Oracle's Curse: Book Three of The Celtic Prophecy Page 4

  “You could have injured yourself further. At least you landed on your good leg.”

  Andy eased her down to sit on the cot. His hand went to her hip and Maggie froze. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Maggie scoffed.

  With a hand on her shoulder, he lifted her legs and pivoted her to position them on the cot. “I’m trying to see if you did, in fact, hurt yourself. Lie back.”

  Beads of sweat formed on her brow, knowing that if he wanted to hurt her there was little she could do to stop him.

  He probed her hip joint and knee in a professional manner, but when he took hold to bend the leg, the skirt rose up. Maggie quickly balled the fabric in her fists, shoving it down to cover her nakedness.

  He reached down to the foot of the cot to drag up the blanket and gave it to her. “Arrange it however you want to preserve your modesty,” he said a little sarcastically as he sat back on his heels. “It’s in your best interest for me to check it out, though. The doctor’s been paid a shitload of money to hang around, but the agreement ends tonight.”

  “What happens after tonight?”

  “We won’t be seeing him again, for one thing.”

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “Nothing for the time being, until you’re healed.”

  “And then?”

  Andy sighed and rose to his feet. Looking down at Maggie, “Me and Carolyn are to keep you here, fed and hydrated.”

  Maggie knew she was pushing it, trying to extract information from him. She could tell that he was shutting down, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Until when?”

  He strolled away to the far side of the room and righted the upturned commode. Now that Maggie knew what was there, she could easily make out the shapes. He leaned back against the well wall, crossing his ankles. “That’s for Cormac to say. He has not let on what his timetable is.”

  He must have shifted his weight and the stress was too much on the old bricks. It started with bits of loose mortar pinging off the bricks, and then the upper bricks caved in under him. Maggie reacted, but she was too slow only managing to move to a sitting position.

  The tumbling bricks echoed as they hit the interior wall, until finally splashing at the bottom. He barely caught himself before he tumbled after and looked back to see that the first three rows of brick on that side crumbled away into the bottom of the well. They both exhaled simultaneously; Andy ran his hands through his hair probably thankful not to have gone over, and Maggie holding her chest relieved that her one hope of getting out, albeit a remote one, was still alive.

  Andy backed away, “Holy shit that was close! Fucking creepy-ass well,” more to himself than Maggie. He was visibly shaking when he approached to sit next to her.

  “Are you okay?” Maggie felt she had to act concerned if the ruse of getting him to eventually help her was to succeed.

  “Yes, of course. I should have known better. This whole place is falling down.”

  “What the hell is it doing inside?”

  “My guess? That it was originally an outside well, but with the various additions to the house, it was enclosed. Probably was a relief to the owners to not have to go outside to retrieve water, but maybe the house had running water already. Eh, who knows! Do I look like a historian to you?”

  Maggie just shrugged, and her stomach growled.

  “Where has my brain been? You’re hungry. How could you not be? You’ve been here three days.”

  That sobered her. Three days. Three. And she was still alive. Had her wounds taken care of. Fed, or would be momentarily. But three days—hope took a hit. The more time that passed the less likely rescue would be made from outside. She needed Andy. She needed to make him help her.

  A bottle of green tea and a plastic-sealed, convenience store sandwich were handed to her. “If you’re still hungry there’s more where that came from.”

  Maggie nodded, ripping open the wrapper with her teeth. The sandwich was delicious, though she had previously avoided those sandwiches before, not finding their presentation appealing. A second was placed on the bed next to her, and she opened that one before she had swallowed the last bite of the first. She guzzled the tea, and only half registered the fact that she was making gluttonous noises. She didn’t care. Finally, she sat back and burped, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Are you done? Do you want another sandwich? A drink?”

  “I’m good, thank you.”

  Andy took the wrappers, stuffed them in the empty bottle, and threw it in the well. He turned to her and shrugged, “Nothing but net.”

  Maggie had thought he was older than she, she couldn’t tell from the full beard and poor light, but perhaps he wasn’t as old as she thought he was.

  He went to the doorway, and stuck his neck through, keeping a hand on the wall. “Cormac, when you’re done. She’s ready for you.”

  Chapter 5

  The crowd parted and a horse was brought forward for Alex. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow because this beast was one of Cernunnos’ own herd: twenty-two hands, sleek, midnight black, red eyes, and razor hooves. He could feel those hooves as if the wounds had been just inflicted, trampling him, crushing bone and organ before the last blow that crushed his skull. When was that? A dozen resurrections ago? They made a lasting impression even though the wounds had healed, and the scars long since vanished. It had no ill-will towards him, but Alex remembered. He squashed down any hesitation and swung up into the saddle. Divine or not, the horse had to know who the master was, else he’d be thrown and actually might end up trampled again.

  Alex looked around at those assembled, reflecting on the choices that brought him to this very moment in time. He couldn’t help but feel that he would just complicate his life and make a veritable enemy in Ruadan by accepting Cernunnos’ invitation. How does one refuse a god, particularly the god to whom he is a bound slave? Alex had no choice but to acquiesce and deal with the fall out later.

  Cernunnos blew the horn, and Alex’s deific bloodlust responded, his sigils igniting. He felt the primal instincts of bear, wolf, leopard and hawk together, but he remained in human form. He fought the urge to run with the slaughs and hounds, to be part of the pack when they got the scent of their prey. The necessity of the chase, the exhilaration of running the prey to ground, the taste of the spurting blood sweetened with adrenaline; all was an aphrodisiac of immense proportions.

  While he still had the ability to reason, he chose to fight the pull of the animal, because once he gave over it would be hunt, gorge, mate, and sleep, in that order; and without Brenawyn…the thought of sex was unappealing.

  Two riders flanked him. “Welcome ta ye, Sinclair, first time on this side o’ the Hunt.” Edric clapped him on the shoulder. Pendragon, a man of few words, nodded.

  “Aye, thank ye, gentlemen, but I ha’ ye ken now that I remember e’ery instance where t’were yer blade that cut me down.”

  The two exchanged an anxious look, “Dae we ha’ ta settle this now ‘afore the chase, or would yer honor be abated if we were ta wait until after?”

  Amused and taken aback by their nervousness, Alex soothed, “Let us speak plain. I hold no ill will ta either o’ ye. In fact, t’is for what ye did that I should thank ye. It made me what I am.”

  “T’is good then.” Pendragon said. “Edric here likes the aftermath best methinks, for he indulges like the newly initiated e’en though he has been here longer than I. Stays the longest in the arms o’ the welcoming fold.”

  “Always a rebel, I am. Cannae resist the reckless abandon o’ those that would welcome home a conquering hero.”

  “Stop blathering on about yer conquests, old man. They dae that for the whole contingent, or are ye daft? Come on, man, ye ha’ ta know that their feeding off ye!”

  “Visited by the dearg due, are ye then?” Alex ascertained.

  Pendragon chuckled and punched Edric in the shoulder.

  Edric huffed and mumbled, “Aye, bu
t I am no’ the only one that partakes o’ their wares. They can glamour ta look like any bounteous beauty or,” he lowered his voice and leaned toward Pendragon, “a familiar sweet face.”

  If he had wanted a rise out of the man, the effect wasn’t apparent. He went on, “Besides, Arthur, here, his tastes differ greatly. Ye think that he’d like the battle o’ it considering,” he waved is arm in Pendragon’s direction, “e’erything; but nay, he likes the moments after the kill, after the blood has stopped flowing—says he likes the quietude.”

  This did get a rise out of Pendragon. “Ta each his own, Edric. I doonae feel I need ta explain myself ta ye, ol’ fool if e’er there was one, but mayhap Sinclair will ken what I am speaking o’. Ye’ve beaten yer foe, or ye’ve spilt yer seed inta yer woman, there is a moment, small though it may be, that a sort o’ exultant exhaustion washes o’er ye. In that instance there is nay thought o’ the next conquest, the next item on yer agenda. Ye are at peace.”

  “Yer a woman, Pendragon. A weeping, helpless woman!” Edric interjected. “Unfit for the Hunt. Next time I hope its ye who angers the Horned One. Mayhap, being prey will give ye the stones that ye seem ta be missing.”

  “Come at me, Edric. I’d make swift work o’ye.”

  Sensing the shift in atmosphere, Alex looked around and observed the slaughs and hounds stop and bay in unison. “Hold!”

  Edric took off, a battle cry screeching from his throat. But, Alex held out a hand to Pendragon. “I ken o’ what ye speak. We are alike, more than ye ken.” With that he kneed his horse into action, and took off in pursuit, bloodlust pumping in his veins.

  He leaned low over the pommel, letting the horse have the rein, relishing the wild abandon and reckless speed. They ate up the ground. There was an evident dominant hierarchy in the run pattern that only a trained eye could see. As King of the Hunt, Cernunnos sat astride the alpha horse, by far the largest of the herd. From his vantage point, Alex could tell quite a bit about its body language and what it communicated to the rest of the pack. The ears were constantly changing position, one ear cocked to the back listening for what was happening behind it, both back now listening to direction from his rider, then pinned back lunging to bite one of the others who pushed too close.

  Alex’s horse was bringing up the rear so his ears faced forward intent on the hunt, until Alex put his hand on the steed’s neck. He felt the shift in attention, the rise of hesitation, the ears twitched back and forth. The animal was confused; it was pulled in two different directions: the ingrained knowledge from the herd’s hierarchical pecking order and the introduction of the apex predator instinct. The new direction was one of dominance, heightened smell and sight, the Way of the Predator. It battled and won over the horse’s instinctual flight response, its primary defense, the first obstacle. It battered at the dominance conditioning, unraveling the herd mentality, the last of its resistance.

  The horse snorted and blew its answer finally, and Alex felt it give over to him allowing him to transfer the predator traits to it. He felt the horse’s stride lengthen with the smell of Ruadan burning in its olfactory glands. He felt its stomach growl at the traces of blood left from the struggle with Cernunnos. He felt its impatience as each hoof pounded into the earth.

  Alex was weak; he knew he shouldn’t give over to shifting himself, he knew he shouldn’t even have gone this far, to bask in the glory of the imminent kill. But while the memory of Brenawyn burned bright her importance to him faded in the moment. He was beast as the hunted, just as he was learning he was beast as the hunter.

  The horse threw its head in the air to get a better line of sight, knowing that the slaughs and the hounds were leading the group slightly astray. It chomped at the bit to take lead and run the quarry to ground without delay. Alex let it advance and overtake the nearest riders. Most were those of long-forgotten renown. Pendragon would be among them in Alex’s mind except for the stories told to him of the king’s exploits when he was just a boy; Edric, would be forgotten too, too, but for Alex’s propensity for liking rebellion stories.

  He briefly registered their look of alarm when he blew past them, intent on getting to the front of the brigade. He passed remnant slaughs and hounds that broke from the pack and mulled around, noses to the ground, intent on picking up the smell again. He squeezed his legs against the sides of the horse and took a tighter grip on the reins, seating himself more firmly for the disturbance in the gait as the horse trampled a hound too slow to get out of their way. A solitary cry punctuated the drone of the Hunt: the clinking of armament and saddle gear, the blowing of horses, the yips and whines of the dogs, but he drove on.

  He was drawing attention from the other hunters as he drew closer to the lead. They instinctually fell back wanting to stay clear of reprisals at so clear a breach of protocol. Alex urged the horse on, fueling its inner rage further, and the horse responded. Biting, kicking, and lunging, he made his way through the remainder of the herd to Cernunnos. The Horned One turned in time to see Alex advancing, and then craned his neck back to see the others give him wide berth. Cernunnos scowled at him. Alex had a vague recollection that it wasn’t a good sign, but his reasoning ability was greatly diminished by his bloodlust. The Hunt was now in Alex’s veins and would only be sated with spilt blood.

  They came to a break in the hedge on Alex’s left and the horse jumped the distance, breaking with the group. Ruadan was closer now, they both could smell him—the sweet nectar of the divine, a commonality amongst immortals, the smell of their sweat was part of their allure to mortals; and mixed with it was a minute measure of fear. Alex almost laughed aloud, Ruadan, the great Formorian, afraid? This emboldened Alex. Craning his neck to see the group in the distance, he couldn’t believe his luck. On his first Hunt he’d be the one to bring the quarry down. He raised his own battle cry, an amalgamation of apex predators, and broke through the tree line on Ruadan’ heels.

  Chapter 6

  As Sinclair escorted Brenawyn back to the tower room she couldn’t help but notice the guards in tow.

  “Am I to be kept under watch?”

  “Aye, yer movements will unfortunately ha’ ta be limited. First, ta keep ye out o’ Liam’s circle. His wife, his daughter, his friends; he’s made a home here and I’ll no’ ha’ ye upsetting the Keep by yer presence.”

  “But I’ve said I will not!”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “Ye’ve said, but a woman’s jealousy is another matter.”

  “If you were to say angry, resentful, humiliated, then maybe you’d have an argument.” Brenawyn walked on considering, “And afraid. I’m afraid of him definitely—but jealous—not that. She can have him.”

  “And learning that he gave another woman a child, whilst yer own was…lost?”

  She swiveled and glared at him, slamming her hands on his chest to bar him from going further, to stop picking at her insecurities. “How dare you!”

  She should not have done it. She was sure that she could handle any ramifications for the slight, but she wasn’t ready for his reaction. He covered her hands giving them a reassuring squeeze, and his eyes, so like his brother’s, spoke the pity he felt for her.

  “Even then, yer not jealous?” He lifted a hand and wiped away a tear that rolled down her face. “Nay, my lady, ye cannae control yer emotions with me, and I mean ye no ill will. I didnae mention it ta get a rise out o’ ye.”

  Brenawyn scoffed.

  “Or ta force ye ta dae something unwise.”

  “He has a lot of friends here?”

  “He is well-liked, hard-working, and a braw fighter. I ha’ nay complaints.”

  “Then why don’t you dismiss me out of hand? Take his side?”

  “I didnae get ta where I am by just taking how things look ta be on the surface. Each o’ us has two sides, or more with some, but ta simplify matters let’s just say it’s two for the purposes o’ this conversation. A public self that ye allow other people ta see, because like it or no’ we need ta live in group
s for shelter, safety, disbursement o’ jobs, and the like. I’ll get back ta this later, but life is hard. Many don’t make it long. Sickness, starvation, invasion, and even the weather seem like they’re waiting just over the horizon with Finvarra o’ old, the God of Death, ta claim the next soul. So we make compromises ta fit in. More times than nay, I believe because I am an optimist, ye see, that the public side reflects the private beliefs. This is just supposition though, because I cannae, nor ye, nor even the Oracles can with any surety, deign what is in someone’s heart. I cannae tell what lies between a man and a woman.”

  “That’s still true in my ti—I mean, where I’m from.”

  He raised an eyebrow, but must have decided to let it be, because he continued. “A man can lay hands on his wife, t’is the law. She is his responsibility ta discipline whether she is wont ta be a termagant or does something.”

  “Let me stop you there. Please do not justify a man hitting his wife.”

  “I think I’d like ta visit where yer from. Perhaps it’s more civilized, or are ye an Amazon in disguise?”

  “That’s the first time I’ve been called an Amazon.”

  “Ah then, ye are familiar with the tomes.”

  “I am, though only in translation.’

  “Ye can read, but ye doonae ha’ the Greek. Yer education was lacking. What o’ Latin? The Gaelic?”

  “Not the first time I’ve been told that recently,” she said, thinking back to her conversation with Nimue, the goddess of the moon in Tir-Na-Nog, who accused her of the same thing, only that time it was knowledge of the precepts of Druidism. “I have rudimentary understanding of Latin, but we’re getting off the point. Where I’m from, I suppose you’d consider it more civilized. We have laws that prohibit domestic abuse.”

  William nodded in understanding and resumed his stroll along the parapet. “Liam admitted ta wanting out o’ the marriage contract, but how he chose ta handle it was the coward’s way—so unlike the man I ken. It leads me ta believe that what ye’ve said might hold some truth.”