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

  A cloud of gnats had grown quite attached to him. They followed in his wake, back and forth across the small clearing. He flicked his hand in the air, focused on his thoughts. Or rather, on his lack of a solution.

  His mood darkened with the fading light. He kept listening for a sound from the Dracians, a whoop of excitement or the shout of a name, but there was none. Which only meant one thing. They were still searching for Sora.

  And it was growing dark.

  Damn. He glanced at the sky, cursing the sun. Usually he had plenty of patience, a requirement in his line of work. Calm and collected, his thoughts clear and precise. But now his mind buzzed uncontrollably, terribly loud, conjuring pictures of Sora's body, crumpled and lifeless on the beach. Or even worse—a league under the ocean, eaten away by fish.

  Waiting is necessary, he told himself. He was a man of action, but pacing would have to do for now. He felt like he should be walking the beach, scouring endless miles until he found her—but a larger part of him knew that it was in vain. Don't fancy yourself a hero. The Dracians could fly over the island much faster and return with any news. A whole body of news, perhaps, wrapped in a damp cloak, one lifeless hand drifting toward the ground.

  Don't think of it, he told himself. What had happened to his training? He was out of control. No, he was doing all that he could—it just wasn't enough.

  There was a thrashing in the underbrush. He recognized Burn's steps, heavy with exhaustion. Crash felt that same weariness tug down at shoulders. Defeating the ocean was no small feat. He was surprised that any of them had survived. Part of him had almost wished for death. It would have been an unexpected—if welcome—end to this ridiculous quest.

  Burn emerged between two waxy leaves, his clothes smeared with bright orange pollen. He gazed at the assassin, his eyes a deep amber in the evening sun. Crash wished he would look away. He saw far too much sympathy in that gaze.

  “They found our weapons,” the Wolfy said, indicating over his shoulder. “They're a little stained by salt water, but salvageable.”

  Crash nodded curtly and resumed pacing.

  Burn hesitated for a moment, watching him. His eyes traveled to the bent grass. “Do that much longer and you'll flatten the forest,” he remarked, humor in his tone.

  Crash didn't respond. He waved another hand at the gnats around his face. He grimaced in annoyance.

  Burn cleared his throat slowly. “I'm sure she's alive.”

  “I don't care,” Crash growled.

  Burn paused, watching him closely. Then the Wolfy crossed the clearing, stopping before the assassin, cutting off his steps. “You don't need to lie to me,” he said solemnly.

  Crash sighed. At this point, Burn was his oldest companion. He used the term loosely. In the wide scheme of things, the two barely knew each other. He had approached the Wolfy long ago, seeking help to defeat Volcrian, or at least more knowledge of the mage's power. But Volcrian had found them first.

  Burn's family had suffered the consequences. One night, they had returned to find his daughters and wife dead, the house razed to the ground.

  Crash hadn't asked the Wolfy mercenary to join him and hadn't expected him to. But Burn had lingered with him on the road, perhaps on his own hunt for vengeance, perhaps because he had nothing left. Both options were ultimately empty. Crash didn't pretend to know the man's motives, and they made no difference. Volcrian was a menace, and now his magic tainted the entire mainland, a spreading plague.

  They hadn't spoken of Burn's family since that night. They had shared very little of their pasts, spent too much time and energy on survival.

  “Volcrian will find us,” Crash muttered. “The plague will continue. Without the Cat's Eye, we will have to face him as we are. And you know how that will end.”

  Burn's frown deepened. “That's all you care about?” he growled. “Volcrian's wrath?” He took a step forward. “Sora risked her life for us countless times. The least you can do is show concern. You should be out searching, just like the Dracians, not wasting time on your own selfish motives.”

  Anger surged. Fire burned in his arms, his chest. Crash felt his skull throb. Before he could stop it, a dark shadow rose up from the grass, gathering in the air. The Wolfy's face flickered, a hint of fear.

  The assassin shoved Burn away and glared, seething. “Search the beach?” he snapped. “And not be here when she returns?”

  A sudden, inexplicable smile cracked Burn's lips. “Ah,” he murmured. “So you do care.”

  Crash paused, still breathing hard. The blackness glinted in his eyes again, and he passed a hand over his face, trying to clear it. No. He had to regain control. He could feel the fire spreading down his legs, up his back, dancing around his skull. Assassins were not meant to show emotion. He had been warned from a young age of its danger, the peril of losing oneself to wrath, to fear, to love—to anything.

  He turned away, pacing again, this time in a new direction. “We covered five miles today on foot,” he said bluntly. “The Dracians have searched farther. She's gone.”

  “Sora is resilient,” Burn murmured. “Don't give up hope.”

  “Hope?” Crash said bitterly. “Open your eyes.”

  His words hung in the air between them, an impenetrable wall. He gazed at the Wolfy, unflinching. Then he turned and stalked into the forest, back toward the beach. He rubbed his other hand over his face, swatting at the gnats. Burn was right about one thing—he needed to make himself useful, and now that his weapons had been found, he had plenty to do.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SORA FELT A strange tingling sensation. A dull roar filled her ears, rushing in and out, over and over again. At first she thought it was a dream or some trick of her mind. Then she felt the gritty texture of sand beneath her, the light brush of wind.

  A sudden thought jolted her awake. The ocean.

  Then a hot, terrible pain struck her. The tingling in the back of her skull moved forward, throbbing down her forehead, her nose, her teeth. She groaned, feeling as though her head had been split in two.

  But her shoulder...her shoulder hurt worse. Every beat of her heart brought a terrible, swooning ache. She clamped her jaw shut, seething, trying to breathe. By the North Wind, she thought. What happened?

  A shallow wave rushed up, licking her foot. The water was ice-cold. She groaned again, opening her eyes and blinking against the harsh light. The sun was blinding, as though her face was an inch away from fire. No more storm clouds, she thought vaguely. Where am I?

  After a moment, she attempted to sit up and almost screamed. Her arm was useless at her side, her shoulder stiff with a deep pain. She glanced sideways, almost afraid to look, and saw her shoulder jutting out at an awkward angle. Dislocated.

  A wave of nausea rolled through Sora and she gritted her teeth. This would not do. If she waited too long, the shoulder would swell up and she would be crippled, which left only one option. She had to push her shoulder back in.

  She wished, for a very long moment, that she were back at her manor, before she had ever met Crash and Burn or her mother. It seemed so long ago now. The world of wealth and riches was like another life, the story of another girl, one she had known in a distant past. She could still remember that girl's room, the gauzy white curtains blowing inward, the smell of bath salts and jasmine.

  In that life, a half-dozen Healers knelt by the girl's bedside, applying ointments and soothing lotions. They would have gently relocated her arm, strapping it tightly to her chest. There might have even been a minstrel in the corner, playing sweet acoustic music on a guitar.

  But she hadn't lived there in a very long time. No, for the past year she had been with her mother, in a log cabin in the wilderness, learning the tricks of the healing trade. Lorianne had taught her well. She could do this herself. She would have to.

  Sora took a deep breath, trying to remember the technique that her mother had used. Countless children had been brought to their house with this kind of injury. Eventually,
some had been able to right their dislocated arm by themselves. If a child can do it, I can do it, she thought. She kept breathing, trying to think through the pain.

  Finally, she laid back down on the sand, easing her arm outward. She winced several times, slowing the movement. It doesn't have to be painful, she heard her mother's voice, gentle and warm in the sickroom. Reach over your head like you're scratching your back.

  Sora did so, trembling with the effort. It hurt no matter how slowly she moved. Finally, she thought she had her arm in the right position, with her elbow over her head and her hand down. She turned her hand outward, stretching the arm up and back.

  There was a slight pop from the bone, the sense of something smooth and curved sliding into place. The pain flared for a moment and then subsided. Her body still ached, but her shoulder dislocation was much less pronounced.

  Sora sat back up carefully. She straightened out her arm, flexing her fingers. Winced. It was still sore—but workable.

  Finally, she was able to take stock of her surroundings. She glanced around the abandoned beach. The shoreline was long and curved, stretching into the distance with nary a flaw. Pebbles speckled the sand, glints of color against the fading sunset. Shards of driftwood interrupted the landscape, twisting up from the beach like tortured skeletons. Color drenched the sky, deep orange and vibrant pink, sinking into a glorious royal purple. She had less than an hour to find shelter for the night.

  Crash, Burn, Laina...she thought, still searching the horizon. She scanned the ocean, looking for a sign of the shipwreck. She saw shards of wood and tangled ropes that might have been from the ship. Then her eyes landed on a large broken door, listing in the shallow water. She vaguely remembered it slamming into her during the storm. She had managed to cling to the wood, possibly the only reason why she was still alive.

  Besides that, there was nothing. No footprints. I'm alone.

  The sole survivor?

  At the thought, her body shuddered uncontrollably. Alone. On an unknown island. Stranded.

  Don't panic, she told herself firmly. Goddess, were they all dead? The thought crushed her, suffocating, her heart rising to her throat. It couldn't be true. But as she searched the beach, she saw no sign of civilization—of life.

  She couldn't accept it. Her head spun. Perhaps this beach didn't even exist. Perhaps she had woken up in the unknown limbo between life and death, in the twilight realm where ghosts lingered, trapped by memories. But no, her body was too sore. Her dislocated shoulder was evidence enough that she was still alive.

  They're dead, she thought again. It kept repeating in her mind, over and over, making her sick.

  She took another deep breath, pressing her good hand to her chest. To her Cat's Eye. The stone was smooth, perfectly round, glinting with a secretive green light. Strength flooded through her, warming her muscles.

  You don't know that for sure, her inner voice murmured. Calm down. Focus. She needed to contain herself, to fight off the urge to scream. No, now was the time for survival. She forcefully quelled her emotions, shoving them into an old box somewhere deep in her mind. She would look at them later. She needed to find shelter and safety, some place where she could piece together what had happened.

  Sora dragged herself to her feet. Her muscles quivered, then grew solid and firm. Her entire body felt as though it had been chewed up in a giant's mouth, then spit out on the ground. She glanced down at her torn clothing, bruised skin visible through the holes. Seaweed clung to her pants and shirt, tangled up in the cloth. She tried to rip the strands off, but the effort was too much.

  She stumbled over to a pile of driftwood and pulled a large, long branch from the mess. It was fairly straight, made smooth by the ocean. She felt a sudden pang of loss, reminded of her witchwood staff, her favorite weapon. She would never see it again.

  Then she turned toward the forest, staggering up the beach. She could see a mountain covered in bright green foliage jutting over the tops of the trees. It was small compared to the mountains of the mainland. The sun touched the horizon behind it, sinking fast in the sky.

  She turned her gaze back to the beach. Her eyes combed the trees, looking for a likely place to set up camp. She didn't know what kind of animals lived in this forest. It would be wiser to sleep in the trees.

  She spotted a perfect climbing tree further up the beach. A large, thick trunk sprawled outward, split into many branches. The bark looked flat and shiny, different from the tall pines of her homeland. The leaves were longer than her hand, waxy in texture, bright green.

  She walked to the tree, quite a distance across the sand. Strange, spiky gourds hung from its branches, dark brown in color, bigger than her fist. At least I'll have something to throw if I'm attacked, she thought wryly. Then she set about climbing the tree. She was barely able to pull herself up to the lower branches, her left arm still weak and useless.

  She settled into the nook at its center, curling up against the shadows. The smells of the forest were strange—minty and sweet, tangy, like the lemon tree in her mother's garden. Harsh sounds pierced her ears—loud, shrieking birds and croaking frogs. The click of insects. Distant roars of unseen animals.

  She curled tighter into a ball, squeezing her eyes shut, wishing she were invisible. The faces of her friends swam before her. Burn's easy smile. Laina's awkward grin. Crash's enigmatic gaze. They're dead, she thought, tears slipping from between her closed eyelids. Grief struck her, an abyss opening in her chest, large enough to swallow her whole. She fell into it, pain coursing through her, overtaking her body. She felt minuscule, as though still trapped in another ocean, tossed by the waves, helpless.

  She began to sob, a choking sound. The pain was so great; it forced her throat to close, made her tears weak and pitiful. She couldn't even begin to fathom what she had lost. They're all dead…and I'm alone.

  * * *

  Lori frowned. She thought she recognized the horse in the distance. It didn't seem possible, but she would know that dark coat anywhere, the white socks and blazed nose. She even recognized the saddle.

  The sun was setting at the small port of Cape Shorn. It was a narrow hook of land that jutted out into the ocean, the last port town for the next sixty miles.

  Ferran had brought her here in search of a book. A rare, priceless book that he had given to a whore some months ago. She winced thinking about it. The book had then been sold to some kind of a pirate that was supposedly anchored off of Sylla Cove. According to Ferran, the book held the secrets of the Dark God's weapons—and the method of returning them to the underworld. It was exactly what Sora would need once she killed Volcrian.

  Without returning the sacred weapons, the plague would continue to spread, taking one victim at a time. She had kept a careful eye on the population of Cape Shorn, noting a few coughing sailors and merchants with pale, sallow skin. The plague had yet to take root on the coast, but it was only a matter of time. It was already sweeping across the farmlands.

  She sat on the docks, coiling up various lengths of rope, repairing the weaker strands as fast as possible. The sun was setting fast and soon there would be no light to work by. Ferran was on board, stocking the cabin with dried meats and jarred vegetables, preparing his small houseboat for the voyage north. It was quiet this evening, unusually so. In a port city like Cape Shorn, countless merchants and fishermen stocked their ships before heading out to deeper waters. Tonight, however, the docks were unusually subdued, the sky gray with dusk, the sun at the brink of the horizon.

  The horse approached them, coming to a stop. It whuffed in greeting, flicking its ears. Yes, she would know that steed anywhere. It was her stallion Mingo, the sire of two little foals back on her ranch.

  A low, hunched shape struggled from the saddle. Her frown deepened. It could be none other than Cameron, her stablehand. But how had he found them? She couldn't guess. Her horses were well-trained, related to a distant bloodline that stretched back to the War. They were far more intelligent than most, in hi
gh demand amongst soldiers and the nobility. She had managed to secure a pair as payment from an especially thankful breeder. Since Cameron was mute, she could only assume that the horse's instincts had led him to her.

  “What's happened?” she demanded, dropping the rope in her hands. Ferran glanced up, leaning out from beneath the roof of the houseboat. He looked at her questioningly, but she ignored him. She leapt to the wooden dock and ran inland toward Cameron, who looked ashen in the fading light.

  The man didn't say anything—he couldn't speak, he was shivering so hard. He must have ridden all day. His face was bitten by the wind, bright red across his cheeks and nose. Why is he here? She could only think of one reason: trouble.

  He held out a shivering hand, with a piece of paper clamped in it. She took the paper from his grip, prying his fingers open, and quickly read over the note.

  It was from Sora. Lori gnawed her lip as she read. Her daughter had sent it from the Port City of Delbar, perhaps a week or two ago. But why the urgency? She kept reading, her heart in her throat, waiting for some indication that her daughter was wounded or trapped. But the message was much more surprising than that.

  “The Lost Isles?” she muttered in surprise. Sora's letter detailed her journey to the city of Barcella, where she had met with the Priestess of the West Wind. Now she was taking a ship out to sea to the Lost Isles. Lori balked at the thought. It was a place of notorious shipwrecks. Sailors avoided those waters, at times making hundred-mile detours around the weather. The Lost Isles were said to be cursed by mysterious storms, residue left from the ancient War.

  She was speechless.

  “What is it?” Ferran called, stepping off the boat. He was a tall man, lean and muscular and in his late thirties, a few years older than her.