Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) Page 4

  Sora forced her eyes open and almost gasped—the bloated form of a Dracian was in front of her, pale white again the dark water. She pushed the drowned man away, trying not to panic.

  It was less violent underwater. The waves tugged and pulled, but nowhere near as forceful as at the surface. She noted the other crew members fleeing the room. Some went downward, prying open the door and swimming into the lower hallway—mainly the Dracians, who moved powerfully through the water. The ship was on its side; there could be oxygen in the hallway, or not. She didn't think she could last that long. It was horribly, paralyzingly cold.

  Suddenly, she saw Joan. The woman swam smoothly through the water, as elegant as a seal. Sora watched her friend take on her Dracian form, the true appearance of her race. Her skin rippled and gleamed. A layer of scales emerged, silvery-blue in color. Her feet and hands elongated, webs spreading between her digits. Joan's eyes flattened and darkened until they were two ovular black disks. The only thing remaining of her old self was her thick mane of red hair.

  Each of the Dracians was born with a different elemental power. It defined their magic. Some took to fire, some to air. Joan, it seemed, had taken to water.

  The female Dracian then slipped agilely through the broken window. Grasping the idea, Sora swam to the surface one last time to take a breath, then dove downward again. She moved with painfully slow strokes toward the shattered opening.

  She had always thought of herself as a strong swimmer, but the tug and pull of the ocean made her movements awkward and clumsy. It was her first time swimming in salt water. Her eyes were burning.

  I'm going to drown, she thought, her lungs aching. No, she had to get out! On inspiration, Sora swam toward the wall and used it to launch herself at the window. Thankfully, it worked. She hooked her fingers on the sharp glass and pulled herself through. The cuts stung, but she could hardly feel them. She was too focused on escaping.

  She propelled herself into the dark, open water beyond the ship and fought her way to the surface. It seemed an impossible distance, but she kept swimming. She grabbed onto floating debris from the deck, barrels and shards of the masts, using the wood to launch herself upward.

  Finally, right when she thought she would pass out, her head exploded above water. She had only enough time for one short, desperate breath before a wave crashed over her. She was sent spiraling down, but was caught in the force of a second wave and shot to the surface again. The ocean tossed her into the air before dropping her back down. She felt like a small ant trapped in a river, spinning in useless circles.

  Half-conscious, all she concentrated on was keeping her head above water. Now she was too numb to feel the rain, or even the freezing ocean that surrounded her. Basic instincts took over. Her world became very small—dark, swirling water and moments of blessed air. It was a battle against the sea and she only hoped that the Goddess would show her mercy.

  The waves suddenly seemed to calm. She drifted upon the top of the ocean, barely keeping her head up. Although the rain and waves still lashed around her, no sound met her ears.

  She turned and saw a large, dark object plummeting toward her on a fifteen-foot swell. It looked like a door broken off its hinges....

  It crashed down on her head, forcing her under the water.

  CHAPTER THREE

  VOLCRIAN PAUSED BEFORE the door of the mapmaker's shop. The dead priestess wandered along behind him, scuffing her feet against the cobblestone road. He ignored her.

  It was a circular building with a domed roof, thatched windows and a large brown door. The shop was located on the corner of Port Street and Sanction Way, far from the cheap inn where he had stayed the night.

  It had taken him all day to find it. At first he had gone uptown, away from the fishmonger's shop, only to discover that he was on the wrong side of the city. Delbar was massive, sprawling at least twenty miles down the coast. It was slightly slanted, the roads wending downward or upward. The poorer districts were at the “sunken end” while the expensive mansions and hotels were opposite. The mapmaker's shop was right in the middle at the fringe of the merchant's district.

  A small rose garden decorated the building. Thorny vines thrust into the streets like beckoning fingers. The windows flickered with lantern light.

  Good, he had arrived in time. The mapmaker would still be inside. He walked up to the front door and knocked.

  No one answered. After a few seconds of waiting, he let himself in.

  The shop was a chaotic mess. Tables upon tables stacked with papers. Bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed full of leather-bound tomes. Most didn't carry titles. Oil lamps rested on several of the tables, burning quietly.

  “Hello?” he called out. His voice echoed from the domed ceiling.

  “A minute!” replied a voice from the back of the room. Volcrian squinted, scanning the tables. He didn't see anyone.

  Then, abruptly, a figure stepped out from behind one of the bookshelves. It was an old man, stooped and weathered, a brown hat shoved over his head. Stiff gray hair jutted out from under the rim. The old man looked him over with small, shrewd eyes. Volcrian thought of Malcolm's words—the mapmaker didn't appear batty. Only eccentric, his gaze keen with intelligence.

  The mapmaker observed him for a moment, then raised one thick, bushy eyebrow. “Eh?” he said. “Well? What do you want?”

  Volcrian didn't like his tone. It was sharp, unwelcoming. “I am looking for an old friend,” he said. “He might have stopped by here a few weeks ago. Black hair, a young man, in his prime. He might have been here with a girl, or perhaps...a Wolfy.”

  The old man let out a short bark of a laugh. “A Wolfy? Now that's a first. If such things exist, I've never seen one. You'd best search the docks. All sorts of rumors down there. I'm sure you'd find someone claiming to have seen a Wolfy.” He continued, one thought after the next. “I have many customers—sailors, treasure hunters, even nobility. Perhaps a hundred people cross my doorstep in a week. I certainly can't remember a black-haired man and a girl.”

  Volcrian took a step forward, running a hand over the table nearby. He touched the cover of a large leather book. “You'd remember this one,” he murmured. “She wears a Cat's Eye.”

  The mapmaker's expression shifted momentarily, a glimmer of thought. Then he turned away, shuffling across the room, putting a book back on the shelf. “As I said, I have many customers. I don't remember anything of the sort.”

  “Ah,” Volcrian said thoughtfully. He glanced at the priestess behind him, her body shrouded in the heavy brown cloak. She stood quietly by the wall, taking no interest in the conversation. She had been admittedly quiet since their run-in with Malcolm. He wondered, for a moment, if she could be of any assistance to him. Then thought better of it.

  Volcrian turned and crossed the room toward the old man. The mapmaker glanced up and saw him, then circled around another table, keeping it between himself and the mage. “What do you want?” he asked again, his mustache bristling.

  “The truth,” Volcrian growled. “Don't test me. I can smell a lie at twenty paces. Tell me the truth...or I will force it out of you.”

  The man's eyes flickered to Volcrian's silver hair, his pointed ears. The mage waited, practically hearing the man's thoughts. He might not have seen a Wolfy before, but he was staring at one now.

  “You have a queer energy about you,” the mapmaker finally said. “From where do you hail?”

  Volcrian was taken aback by the question. “The north,” he said briefly. It was somewhat true. Wolfies had originated from the northern mountains, adapted to cold weather and icy climates. Yet he had been born in the fields, far from his native homeland. The mapmaker didn't need to know that.

  “Hmph,” the man grunted. Then he pulled a sheet of parchment from the stack in front of him. “I have a map here that may interest you,” he said directly. “I think I remember the girl you speak of. As I recall, they were going to the Lost Isles.”

  That was easier than he
had expected. Volcrian glanced out the window. He might have time for supper after all. “The Lost Isles?” he echoed. But why? The islands were all but a myth to humans. Long ago, back in the time of the Races, they had floated in the sky as the majestic island of Aerobourne, home to the Harpies. But that had been centuries ago. What could possibly be on the Lost Isles now?

  The only way to find out would be to go there himself.

  “Give me the map,” Volcrian grunted, and reached for it. The mapmaker pulled back, holding the parchment in the air.

  “For a few silvers,” he grinned. “If it's so important....”

  Volcrian felt a slow heat move through him. It built up in his chest—rage. He was on a hunt for vengeance—time was of the essence—and this man was toying with him?

  “I have not the coin, nor the patience.”

  “You're a customer in my shop,” the mapmaker cut him off. “Buy the map, and perhaps I shall give you a few parting words of wisdom.”

  Volcrian felt the rage grow. A year ago, he might have been able to control it, but not now. Not when his prey was so close to slipping his grasp.

  He launched himself across the table, hands grasping, his fingers eager for blood. The mapmaker let out a yelp and fell to the floor, scrambling away. Then the old man got back on his feet with surprising agility and dashed toward the door, abandoning the map on the table.

  “Stop him!” Volcrian roared.

  The priestess moved, but slowly, as though underwater.

  The mapmaker dodged past her and grabbed the door handle, yanking it open, plunging into the street. A moment later, he turned the corner and was gone.

  Volcrian stared after him, heaving. He had half the mind to give chase—but that would be an even bigger waste of time. Instead, he stood and brushed himself off, then turned back to the map. Glanced over it. It was new parchment, a copy of the original, by the freshness of the ink. He folded the scrap of paper and tucked it in his cloak, then ran a hand through his long hair, regaining some sense of composure.

  “We have what we came for,” he said, turning back to the priestess. He crossed the floor to his minion and gave her a withering stare. “Next time, act quicker.”

  “If you haven't noticed,” the woman said, “this body is not what it used to be. How am I supposed to waylay a man?” Her voice was like dust.

  The anger bloomed again, rising quickly to the surface. Volcrian shook his head slowly. “I don't care if he takes your arm off,” he growled. “Do as I say.”

  The priestess remained silent, staring at him with cloudy eyes. He couldn't read her expression. It was beyond the point of coherency.

  He whirled toward the door, walking with swift steps. “Come,” he said. “We have a boat to catch.”

  The two made their way out to the street and into the late afternoon light.

  * * *

  The sea breeze ruffled Burn's hair. His light-brown locks flashed in the sunlight and brushed against his long, pointed ears.

  He gazed at the ocean, watching the constant roll of the waves, the breaking of the surf. He stood on a rocky beach, the white sand speckled with a myriad of smooth stones: deep reds, pale greens, slate blues. For now it was sunny, though he could see a long stretch of storm clouds in the distance, spinning turbulently as though conspiring amongst each other.

  He could see little else from the shoreline. Still, his eyes searched and his ears listened. He was desperately hoping for any sign of her. Of Sora.

  The ship had beached itself on a small island perhaps thirty miles wide, Burn judged by the curve of the shoreline. The hold of the ship was ripped open, gutted like an old shoe on a river bank. Shards of masts, crates, and other debris scattered the shoreline for miles. The Dracians were searching up and down the sandy beach, tending to the survivors and trying to scavenge what they could.

  The frame of the ruined ship was about a half-mile away, lodged firmly on an underwater reef. The majority of the crew was still intact, only three fatalities...and one missing girl. Burn supposed they were lucky. Most had clung to the upper deck, the only part of the ship that hadn't been submerged. It had been their protection against the merciless storm.

  He shuddered just thinking about it. He still couldn't quite believe that he was alive.

  Burn glanced down at the compass in his hand. He wasn't sure if it was broken or not; it was partly waterlogged. He had no idea where this island was located, if they were anywhere near the Lost Isles, or if this was just another rock in the ocean, a resting point for migrating birds.

  He squinted, still searching the water. Sometimes, far off in the distance, he thought he saw a large, gray shape against the horizon. Another island? It didn't appear to move. Then the clouds would shift and it would vanish again.

  “We found the weapons,” a voice said from behind him. He glanced to the side, noting Jacques' presence. The Dracian Captain still wore his blue coat, though it was frayed and tattered, long rents on his arms and back. The black crow sat on his shoulder, its feathers slightly ruffled. It held a twisted piece of metal in its beak, perhaps a door hinge or a bolt.

  “Good,” Burn said. It was an empty sound. At this point, recovering the chest of weapons seemed trivial.

  Jacques cleared his throat and spoke again. “Your greatsword is intact, the assassin's equipment, the sacred weapons...and Sora's things,” he murmured.

  Sora. Burn shook his head slowly. At least they still had the weapons of the Dark God, the key to undoing the plague. But first they had to destroy the mage who had caused all of this. And for that, they needed a Cat's Eye. “Without Sora, this quest is as good as finished,” he murmured.

  Jacques' hand landed on his shoulder. It was an awkward position since Burn was almost two feet taller than the Dracian. “She'll show up,” the Dracian said. “A few of my men are flying over the island and won't return until it's fully covered. It might take a couple of days. Most of the wreckage turned up here, but she could be farther up the coast.”

  “Right,” Burn muttered. Or at the bottom of the ocean.

  He turned and looked at the ravaged crew. They moved across the stone-studded beach, stiff and subdued. They were attempting to build a shelter out of ruined shards of the ship. By the looks of it, they weren't having much luck. They would do better to move into the forest, take shelter amongst the trees.

  His eyes traveled to Laina, the young girl they had rescued on the mainland. She was throwing stones into the ocean, her pale hair matted with saltwater, her clothes ripped and salt-stained. Sora had found the girl in a jailhouse, slated for hanging, and had saved Laina's life. Thirteen was too young to be executed—too young to be in a shipwreck, to be stranded on an island. They shouldn't have brought her, but there hadn't been much choice. They couldn't have abandoned her on the streets of Delbar, with nothing and no one to turn to.

  A bit of guilt lodged in his throat. He had once had a daughter her age. Two daughters—an older and a younger. Four years ago…only four years ago had Volcrian taken them. He had found his older daughter Alanna next to his wife's body, curled and blackened in the fire of their house. His younger girl, Avian…he had only found her bloodied cloak, wrapped around the tips of her pointed ears, cut from her head. He had searched for her…for weeks he had looked, but he had not found her body. He had nightmares about it, imagining what Volcrian had used her for. A sacrifice? Black-blooded magic? His heart twisted in his chest, stealing his breath.

  “Laina,” he called to the girl.

  She glanced up at him. Her eyes were a light lavender-brown in the sunset. Her gaze traveled from Burn to Jacques, then narrowed. “If you're wondering why I'm not fishing,” she said defensively, “it's cuz I don't know how!”

  Burn glanced down at the Dracian. Jacques shrugged in response. “I was just trying to give her something to do,” he muttered.

  Burn sighed. Laina was a street child, skilled at nothing but picking pockets. “Gather driftwood and help make camp,” he called t
o her. He pointed to the ridge of trees behind him. “Somewhere over there. Jacques will bring our weapons over.”

  Laina dropped the rock in her hand. “I want to look for Sora,” she said.

  “Stay close to us for now,” Burn replied. “We don't know the dangers of this island.”

  Laina rolled her eyes and then turned, walking up the beach, picking up driftwood as she went. Burn took that as her agreement.

  “Wolfy,” the Dracian said at his side, drawing his attention again. “You should tell Crash about the weapons.”

  Burn raised a brow. “Why? Can you not do it yourself?”

  Jacques shrugged. “He took off into the forest a little while ago. Honestly, he's your companion, not mine.”

  Burn nodded, a quiet breath passing through his lips. The assassin did not make friends, did not suffer fools. And the Dracians were a friendly, foolish lot. He turned from the ocean and started across the beach.

  “We'll start a bonfire,” Jacques called after him. “Catch some food and eat well tonight. You'll see. Everything will be better in the morning!”

  “Just find Sora,” Burn said over his shoulder.

  “Right.”

  He started into the forest, picking his way through scrub grass, then into the shade of the trees. The dirt was grainy in texture, mixed with sand. The trees of this island were similar to those he had seen in the far south—long, naked trunks with bursts of giant leaves toward the top. Tropical. Others grew low and winding, spreading outward more than upward, wide and waxy.

  He sniffed the air, taking in the new scents of the forest: saltwater, dense pollen and a fruity, sweet haze. Listening intently, he picked up the assassin's sounds. Crash was not trying to hide—otherwise he would be inaudible, invisible, as notable as mist. He continued in the direction of the noise.

  * * *

  Crash paced restlessly through a small patch of jungle, back and forth, flattening the grass. He didn't need to go deeper into the brush, but was content to cover the same clearing once, twice, thrice...countless times. The air was surprisingly humid beneath the trees, given the close proximity of the ocean. If he listened, he could still hear the distant rush of waves, the call of gulls. It brought back memories—visions of a past that he lingered on, perhaps too much over the years.