that more would set out once the new land was firmly held, but only a handful had made the journey since the treaty was agreed upon.
    Máel Máedóc knew Amergin the Bard would not support any criticism of his brother Eber, and as the most learned judge in the land he had the last word on any matters brought to trial. So there was nothing to be gained by bringing any charge of unjustified war-making against Eber. It would simply be dismissed out of hand.
    The old counselor briefly considered trying to win over each chieftain in turn, but there was no time for protracted negotiations.