Free The King of Sleep by Caiseal Mor Page A

Eber’s war plans were far advanced. Twenty war-carts had been delivered. The harvest would soon be in, and the warriors would be freed from all other work.
    â€œI would speak with our king alone,” the old man stated out loud.
    â€œYou’ll have your chance in a moment,” the black-smith replied. “Eber Finn has turned his chariot around.”
    Máel Máedóc shaded his eyes from the sun and watched as Eber brought his war-cart back to where the three men were waiting for him. The chariot jumped at every uneven patch of ground. The king whooped with excitement and drove the horse on at a reckless pace.
    The Druid tried to read the expressions on the faces of the smith and the wheelwright. But it was impossible to tell whether either man had any reservations about their king. Máel Máedóc wondered how they would respond to his satire. He didn’t want to make any enemies among the craftspeople. He would have to rely on their support if the chieftains decided to ignore him.
    As these thoughts and doubts filled the Druid’s head, Eber Finn drew his chariot into a tight circle. The mare frothed at the mouth, wild-eyed and sweaty. The oat field was torn in a great sweeping arc where the cart’s wheels ripped into the soil. EberFinn pulled the chariot in dangerously close to the three observers, chewing up earth, grain and stalks. Then, with a few words of encouragement to his beloved mare, he brought the vehicle to a harness-jangling halt.
    The wheels had no sooner stopped turning than the king leaped out from behind the reins, gasping with the thrill of the ride. He walked a few steps on unsteady feet then turned around to admire his new possession, to marvel at its craftsmanship. And to enjoy the powerful rush of excitement that still pumped hot blood through his veins.
    Eber whistled through his teeth as he imagined the effect a hundred of these war-carts would have upon an enemy. Then he turned to the wheelwright and nodded with satisfaction.
    â€œThat is the finest chariot I have ever had the good fortune to drive,” the king enthused. “You are truly a master craftsman, Tuargain of the Skilled Hand. And I pass my compliments to those who work with you. You have some talented apprentices under your guidance.”
    â€œThank you, my lord,” Tuargain replied as he attempted a flattered bow, so overcome by the comment that he forgot the blacksmith was strapped into his harness and nearly lost his balance.
    Méaraigh held on tight until his knuckles whitened. He narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He was clearly affronted at such high praise for the chariot-maker without any mention of the ironwork that had gone into building the vehicle.
    â€œTruly your reputation is well deserved,” the king added.
    Méaraigh coughed. The veins on his thick neck stood out and his great round face began to redden with indignation. Then he reached down with one hand to move one of his withered legs in the harness. It was a simple enough gesture but in the abrupt movement there was a hint that the blacksmith was about to withdraw his labor from this project in protest.
    Máel Máedóc held his breath, hoping the man would find the strength to resist Eber. He knew such a move would be inspired by pride and nothing less. But he didn’t care. Méaraigh and Tuargain were the only two people capable of constructing the warcarts. If one of them withdrew his participation, that would be an end to any threat of war.
    The blacksmith drew a breath and opened his mouth to speak.
    But Eber held up his hand to silence the man. He knew the value of flattery as well as he knew the damage any omission might do to his cause.
    â€œThe chariot harness is both a work of beauty and a sturdy companion I can trust. You are to be congratulated, Méaraigh. You’ve done a remarkable job with it. Surely you are the most renowned blacksmith in the whole island of Eirinn and