Morrigan's Cross
Page 5

“Study and learn,” she said. “And learn from one of her kind. One she made. One who was yours before she took him. You must first find your brother.”
“Where?”
“Not only where, but when. Look into the fire, and see.”
They were, he noted, in his cottage again, and he was standing in front of the hearth. The flames spiked up, became towers. Became a great city. There were voices and sounds such as he’d never heard. Thousands of people rushed along streets that were made of some kind of stone. And machines sped with them.
“What is this place?” He could barely whisper the words. “What world is it?”
“It is called New York, and its time is nearly a thousand years from where we are. Evil still walks the world, Hoyt, as well as innocence, as well as good. Your brother has walked the world a long time now. Centuries have passed for him. You would do well to remember that.”
“Is he a god now?”
“He is vampyre. He must teach you, and he must fight beside you. There can be no victory without him.”
Such size, he thought. Buildings of silver and stone taller than any cathedral. “Will the war be in this place, in this New York?”
“You will be told where, you will be told how. And you will know. Now you must go, take what you need. Go to your family and give them their shields. You must leave them quickly, and go to the Dance of the Gods. You will need your skill, and my power, to pass through. Find your brother, Hoyt. It is time for the gathering.”
He woke by the fire, the blanket wrapped around him. But he saw it hadn’t been a dream. Not with the blood drying on the palm of his hand, and the silver crosses lying across his lap.
It was not yet dawn, but he packed books and potions, oatcakes and honey. And the precious crosses. He saddled his horse, and then, as a precaution, cast another protective circle around his cottage.
He would come back, he promised himself. He would find his brother, and this time, he would save him. Whatever it took.
As the sun cast its first light, he began the long ride to An Clar, and his family home.
Chapter 2
He traveled north on roads gone to mud from the storm. The horrors and the wonders of the night played through his mind as he hunched over his horse, favoring his aching ribs.
He swore, should he live long enough, he would practice healing magic more often, and with more attention.
He passed fields where men worked and cattle grazed in the soft morning sunlight. And lakes that picked up their blue from the late summer sky. He wound through forests where the waterfalls thundered and the shadows and mosses were the realm of the faerie folk.
He was known here, and caps were lifted when Hoyt the Sorcerer passed by. But he didn’t stop to take hospitality in one of the cabins or cottages. Nor did he seek comfort in one of the great houses, or in the conversations of monks in their abbeys or round towers.
In this journey he was alone, and above battles and orders from gods, he would seek his family first. He would offer them all he could before he left them to do what he’d been charged to do.
As the miles passed, he struggled to straighten on his horse whenever he came to villages or outposts. His dignity cost him considerable discomfort until he was forced to take his ease by the side of a river where the water gurgled over rock.
Once, he thought, he had enjoyed this ride from his cottage to his family home, through the fields and the hills, or along the sea. In solitude, or in the company of his brother, he had ridden these same roads and paths, felt this same sun on his face. Had stopped to eat and rest his horse at this very same spot.
But now the sun seared his eyes, and the smell of the earth and grass couldn’t reach his deadened senses.
Fever sweat slicked his skin, and the angles of his face were keener as he bore down against the unrelenting pain.
Though he had no appetite, he ate part of one of the oatcakes along with more of the medicine he’d packed. Despite the brew and the rest, his ribs continued to ache like a rotted tooth.
Just what good would he be in battle? he wondered. If he had to lift his sword now to save his life he would die with his hands empty.
Vampyre, he thought. The word fit. It was erotic, exotic, and somehow horrible. When he had both time and energy, he would write down more of what he knew. Though he was far from convinced he was about to save this world or any other from some demonic invasion, it was always best to gather knowledge.
He closed his eyes a moment, resting them against the headache that drummed behind them. A witch, he’d been told. He disliked dealing with witches. They were forever stirring odd bits of this and that in pots and rattling their charms.
Then a scholar. At least he might be useful.
Was the warrior Cian? That was his hope. Cian wielding sword and shield again, fighting alongside him. He could nearly believe he could fulfill the task he’d been given if his brother was with him.
The one with many shapes. Odd. A faerie perhaps, and the gods knew just how reliable such creatures were. And this was somehow to be the front line in the battle for worlds?
He studied the hand he’d bandaged that morning. “Better for all if it had been dreaming. I’m sick and tired is what I am, and no soldier at the best of it.”
Go back. The voice was a hissing whisper. Hoyt came to his feet, reaching for his dagger.
Nothing moved in the forest but the black wings of a raven that perched in shadows on a rock by the water.
Go back to your books and herbs, Hoyt the Sorcerer. Do you think you can defeat the Queen of the Demons? Go back, go back and live your pitiful life, and she will spare you. Go forward, and she will feast on your flesh and drink of your blood.
“Does she fear to tell me so herself then? And so she should, for I will hunt her through this life and the next if need be. I will avenge my brother. And in the battle to come, I will cut out her heart and burn it.”
You will die screaming, and she will make you her slave for eternity.
“It’s an annoyance you are.” Hoyt shifted his grip on the dagger. As the raven took wing he flipped it through the air. It missed, but the flash of fire he shot out with his free hand hit the mark. The raven shrieked, and what dropped to the ground was ashes.
In disgust Hoyt looked at the dagger. He’d been close, and would likely have done the job if he hadn’t been wounded. At least Cian had taught him that much.
But now he had to go fetch the bloody thing.
Before he did, he took a handful of salt from his saddlebags, poured it over the ashes of the harbinger. Then retrieving his dagger, he went to his horse and mounted with gritted teeth.