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

by T. L. Shreffler

  Only Jacques flew easily. He kept to the front, his scales a bright gold in the sunlight, leading the pod of Dracians. His elemental magic was the Wind, and he used it to help him fly, creating a strong draft beneath his wings.

  Crash could remember when Jacques had demonstrated his magic, back on the docks of Delbar. A giant dragon, made completely of nimbus clouds, had been summoned from the sky. Lightning flashed from its mouth. Its jaws could have swallowed a bell tower whole. Still, the magic had been all show and no force. It had taken a Cat's Eye to defeat Volcrian's wraith. Sora's Cat's Eye—and almost her life.

  He stood as the Dracians landed. Their wings kicked up a cloud of sand. Laina leapt to her feet and dove into that cloud, one arm thrown across her eyes. She ran up to Jacques. “Did you see her?” she demanded. “Did you find her?”

  The sand slowly settled, blown away by the ocean's breeze. Crash watched the Dracians, wondering the same question, though he wouldn't voice it aloud.

  Laina danced about from foot to foot, repeating her question eagerly. Crash eyed the girl in annoyance. Her shrill voice pierced the air—“Where is Sora? Did you find her?!”

  Jacques turned his eyes to Crash. There was no warmth there. “No,” the Dracian said finally.

  “But we did find a town,” Tristan piped up. The younger Dracian stood at Jacques' side. His scales were bright red in color, the shade of fresh blood. His element was Fire.

  “A town?” Crash asked quietly, tilting his head in question. Tristan wilted under his gaze.

  “Aye,” Jacques agreed. “Old abandoned buildings made of stone. Looks like they've stood for a long time. We would be smart to go there, see if we can recover anything.”

  Crash nodded sharply. “How far?”

  “Roughly ten miles to the north,” Tristan offered, and pointed aimlessly over his shoulder.

  Crash absorbed this news. A town. Could it be that they were on the Lost Isles after all? When the great island of Aerobourne crashed into the ocean, it had splintered into several smaller islands, lodging itself into the side of a massive underwater coral reef. It made sense, suddenly. Perhaps they were on one of the smaller outlying islands. His eyes shifted to the horizon where the storm clouds roiled and thrashed. The storm kept its place in the sky, several leagues out, not moving with any natural weather patterns. Perhaps they had made it through the magical boundary of the Isles.

  “Ho!” a new voice interjected. Burn strode into camp, two boars hung over his shoulder. An arrow to the heart had killed both beasts. He twitched his long ears at the crew. “I overheard you in the forest. You Dracians are so loud, you scared off all the game in a half-mile!”

  Jacques winced. “Sorry 'bout that, old boy.”

  “No matter,” Burn replied. “As you can see, the hunt was successful.” He shrugged his massive shoulders, jostling the two dead boars.

  Their camp was nestled between a sand bank and the border of the dark, tropical forest, enough shelter to keep them out of the wind. Last night, they had attempted to camp on the beach proper, but the winds off the ocean had scattered the fire, stealing their warmth. They would have camped closer to the trees to begin with, but Laina had protested, claiming that Sora might drift in with the midnight tide. A morbid, if likely, notion.

  Burn slung the boars onto a large log that bordered their new camp, then turned back to the crew. “We will head to the town in the morning. Perhaps we can find a map in one of the buildings, some indication of where we are.”

  “And you saw no settlers? No people?” Crash asked, looking back to Jacques.

  The Dracians all shook their heads, murmuring the same answer. No. Nothing. No one.

  Crash took his seat again on the sandworn log, next to the dead boars. The Dracians continued to talk amongst themselves. The rest of the crew drew close as Tristan described the old town, the weathered buildings and overgrown foliage.

  Crash went back to cleaning his blades. They were damaged by the ocean, but not beyond recovery. He was attempting to redirect his thoughts, but no matter how hard he tried, Sora's face kept swimming into view, lifeless and cold under the waves. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to clear his mind. He had left her for a reason, long ago, at her mother's house. She should have stayed put. He hadn't wanted to see her again—right? No, of course not. And he had forced himself not to think of her while they were apart. Not until he had stumbled across her in the forest, Laina in tow, fleeing from bandits in the field.

  He had accompanied her, fully knowing the risks. She needed someone...someone better than he, perhaps. But who else could protect her? Who else could shield her from Volcrian? Don't think of it that way.

  She had been trying to rectify the problem, put right what was wrong, even though it wasn't truly her responsibility. He had kidnapped her, intending to use her necklace against Volcrian's magic. Then the bloodmage had summoned the wraiths from the underworld, releasing the Dark God's presence back into the land of Wind and Light. Sora had taken it upon herself to stop the pending disaster, but really, none of that was her burden. No, it was his.

  He needed to set things right. It's why I left the Hive. Why he had turned away from his Grandmaster, his past, everything he had ever known. He had wanted to change. But you can't outgrow the past, can you? No, not when it was still so much in the present.

  Guilt was a strange feeling, as alien and unwelcome as fear or doubt. And yet he couldn't push it away. Sora had relied on him, helped him, fought alongside him...and for what? An icy death, smothered in salt water.

  Then the guilt bit at him again. They had argued the last time they saw each other. He hadn't tried to bridge that gap. Instead, he had pushed her away. I had to. She couldn't grow close to him, couldn't see what he really was. He couldn't let her. If she had known the truth...the darkness that lived inside of him, churning his gut, aching to escape....All he had done to contain that shadow, only to have it burst out at odd moments, a writhing, destructive force....If she had known his true nature, she never would have trusted him, never would have accepted his help.

  But now she was dead. She would never look to him again. Was it worth it? No, of course not. He should have told her his secrets, made his confessions while he still had the chance.

  Darkness passed over his eyes, strange and flitting. His shadow shifted on the ground, coiling up to his feet. Crash stared at it, wondering if he was losing control, if he would do so right now, in front of the Dracians, the Wolfy, the bastard street child who sat across the fire, twiddling her thumbs and asking a thousand questions....He knew he couldn't contain it. Not in the face of all this.

  He stood up wordlessly. Burn cast him a questioning look. The Wolfy knelt by the edge of the fire, preparing the pigs, his eyes soft from the dimming sun.

  Crash turned away from him. From the entire camp. He picked up his weapons, strapping them to his belt. “I'll make my own way to the town,” he said bluntly.

  The small company stared at him. Then Tristan spoke up. “This late? It'll be dark in a few hours. You won't get far in that kind of wilderness.”

  Jacques held up his hand, silencing his younger companion. “If the man wants to get lost, let him.”

  “'Tis a matter of space,” Burn said loudly. He was back to skinning the boars, running a sharp knife under the skin, stripping it from the flesh. He glanced at Crash, briefly meeting his eyes. “Be safe, friend.”

  Crash nodded briefly, then stalked into the forest, unfazed by the Dracians. He was focused on something deep within himself, a terrible emptiness, a blackness that he had tried to escape, to control. It moved inside him, begging to be released. He wrestled with it, hoping he could leave the camp far behind before the demon came out.

  He was a monster. They all knew it—he could see it written on their faces, in the subtle glances of the Dracians, in the way their voices faded in their throats. Volcrian's hunt was justified. His kind wasn't meant to save lives. Only to destroy them.

  CHAPTER SIX
>
  VOLCRIAN PAUSED BY the docks. The evening sun glinted across the bright water of Delbar. He held two pouches of sand he had scooped from the beach. He viewed the ship from the distance. It was smaller than he had hoped, perhaps only fifty feet long, two masts and a small cabin with a single lower deck. The entire ship could be manned by twenty people. He watched the sailors that lingered on the docks, wondering which were his crewmen. A series of large, burly men sat close to the vessel, eating a plate of crabs. He decided to start there.

  But before he could negotiate, he needed some leverage.

  “Here,” he said, handing the bags of sand to the priestess. “Turn these to gold.”

  “What?” the woman asked. She raised an eyebrow, which was a strange expression, since her brows had almost completely fallen out. He glanced over her blue-tinted face. It was half-obscured by a wide hood.

  “Turn. Them. To. Gold,” he repeated.

  The priestess took the bags and stared at them with her milky, blue-filmed eyes. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  Volcrian sighed. Who would have thought that the dead needed to be trained? “You're a ghost,” he said.

  “A corpse,” she corrected.

  “Either way, you are one of the dead, and the dead have a certain...power of illusion. I have placed a drop of my blood in each of these bags. You're not physically changing the sand. You're just making it look different.”

  The priestess let out the mimicry of a sigh, parting her lips, shrugging her shoulders. But no air passed through her lungs. “I don't know how,” she said.

  “You don't need to know how,” Volcrian replied, his voice strained. “It is in your nature. Just do as I say.” The bloodmage turned back to the sailors. More men had joined the crew, all sitting in front of the ship. Today was their scheduled departure date. If Malcolm had been in charge, they would be setting sail into the gray waters, on the hunt for tuna or mackerel. But Malcolm had yet to join them at the boat—he never would, Volcrian had ensured that—and so the crew waited, propped up on barrels, throwing dice and stuffing their faces.

  “Are you finished?” he asked.

  The priestess hesitated. “I think so.”

  Volcrian opened one of the pouches and glanced inside. Satisfied, he started across the docks, weaving through a group of women haggling over clams. He passed by large coils of rope, some thicker than his forearm. Past a stray dog, an old man and two young children, dressed in rags.

  The sailors glanced up as he approached them. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the title of the ship, then paused a few feet away from the group; sailors were notoriously superstitious. At times, they showed surprisingly keen intuition. He could tell that they were unnerved. They paused from their games, turning to look at him.

  “Hello,” he said, a forced smile at his lips. “I am the new owner of this boat—and, I would hope, your new captain.”

  The sailors stared for a long moment, taking in his blue cloak, his expensive—if weathered—boots. A few glanced at his long silver hair, suspicion in their eyes.

  “Where's Malcolm?” one asked, a large man in a red tunic, a bandana wrapped around his shaggy brown hair.

  “He's left town,” Volcrian said coldly. “I bought his store and his boat. And I would like to hire his crew.”

  “You got coin?” a second man asked, a blond man with a cob pipe in his mouth.

  “Better than coin,” Volcrian replied. He lifted up the two heavy purses He opened one of them, letting the men catch a glimpse of the gold dust inside. “Each is worth five-hundred gold, to be split evenly amongst you.”

  The sailors' eyes widened. They glanced back and forth, raising eyebrows, curling lips. “Hell,” the blond man said. “That's quite a bit of coin.”

  “To be paid upon our return,” Volcrian replied, and tucked the bags of sand back into his belt. The wind blew, pushing his cloak around him, brushing his hair across his face. He swept it back with a fine-boned hand. “ We will travel into deep waters for the fish I seek—further than you're used to, I expect. But you will be rich men upon your return.”

  “What kind o' fish?” one of the sailors spat. “Marlin?”

  “Yes. Among others,” Volcrian murmured.

  A few of the sailors frowned. One of them stood up, an older man, perhaps in his forties. He shook his head. “Doesn't sit right with me,” he said. “I'll try my luck elsewhere.”

  Volcrian watched him depart, his eyes narrow, calculating. Two other sailors stood up to leave. The rest stayed in place.

  The one with the bandana called out to him. “How do we know you're going to pay us?”

  Volcrian grinned slowly. “I'll pay you once we begin our return voyage. If I don't, you can throw me off the ship.”

  The blond one grinned, showing blackened teeth around the corncob pipe. He leaned over to his mate, speaking softly. “Aye,” he whispered, “why not slit his throat now and be done with it?”

  The sailors chuckled together. Volcrian's keen ears picked up every word, but he didn't flinch. If he had to, he could kill every single one of these men and raise them back from the dead, as obedient as his dear priestess. He didn't want to waste the energy or the time, but the thought made his blood pound, his fingers twitch eagerly. A deep, unknown hunger burned inside him, fueled by rage. Nothing would stand between him and his prey.

  “I'll take the deal,” the sailor in the bandana said. He turned to glance at his fellows. “With any luck, the rest of this crew will quit. More gold for me.”

  At his words, there were murmurs of agreement. A few more men rose to join him. Volcrian watched them count amongst each other, calculating their payment on their fingers. Four more stood. The remaining few took to the docks, walking quickly away.

  Volcrian hooked the pouches of sand back to his belt. He nodded to the man in the red tunic and bandana. “I shall return at midnight with supplies. Be ready to cast off.” Then he turned away from the ship toward the docks. He casually linked arms with the priestess, nestling her hand in the nook of his elbow, almost chivalrous.

  “Right, lads!” the man in the bandana called. He stood up, tucking a deck of cards into his belt. “Ready the boat! Pretty her up! We set sail tonight!”

  Volcrian waited until they were out of earshot, then glanced to the priestess at his side. “Well done, my dear.”

  “What are you going to do with them?” she asked, her voice a quiet rasp.

  His eyes glinted. “Nothing...for now.”

  * * *

  Sora was tied to a tree. Her shoulder ached from the abuse. She flexed her fingers, checking the bonds. Plant fibers didn't make the strongest ropes. She thought that maybe, if she wiggled enough, she could slip one hand through. But she couldn't make her move yet. The men were still in plain sight.

  They stood around a small fire nestled deep in the jungle. Full night had fallen. They were preparing their beds and chewing on the last strips of catfish from the smoke hut.

  “I saw her first and I carried her all the way here. She's mine,” Benny was saying, waving his ax around. He had been muttering much the same for the past hour. She didn't like the fanatical gleam in his eye. He stood protectively in front of her, glaring at his fellows.

  John Witherman looked displeased. He tucked his thumbs into his pants, his saber swinging at his side. “As the captain of our crew, I get the first pick of our bounty. I'll have her first, then you can take her.”

  “I don't like going second,” Benny growled. “Besides, we ain't your crew anymore, not for the last seven years. Time for a new leader.”

  John Witherman's eyes narrowed. “Are you challenging me?”

  “Aye,” Benny replied seriously.

  “Hold on,” the older cripple said. He stood slightly to the side of the campsite, out of the way. “You can't fight each other. We've already lost so many! Stand down, Benny. Mayhap we can toss a coin.”

  “What coin?” Witherman snapped. He looked Benny solidly in the
eye and drew his saber. “If he wants his neck slit over a woman, so be it.”

  They discussed her rape casually, as though she were just a bit of stolen treasure. Sora glared at the three men, disgusted and infuriated. Benny had carried her the entire way through the jungle, groping and fondling at every opportunity. She felt violated and enraged. Too much rage, more anger than she had ever known. Patience. With any luck, the two would be at each other's throats. Soon she would make her move.

  And do what? her inner voice asked again. Her gut churned at the thought. But she couldn't leave these men alive to hunt her down. She had to survive no matter what. Everything had changed since the shipwreck. No one would come to rescue her. Burn was dead. Laina was dead. Crash....

  She cringed at the thought of her lost companions. She was alone now, stranded on this island. She had to help herself.

  “If you want her first, then try to stop me,” Benny said stubbornly. Then he whirled to face her.

  Sora met his eyes and curled her lip in disgust.

  Benny leered and started untying his pants. His hands shook with anticipation, and Sora could see a large bulge growing beneath his belt. She curled her legs up to her chest instinctively.

  “Cut her bonds, will you, Fonsworth?” Benny said gruffly to the cripple. “Y'might have to hold her down at first. I'm a bit out of practice.” He winked at his companion.

  Sora wanted to think better of the cripple, but Fonsworth's eyes grew bright with excitement. He hurried to her tree, limping across the campsite. “Don't hate me, little miss,” he said as he crouched behind the trunk. “It's been years since any of us have seen a woman...I'm sure you understand.”

  The situation was quickly slipping out of control. A few more minutes and she might find herself underneath this scum. Sora made eye contact with Captain Witherman, who was fingering the hilt of his blade. She looked at him desperately, widening her eyes, simpering her lips. At least, I hope this is how one simpers. “Please,” she said, looking directly at him. “Please, I prefer you!”