Ferran's Map Page 4

  The wraith lunged in his direction, coming up against an invisible barrier. It paused, unable to pass over the line of blood. The two stared at one another, hooded-face-to-hooded-face. Then the creature let out a terrible shriek—a piercing, unnatural sound—and raised its arms.

  Yes, she saw it then: a longbow, seemingly molded from onyx. A black arrow manifested between the wraith’s hands. The phantom drew the bowstring taut and aimed the arrow directly at the Grandmaster’s chest but did not release it. Rather, the creature held the arrow drawn, trained on Cerastes’ heart, quivering.

  “A creature of wrath, bred of vengeance,” Cerastes murmured. “Immortal…unstoppable. And here, the black arrow, the Dark God’s third artifact. Somehow, we must separate the weapon from its keeper….” He trailed off, deep in thought.

  Krait watched silently. The wraith didn’t look like an easy opponent; it wasn’t a physical being, but an apparition of mist and shadow. She wondered if she could actually strike it, or if her hand would pass right through the creature. She watched her master’s pensive face as he stared at the wraith. She knew he planned to contact the Dark God in some way by using The Book of the Named and the sacred weapons. He would need to retrieve the weapon from this creature and collect the last two weapons from Viper. But she knew nothing more.

  Why is he showing us this? Cerastes didn’t flaunt his trophies without some purpose. She shifted. “What are your plans for the Viper?” she asked softly. “Does he also seek this arrow?”

  Cerastes released a slow hiss, then spoke without looking at her. “He will come for the last weapon. He travels with the same Dracian who once kept The Book of the Named. Perhaps we have found ourselves an adversary….” He paused as though amused. “He knows of us now, and he will seek us out. But perhaps that’s to our benefit. The sooner we retrieve the weapons, the better.” He looked at Cobra. “I must know the Viper’s plan. And I want to know how he killed the first two wraiths.”

  Cobra twitched, his body tight with anticipation. “It shall be done, Grandmaster,” he murmured.

  Krait frowned. “And after we have the weapons?” she asked.

  Cerastes glanced at her sharply. She knew she had made a mistake. Cerastes never shared his entire plans, only small pieces, whatever he deemed necessary for her to know. After a moment, he replied coldly, “We shall see.”

  Krait lowered her head again. The Cobra’s rigid stance seemed to mock her disobedience—a reminder of just how unworthy she felt as Cerastes’ student. She wanted to impress her Grandmaster and earn his favor. But her eagerness to serve made her talk out of turn, anxious to exceed his expectations. She yearned for his blessing, like a wayward child seeking a parent’s approval. He had saved her life and taken her under his wing, so she felt eternally indebted to him.

  Six years ago, he found Krait, emaciated, lying on the beach. She was a half-dead shell of a person, her memory full of gaping holes and horrific nightmares from her years spent in the Harpy dungeons, where young warriors had used her as practice fodder for their magic. Through his dark and majestic powers, Cerastes restored her burned-out eyes and built her spirit anew—consequently, she served his will without question.

  That bond of loyalty gave her a sense of purpose—the seed of a new identity. Given how low she had once fallen, and how high he had raised her, she would do anything to repay him.

  “Go now,” Cerastes said, and raised one long-boned hand. The shadows coiled in the corner of the room, circling together until they formed a misty portal. “Watch their ship carefully. Return to me as soon as you have learned their plans.”

  Krait and Cobra stood as one. Then Cerastes spoke again, “Cobra, stay for a moment. I have one more task for you.”

  Krait wore the composed mask of an assassin, but she couldn’t dismiss her jealous thoughts. Why would Cerastes choose Cobra? He might be superior in skill, but he was still a new member of the Shade. Did Cerastes not trust her with his plan? He has no reason to doubt me, she thought. A willing tool, she would do anything for her Grandmaster, without question, even take her own life. Cerastes must know that.

  We all have our place, she told herself. As hands of the Dark God, we must do as we are asked, and nothing more.

  Krait bowed slightly to Cerastes, then turned her back to the Cobra and swiftly traversed the room. With a running leap, she jumped through the portal into inky darkness.

  CHAPTER 2

  Below deck, the Dawn Seeker held a surprising amount of cabins, each about the size of a closet, with just room enough for a narrow cot, a porthole window and little else. Sora’s room contained her bags, a change of nightclothes, a lantern, and a few small knicknacks she had picked up on the road. The sacred weapons of the Dark God were stashed under the cot.

  Her staff rested behind the door. It had proved too bulky to carry around. The simple, sleek, gray-blue wooden rod stood about two hands taller than Sora's head. Bright yellow woodgrain could be glimpsed beneath the dark surface. The initials K.W., perhaps the insignia of some past owner, had been lovingly carved toward the top.

  She had purchased the weapon in Mayville two years ago, when she first left the Fallcrest lands, and before journeying through Fennbog swamp. The staff was made of a rare kind of wood only found in the Bracken, an ancient forest in the far East, where travelers said the trees were so old, their roots and branches had grown together into a single living organism. Eventually, the wood of those trees became so strong, it could not be cut by humans, but could only be carved by magic. Any artifact made of "witchwood" had to predate the War of the Races, when magic had been an everyday occurrence.

  The moment Sora lifted her staff, her arms tightened in anticipation. She intended to lose herself in a long, hard workout—the best way to overcome her irritation. It had been several weeks since her last bout of strenuous exercise. She left her cabin and headed to the bow of the ship.

  As Sora walked, she thought of her mother’s warning, but that concern felt misplaced. Now more than ever, Sora felt the need to trust Crash. The next leg of their journey would be the most dangerous. On the horizon lay the City of Crowns, home to the King and the most powerful nobility in the land. And within that City, the Shade awaited: a secret cult of the Sixth Race, trained since childhood in the art of killing; they worshiped the Dark God and wanted to resurrect His power.

  Sora's small band now followed the Shade on a desperate hunt for The Book of the Named, an ancient text that contained secret knowledge of the Dark God. Lori and her friend Ferran, a once-renowned treasure hunter, claimed the book would help them stop a deadly plague from consuming the land. The disease had already spread over a hundred miles, from the lowlands to the coast. Sora didn’t know how helpful the book might be, but without it, they didn’t have much to go on. No one knew much about the plague, and the only way to cure it was to use a Cat’s-Eye stone.

  Crash denied any knowledge of The Book of the Named or the Shade. He said the cult was only a rumor among the Sixth Race, and she believed him. I can’t let myself doubt, she thought, turning her staff over in her hands. In the past month, Crash had more than proved his friendship, his alliance, his intentions. Why couldn’t Lori see that?

  Sora reached the bow of the ship just as they rounded the next bend in the river. Shouts arose from the crow’s nest; countless Dracians leapt to the jib and yardarm, adjusting the sails and rudder to guide the long schooner around the sharp turn. The ship slowly tilted to one side, making its lumbering way upstream. She could hear Captain Silas yelling obscenities at a hapless young sailor who had tangled up the ropes.

  As the ship passed through a thick copse of poplar trees, the Little Rain straightened out into a wide, flat stretch of water, heading further inland. The current slowed considerably, the banks half-buried in cattails and watercress. Any number of obstacles might lay hidden beneath the murky, sluggish water. She heard Captain Silas roaring orders behind her, directing his men to steer the ship toward the center of the river. “Strai
ghten her out, boys! I’ll have your heads if we hit bottom!”

  Sora stood at the pointed nose of the Dawn Seeker, where the figurehead of a charging horse protruded from the woodwork. The wind shifted, and she smelled that strange, pungent odor again, like a pile of rotting fruit. She leaned against the railing and gazed out at the riverbank, wondering what the source of the smell might be.

  Suddenly a strange vibration moved through her, causing chills across her body. She looked up, surprised, and raised a hand against the sun’s glare. No, wait, that’s not the sun….

  “Sora!” a familiar voice called. Caprion! He sounded unexpectedly distraught.

  The winged Harpy plummeted from the sky and Sora stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding a collision. Caprion landed on the deck next to her, a frantic expression on his otherwise handsome face. His hair looked mussed, his clothes unkempt. She blinked up at him. His keen violet eyes were wide open. Fear?

  As creatures of Wind and Light, all Harpies had pale hair and bright, luminescent eyes. Their voices were entrancing and hypnotic. Their wings looked solid, but were really manifestations of pure energy, starlight solidified into feather and flesh. Sora had learned recently that Harpies earned their wings through a complicated test called The Singing. A young Harpy would pitch his pristine voice far above the heavens. If his Song was strong enough, a star would sing back, and the light of that star would be channeled into his body, manifesting as wings. The larger a Harpy’s wings, the greater the strength of his star and the more magical power he controlled.

  Caprion was not a normal Harpy, but something called a seraphim, bred for war. He carried six wings on his back instead of just two, and had the rare ability to hide and display his wings at will. He told her it was for his own self-preservation—if he displayed all of his wings at once, the constant energy would wear out his body, shortening his life. He joined their party on the Lost Isles, where he helped them escape the Harpy Matriarch in exchange for passage overseas.

  “What?” Sora demanded. “What’s wrong?” She glanced around. Three days ago, Caprion and two Dracians flew off to investigate the surrounding forest. She thought that had something to do with the growing stench, but Silas claimed they were scouting the river for large debris and other obstacles.

  “A town,” Caprion replied, out of breath. “We found an abandoned village in the woods. I need to speak to your mother.”

  Sora nodded, taken aback. “A village? Out here?” They were countless miles away from civilization.

  Caprion headed quickly down the side of the ship. His feet lifted easily from the wooden deck after a few steps, and he glided forward, half-flying.

  Sora jogged to keep up. “Where are the Dracians?” she repeated. “What’s going on?”

  “No time to explain,” he said. “Where is your mother?”

  “Uh…in the sickroom, I suppose, probably tending a patient….”

  “Tell Silas to drop anchor. We need to stop the ship immediately!” Caprion went below deck into the long row of cabins.

  Sora stared after him. Then she recovered and ran back to the bow of the ship, where she last remembered seeing Captain Silas. But when she got there, the good captain had disappeared, replaced by a half-dozen sailors.

  “Where is Silas?” she called, grabbing the arm of the nearest Dracian. The sailor gave her a startled look, then glanced around and shrugged.

  Sora gritted her teeth in frustration. For a mid-sized boat, it was certainly easy to lose track of people.

  As she turned around, she glanced over the side of the ship at the riverbank. She saw a pile of rotted wood and mulch, but then something unexpected caught her attention. She paused, her gaze traveling back. She blinked. Then squinted. Is that a body? She stared harder, moving along the railing as the ship continued upriver.

  A thin, crumpled body lay among the reeds. It was a female, covered in muck from the river, barely discernible as human. Water lapped around the woman’s legs.

  “There’s a woman!” she yelled, pointing over the side of the railing. “Hey! There’s a woman on the riverbank!”

  The Dracians were too busy straightening out the boat, furling and unfurling various sails, and swinging the jib back into place to pay Sora any heed. She looked up at the crow’s nest where Burn sat high above the ship, his head looking in the opposite direction. She needed to get his attention, now.

  Nothing else for it. Sora cupped her hands to her mouth and screamed, “Woman overboard!”

  Two or three heads turned to look at her. She saw Burn’s ears twitch and he looked down, leaning over the edge of the crow’s nest. She signaled to him, then pointed over the side of the boat.

  Burn put his fingers to his lips and whistled loudly. “Aye!” the Wolfy picked up her cry, roaring in his deep, brassy baritone, “Woman overboard!”

  The sailors looked around in confusion. Sora waved her arms animatedly. “We need to drop anchor! Where is Silas?” she called.

  Then, seemingly from nowhere, Crash appeared on deck. He strode swiftly to her side, light on his feet, swift as a shadow. “What is it?” he asked. He gave her a quick once-over, then his voice turned wry. “You don’t even look wet.”

  Sora glared. “Not me, of course! There’s a woman over on the banks. She looks injured.” She pointed to the thick patch of weeds and half-rotted logs. “See her?”

  Crash followed her pointing finger and stared for a moment.

  “Caprion returned,” Sora continued impatiently. “He said there’s a village in trouble nearby and we need to stop the ship.”

  “Not our problem,” Crash grunted.

  Sora growled in frustration. “What if she’s still alive? She’ll die of exposure before long! By the four winds, where is Silas?”

  Crash let out a short breath, then stepped onto the railing without a word. He cast her a glance as if to say, This had better be worth it, then leapt from the boat into the water.

  Sora gasped as he fell smoothly through the air and entered the river with hardly a splash. Within seconds he broke the surface of the water and swam powerfully toward shore. The boat continued forward and she momentarily panicked. “Man overboard!” she screamed. “Drop anchor! Hey! Stop!” She waved her arms wildly at the Dracians on deck.

  Captain Silas finally strode onto the bow. He was a short man, as all Dracians were—only an inch or so taller than herself. He was dressed tastefully in a starched white shirt and long blue greatcoat with tall black boots. A leather thong tied his silky red hair, the color of shined copper, at the base of his neck. Dracians were usually lighthearted and mischievous, but today he wore an irritated scowl.

  “What is this about?” he demanded as he stalked toward her.

  Sora raised her chin a notch. “Caprion said there is an abandoned village in the forest and we need to drop anchor. Also, two of your men didn’t return with him. And…!” She pointed to Crash’s figure in the water. “There’s a woman on the banks. Crash jumped the railing to help her.”

  The assassin reached the shallows and began trudging through the thick mud and cattails, his black hair slick with water. Silas saw him, paused, then looked skyward with great exasperation.

  “What a waste of a day,” he muttered. “I should toss you all overboard!” Then he turned back to his crew, who were waiting expectantly up on the rigging. “You heard her, lads! Drop anchor!”

  The crew scurried to obey.

  He cast her an angry look. “Let’s hope the anchor catches on something. Otherwise your assassin will have to find his own way to the City of Crowns. And if any of my men are missing, I’ll cut off that damned Harpy’s wings!” He turned and stalked back to the helm.

  Burn whistled twice more from the crow’s nest as the rear anchor dropped into the water. Sora could feel its sudden weight drag at the back of the boat. They continued to surge forward a short ways; then the anchor caught against the bottom of the river and the boat came to a sudden halt.

  “Lock her in!” Sil
as roared from the wheel. “Secure the front anchor! Raise the sails! Get off your arses and work!”

  Sora waited impatiently as the sailors prepared a small skiff to travel ashore. Eventually, her mother and Caprion appeared on deck, deep in conversation. When Lori saw her, she asked immediately, “What’s this about a woman?”

  Sora pointed over the side of the boat to the nearby bank, where Crash knelt among the tall reeds next to the still woman’s form. It was hard to tell if the woman was injured or dead.

  “Can you take us down there?” Lori asked, turning to Caprion.

  The Harpy nodded, then made a few swift gestures with one hand, a wordless sign language that Sora had seen him use before, though she didn’t know its significance. A white light began to engulf her, starting at her feet and slowly working its way up her legs. She felt a slight vibration pass over her skin, like music with no sound. A similar light crept over Lori’s body. Next, with a wave of his hand, Caprion lifted Lori and Sora swiftly into the air and transported them over the side of the boat as gently as a leaf on the wind, across the Little Rain tributary to the far bank of the river.

  Their brief flight over the river felt terribly unnatural to Sora. She retained her sense of gravity, as though she stood on solid ground even as the water flowed underneath her. Her Cat’s Eye remained silent—a disturbing sensation, since it usually responded to any sort of magic, warning her with the sound of bells in her ear. She subconsciously touched her left hand to the stone, gripping the necklace in her bandaged palm. Where are you? she thought worriedly. She felt a slight stirring in the back of her mind, but that was all.

  Finally, they reached the tall sandbanks and cattails where the woman’s body lay. A few yards downstream, Ferran leapt over the narrow bow of his houseboat. He sloshed through the shallows toward them. He was a tall man of athletic build, a few years older than her mother, with brown hair and quick gray eyes. Lori waved to him as he neared.