Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Caprion's Wings Preview

  Chapter 1

  Ferran's Map

  About the Author

  Volcrian's Hunt

  (The Cat's Eye Chronicles, Book 3)

  by

  T. L. Shreffler

  Copyright © 2013. Redistribution is prohibited.

  Published by The Runaway Pen.

  Edited by LindaJay Geldens.

  http://www.catseyechronicles.com

  The Cat's Eye Chronicles

  Sora's Quest (Book #1)

  Viper's Creed (Book #2)

  Volcrian's Hunt (Book #3)

  PROLOGUE

  BORN INTO THE colony, they lived without names and without parents. They became in all ways invisible. Brothers and Sisters. Servants of the Shadow. The Hive.

  And the highest members of the Hive, those who fought and lived by the teachings of the Dark God—only they were given Names. Titles earned through combat at fragile ages, when children were the most eager to spill blood.

  There was no word for child in their tongue. Only the word for the unnamed—savant. The same word for silence and sand and stagnant pools of water.

  By the age of fourteen, he had waited long enough. He was ready to take a Name.

  It was early, early morning. The shrine stood in a clearing of tall grass covered in dew. It was the day before the Naming ceremony. The grass had a grayish hue, as did the dawn. Clouds covered the sky, drifting inland from the nearby ocean, which he could hear if he listened carefully. The air was heavy and brisk with moisture. Trees surrounded him—long, narrow things with smooth trunks, branching into wide canopies above. He had grown up with the smell of salt water, the rush and hiss of the waves.

  His teacher Cerastes, one of the Grandmasters that had held the dagger of the Viper long ago, always trained him next to the sea.

  “Look at it,” Cerastes had said the night before, speaking in his low, rough voice like the curl of waves against rock. “At how it moves, coming and going. Look at all of the life that spills out of it. The ocean regurgitates life like a drunken sailor.”

  The nameless savant had studied the ocean with his teacher.

  “If it weren’t for us,” Cerastes had said, “for our kind, life would overtake the world. It would cram itself into every corner. Multiply out of control. Do you understand the danger in that? Just like the ocean waves, all things have a balance. The wave rushes in, then rushes out. It cannot just come in and in and in—then the whole world would be an ocean.”

  The savant had watched the sea, alert.

  “It is not beautiful or glorious, what we do,” the Grandmaster had continued,“but it is necessary. We are the outgoing wave. The harvesters. Hands of the Dark God. Soon you will enter into our tradition. Are you ready to take a Name?”

  Savant had nodded slowly. In that moment, it felt as though he had waited a lifetime, counting each passing minute. A Name, he had thought. A presence. A history. He would become more than just a shadow—more than an unknown child of the Hive.

  Then they had meditated, looking out across the iron-gray sea. He didn’t let himself consider failure. Those who failed at the Naming were scorned and shunned, often forced to leave the Hive. He didn't have to compete. He could refuse. At least then he wouldn't risk losing his home. But that's the way of a coward, not an assassin.

  And now it was morning and he was ready.

  He walked across the meadow to where the ground caved downward abruptly. Grass turned to gray, rough stone. The shrine of the Dark God was underground, hidden inside a massive cavern that was formed by a centuries-old stream of perfectly green water. The dancing water could be heard throughout the cavern, resonating off the granite rock.

  He stood at the edge of the pit for a long moment, looking through the ancient crags. Between the rocks, only darkness gazed back.

  After a final glance around the clearing, he started down the rocky crevice. He gripped the loose shale with his feet. His fingers found crooks and handholds in the rough stone. He was quick and nimble, and slid easily downward.

  Shadows enclosed him. It was a familiar darkness, soft and cool. A brief walk through the cavern brought him to the stream of green water, illuminated by shafts of sunlight, which filtered through the layers of the ceiling. He leapt the stream easily.

  On the opposite side stood a brass door embedded in the wall, wedged into a natural fissure in the rock. It, too, was centuries old, dating back to the founding of the Hive. The door had no key, and it took only the slightest shove of his shoulder to crack it open.

  He entered the shrine of the Dark God—a long, stone cavern perhaps a quarter-mile long. The walls were almost five times his height. Dim lanterns hung from the rocky ceiling, rusted by age and moisture. The stone was colored green by its high copper content and crumbled under his fingers, but the room itself was well-swept and maintained. The ceremonial offering of a dead shark had been laid on an altar the night before, toward the opposite end of the hall. This morning, the corpse had no stench. A sign that the Dark God had accepted.

  Along the greenish stone wall hung an expansive collection of ancient weapons: dirks, maces, claymores, battle axes, pikes, staves, crossbows, chakrams and whips. Almost every kind of weapon that the world had to offer. The Grandmasters maintained them regularly.

  But these weapons were not of average make. Forged from superior metals, blessed by the Dark God's fire, they were each imbued with a Name. When a warrior displayed the right skills, he earned the weapon and its title—and status within the Hive.

  There, hanging from the ancient wall, he saw the one he wanted. The weapon he would use in the fight.

  It was a recurved dagger with a trailing point, serrated toward the hilt, about twenty inches long. It hung from the end of the bottom row where all the unclaimed blades were stored. He couldn’t touch it, not yet. But it was the same one his Master had used, the one he had been trained for. The Viper. He who hides in the grass.

  “Aye!” a voice suddenly reached him. It echoed around the stone walls with startling volume. “I know you’re in there!”

  The voice was immediately familiar. He glanced out of the shrine, into the shadows of the underground cavern.

  She stood ankle-deep in the dewy green water, a piece of oatbread in one hand, her shoes in the other. His eyes flickered over the girl’s plain black uniform. Although most in the colony were without names, he always thought of this girl as “Bug,” both because she was small for her age and because she often trapped moths, putting them in small boxes or jars around her hut.

  “Preparing for the Naming?” she asked, a slow smile spreading across her face. A dimple stood out on one cheek. He was surprised by it. The Hive did not encourage smiling—or any show of emotion, for that matter. He felt something swell within him: a certain strength.

  “I am already prepared,” he said. “Will you be watching me?”

  “I will be competin
g too.”

  “What?” He stared. She was only twelve, far too young to fight for a Name. Most of the boys competing would be older than even he was, sixteen or seventeen.

  She nodded. “My Master says I must. She says that she has no other students to compete in her Name.”

  He watched her with careful eyes. There was uncertainty on her face. Adults knew how to mask their emotions, but she was still young.

  To fail at the Naming was to be shunned from the Hive. Everyone knew that. He wondered why Grandmaster Natrix would force her to fight....Maybe she wanted to get rid of her. It was not unheard of, and Bug had always had it rough. She was small for her age and showed too much kindness toward animals. He couldn’t count how many times he had caught her leaving food out for wood-cats and squirrels.

  “Come on,” he said, and held out his hand. “Let’s look at the weapons. Show me which one your Master used.”

  She nodded. As they entered the long, cool stretch of limestone, she turned to glance at him, her green eyes still uncertain. All members of the Hive had the same make and coloring: black hair and green eyes. It was a trait of their people.

  “I knew I would find you here early,” she said, perhaps shyly; he couldn’t tell. “I watch you practice sometimes. You are very good. They say Cerastes sired you himself; that is why he wanted you as his student.”

  Savant only shook his head. “That’s rude,” he said. “We’re all brothers and sisters in the Hive.”

  She shrugged, still grinning. “Perhaps. But not by blood. The humans say that you can only be related by blood.”

  “We are different.”

  “You think so?”

  Savant didn't answer. The only ones who knew the true bloodlines of the Hive were the women, and they kept that knowledge well guarded. Biological siblings were usually traded with other Hives to keep them from intermixing blood. Every now and then, a mother would be reprimanded for favoring her own child over others. All children of the Hive were supposed to be raised communally. All elders were to be treated with equal respect except for the Grandmasters, who were revered.

  “Which weapon?” he asked, turning to the wall, hoping to change the subject.

  She pointed at a short, curved sword. “The Adder,” she said. Then she wrinkled her nose. “To be honest, I don’t want that one. I want the Krait or the Asp. I’m much better at them.”

  He glanced over her in thought. She referred to the whip or the shortbow. To be honest, he couldn’t imagine her with either one. She was too small. Too skinny. He felt his heart sink at the thought, though he quickly quelled the feeling. It was not the assassin’s way to show pity.

  And yet, here they were. “Do you want to practice?” he asked slowly.

  She blinked. “Practice? With the Named weapons?”

  He nodded.

  “But...it is forbidden!”

  He shook his head. “Only if they catch us. I’ve been training for the Viper for seven years. Let’s try them out.”

  She watched him warily for a moment, her assassin’s mask slipping back in place, then she grinned again. “Alright,” she said. “But only for a half hour, and in the forest where they won’t find us!”

  He nodded, looking up at the dagger of the Viper. What’s come over me? he wondered, suddenly uncertain. He wasn’t one to break rules. It was especially forbidden to touch the weapons in the shrine...but something about Bug made things different. Something about her large, wide, slanting eyes. Their particular shade of green, like moss grown over a lake.

  And the fact that he truly felt sorry for her. He doubted that she would win a Name. She might even be killed.

  He grabbed the dagger before he could change his mind.

  At first she went to take the short sword, but then she hesitated. She took the whip instead.

  They dashed into the forest, the dawn light ever brightening, leaving the gray meadow behind.

  * * *

  Toward the back of the cavern, the rocks narrowed into a series of tunnels, leading to a secret exit shrouded in ferns and bushes. The green water of the stream led to a dense woodland. They walked into the forest and found a place about a half-mile away from the sacred ground. Large, mossy elm trees swayed on each side. Ivy coiled across the ground.

  They waited to regain their breath, then Bug loosened the whip from its coil, dangling it in front of her. “Prepare yourself,” she said, eyes glinting.

  He leveled the Viper before him. It was a long, thick dagger, the blade jagged and sharp enough to pierce metal. He gripped it backwards from the handle and went into a crouch.

  It was difficult to tell who lunged first, but suddenly they were fighting. Her whip lashed out, faster than the eye could see. But he heard it snapping through the air. He leapt to one side, the whip striking the tree behind him, tearing off a strip of bark and moss.

  Then he lunged at her. She tried to engage him in combat, but he quickly slipped under her defense and grabbed her by the arms. Within seconds he had her pinned against a tree, the knife against her throat. He was skilled enough not to cut her.

  Her eyes widened. Then she glared. “Again!”

  She ducked under his arms as soon as he released her, then spun, kicking him behind the knee. She was fast—faster than he. She caught his foot and he fell to the ground, but was up again within seconds. They circled slowly, each studying the other opponent, looking for a weakness.

  Then she flicked the whip, catching him on the cheek. A shallow cut. He could tell that she had avoided his eyes on purpose.

  He touched the thin streak of blood.

  She lunged at him while he was distracted, drawing a knife from her belt. He turned slightly out of reflex and the knife barely missed his neck. Then he ducked under her short arms and grabbed her by the shoulders. Rammed her up against the tree again. Pushed the Viper to her throat.

  She dropped the small blade. “I give!”

  He released her, barely even panting. It was somewhat disappointing. He had hoped she would be better than this.

  “You’ll never win a Name with these skills,” he said.

  She avoided his eyes. She knew the truth. “I know,” she said quietly. “What should I do?”

  Savant couldn’t answer. He could only look at her, that peculiar feeling swelling in his chest again—pity.

  There was a sudden crackling in the underbrush.

  They both snapped to attention, then Savant grabbed Bug and shoved her back behind the tree. They crouched low among the roots, breathing lightly, painfully alert. They shared a wide-eyed glance. If someone caught them with the Named weapons....

  The crackling in the underbrush continued. Savant turned slightly, angling his head to see between the leaves. At first he couldn't make out much...but then he caught a shuffle of movement. A peculiar glow seeped through the ferns, like a highly concentrated patch of sunlight. It shifted across the forest floor.

  The light moved closer.

  Savant felt his mouth turn dry. He had heard tales of such a light, but he could scarcely believe his eyes. He could feel the light, too. It vibrated against his skin in an annoying, buzzing way. The hair on his arms stood on end.

  Only one of the races glowed in such a way....

  There was the low mumble of speech. He turned his head again, straining his ears.

  “We only need one,” he overheard. “Don't put yourself at risk.” The voice was small and distant, as though held in a cup.

  He shared another glance with Bug. She had overheard it, too.

  “I know. I'm waiting for a young one. An adult will cause too much trouble.” This voice was far stronger than the last, only a few yards away.

  Savant gripped the handle of the dagger. The Viper was still new in his hands, yet it felt comfortable, familiar. It gave him courage. With a slight nod to Bug, he crept around the tree and darted forward, staying low to the ground, using the underbrush as cover. His footsteps were absolutely silent, not even a crunched leaf. Stealth
was the first lesson of an assassin.

  Bug scampered after him, mimicking his every move.

  The light was fully visible through the trees. It hurt to look at it. Savant found himself averting his eyes, even as he crept closer. He wanted to hear more of the conversation....

  He paused again behind a thick copse of trees. The light was brightest on its opposite side, perhaps only a few feet away. In this position, he could hear the conversation clearly.

  “Make sure you're not followed,” the thin, hollow voice said.

  “Don't worry,” the person replied, soft and melodious, his words dripping with nectar.

  Suddenly, the light vanished.

  Bug let out a small breath, barely audible. Her hand clutched at Savant's sleeve.

  Then a shadow fell over them.

  Both savants turned, their expressions guarded. The man who stood behind them was strange indeed, not of the Hive. His coloring was far too exotic. Pale, pale hair, like the white sands of the beach. A white tunic and fawn-colored breeches. His skin held a strange glow, barely visible. In his hand was a small white stone.

  “Who are you?” Savant asked. He raised the Viper before him, brandishing it viciously.

  “Just passing through,” the man replied. He stood only three paces away. A strange smile was on his face, cruel and sharp. Then he turned to Bug. “Here, little one. Catch this.” He tossed the stone.

  Savant's hand shot into the air, trying to intercept the throw, but Bug was too fast. She easily snatched the stone, perhaps out of reflex.

  “No!” Savant yelled.

  Bug screamed.

  White light flashed, exploding outward like a miniature star. The force of it actually pushed Savant back, almost toppling him to the ground. The whiteness pierced his eyes and he clamped them shut, ears ringing, pain splitting his head like an ax.

  “Don't look at it!” Savant yelled. His eyes were tightly shut, his head buzzing from the intensity. “It's a sunstone! It will blind you!”

  “How considerate,” that melodious voice spoke again.

  Savant didn't hesitate. He lunged toward the voice, the Viper singing in his hand. He plunged the blade into thin air, missing his target, but he didn't stop—no, he kept lunging, kept listening. The handle felt hot, as though warmed over a fire.