Sora's Quest (Cat's Eye #1)

by T. L. Shreffler

  The man's face kept twitching around the lips. Garret supposed he was nervous, unused to sharing a fire with noble blood, or perhaps he had once suffered from a seizure. He had a crippled hand, after all. He kept the deformity hidden under his cloak, but Garret had gotten a glimpse of it. He was glad it was only a glimpse; the limb looked absolutely frightful, gnarled and twisted like a ginger root. They said a crippled limb was a sign of bad luck. A curse.

  The traveler — he hadn't quite caught his name — smiled in a forced kind of way, perhaps because of his strange teeth, which were long and unexpectedly pointed. He shook his silver head. "None for me, thanks," he murmured.

  Garret went on eating. He and his men had been traveling for five days so far, on their way to meet with the Lord of the next county, who was looking to marry off his eldest daughter. He had asked around a bit before offering his suit. She was not as beautiful as Lady Sora, but her dowry was almost the same. He was lucky that word had not spread of his gambling debt. Based on the letter in his pocket, the father would be happy to receive him.

  They were currently camped somewhere on the plains, a flat area with tall grass on every side. He had started out with eight men, three of which had run away on the first night. Over the last four days, three more had wandered off, which left him with two. Both were servants he had taken from Lady Sora's manor — neither had much to say for themselves.

  "What are you doing in these parts, anyway?" Garret thought to ask, turning back to the strange traveler. He didn't appear local, but Lord Garret could be wrong. Northern clothing or not, he wasn't a very good judge of these things.

  The traveler sat rigidly across the fire. His blue eyes kept dancing between Garret and his men, as though sizing them up for a meal. It was damned eerie, to be sure. Why did he keep staring at them like that?

  "I'm looking for an old friend," the man said quietly. "And... well, I'm looking to recruit a few helping hands. You wouldn't happen to know if there are any farms or settlements around here?"

  Garret frowned, stroking his chin. "Mayville is the nearest town, about three day's trek that way." He pointed, then laughed. "Other than that, you'd be hard pressed to find anyone out here. We're in the middle of nowhere, my friend!"

  “Oh? Completely isolated?"

  Lord Garret chuckled to himself. What a dunce! “Just look around — in't it obvious?” he laughed. "We're practically dead to the world!"

  The traveler smiled slowly, and suddenly Garret felt the tiny hairs on his neck stand up. "How very convenient," he murmured. A slight wind stirred.

  "Eh?" Garret asked uneasily, and shared a glance with his two servants.

  The man opposite the fire stood up, his silver hair falling across his face. He slowly drew a knife from beneath his cloak. "I am in need of blood, My Lord," he said with a twisted grin. "And I think yours will do nicely."

  The traveler leapt upon them, too swift to follow. Lord Garret yelled for help, and soon terrified screams filled the night — but no one was close enough to hear.

  * * * * *

  Volcrian was up for hours afterwards, preparing the bodies, running his knife smoothly under the skin, stripping it piece by piece. He had removed his clothes so as not to get them dirty, and he spread the blood across his arms and chest, letting it dribble over his tight stomach. It was warm. Thick.

  He pressed his hands against the quivering organs, the bloated mounds of the stomach and intestines, down to the various muscles weeping fat. He skinned each of the bodies, and then, one by one, cut out their hearts. They were still slippery, jittering in his grasp, a mimicry of life.

  The bodies had to be disposed of. It was a three day ritual, one for each of the wraiths, for each of the spirits he had tied to his will. The bodies would be burned using ceremonial herbs, each at a different hour of the day; the skin sewn into cloaks, new suits, empty for the use of magic. There were countless spells he would have to chant, ensuring that the soul did not remember its previous identity, nor its own autonomy.

  It would take a large toll on him, but in the end he would create minions all but invincible. Then he would send them after the assassin and his companions. He doubted the Cat's Eye would be able to effect them, not with the amount of blood and physical matter that they were comprised of. Spirits rode in the magical shells, ghosts made flesh, solid and real — and at his complete command.

  Volcrian began building a bonfire, his crippled hand clamped tight against the cold.

  * * * * *

  Dagger lessons were another story. They seemed to go a lot faster than the staff because — Burn proclaimed proudly — she was a natural. Yes, it was Burn teaching her. Personally, Sora had been hoping for Dorian’s instruction, since he was always shining his own daggers, but the mage had ducked out. “I have no patience with beginners!” he had said. “Believe me, I'm no teacher.”

  And so, since Sora had been desperate to get away from Crash, she had turned to the mercenary.

  The placement of her hands on the daggers was easy and natural for her, and soon Sora found herself twirling them back and forth between her fingers. By the time she started her new lessons, she had already learned the basics of physical combat, how to duck, weave, dodge, kick, punch, and roll — but she was used to having a heavier weapon in her grasp. Because of this, her first experience with the daggers ended hilt-deep in a tree, fractions from Dorian’s startled face.

  “Trying to kill me so soon, love?” he smirked. “Your aim is a bit off.”

  “I was aiming for the tree!” she retorted. Burn chuckled and they took the rest of the day adjusting to the feather-light weapons.

  As her instruction continued, so did their journey into the swamp. The temperature began to drop, and the sky became constantly overcast. It rained occasionally, but usually the clouds sat heavy and sullen in the sky, as though withholding a secret. The air became more soggy, the ground softened and the vegetation took on a gray cast. The trees changed as well, becoming short, sprawled and mossy, no longer the tall pines of before.

  At first the small changes didn’t bother her, but soon she became painfully aware of them. She was dodging one of Crash's staff thrusts on a particularly misty day when she stepped on a dense, slimy patch of grass. Her foot slipped out from under her. With a grunt and a yell, Sora fell backwards into the mud, bruising her rump on the soft ground. Then she found the entire side of a hill caving out from under her, the loose dirt crumbling beneath her weight.

  “Hey!” she shouted, trying to catch her balance. She grabbed at a bush, but it uprooted in her hands. Then she tumbled backwards with the dirt, down a brief slope, grass whipping in her face, leaves in her mouth. When she landed at the base of the hill, she found herself staring up at the overcast sky, dazed, the trees and foliage slowly spinning around her. She imagined that the clouds were so low, she could reach up and touch them.

  Crash and the two Wolfies skidded down to her a second later. Wordlessly, Dorian helped her to stand. No one spoke, not even to make fun of her fall. Sora was busy wiping mud from her eyes and tried to act nonchalant about her tumble down the hill. “Well, that was unexpected,” she said with an awkward laugh, rubbing her sleeve across her face. When she could finally see again, she looked at her three companions, wondering at their silence – then frowned. They were staring past her, eyes hard and focused. She turned as well, following their gaze, and found herself met by a strange sight; certainly not what she had expected to see in the murky forest.

  “What is that?” she asked, pointing to an odd structure of branches. It stood a few yards away amidst a thick tangle of bramble, and looked like it might have been a scarecrow at one time, but it was missing a head. A pole had been firmly stuck in the ground, perhaps eight feet in length, and another branch had been tied to it crosswise. Old, rotted cloth was draped over it, what might have been a shirt or a cloak, and as she got closer, Sora could make out a string of bones and teeth around its wooden neck. There was a pile of junk scattered at its b
ase: beads, feathers, chips of glass and more bones. She couldn't tell if they were animal or human. A cold wind gusted past them, slightly moving the old cloth. The string of bones clinked softly in the breeze.

  Sora felt a chill run across her skin. She had been walking toward the scarecrow, but now she came to a halt, reluctant to go any closer. Her eyes roved over the pile of scraps at its feet, tangled in the overgrown brush.

  “What is this?” she asked again.

  “A symbol,” Crash answered her. He had his map out and was looking it over, his finger tracing one of the scratchy lines. “It's a marker. Here begins the swamp.”

  “And the Catlins' spell,” Dorian echoed.

  “It's a warning,” Burn said. His warm hand landed on her shoulder, and Sora blinked her eyes, as though shaken from a daydream. “These bones aren't just for decoration. Travelers aren't welcome here. We best continue moving. From here on out, we should keep in mind that we are not alone. The Catlins could be anywhere among these trees. Let's try not to draw attention to ourselves.”

  “Right,” Dorian agreed. Then, after a brief pause, “No more snoring, Sora.”

  She turned to him, surprised, the solemn atmosphere broken. She glared. “I don't snore!”

  “Like a bear,” Burn nodded. He grinned at Dorian over her head.

  “What? That's not funny!” Sora exclaimed, though she knew they were only teasing her. Well, maybe. She honestly had no idea. Her maids had certainly never mentioned it. “I'm as quiet as a whisper! Burn is the one who snores!”

  “I do not-!”

  “Quiet,” Crash snapped. All three turned to look at him. “Your voices could wake up the trees, you're so loud. No more meaningless banter. Only speak when necessary.”

  The Wolfies nodded and Sora looked at the ground, avoiding his gaze. Perhaps they had been a bit loud, but the swamp appeared to be a dead place, deserted; she hadn't seen a sign of life in days, except for the ground worms and snails. The silence of the swamp was deafening; she felt as though she was drowning in it, like someone had put a heavy blanket over her head.

  "We should continue. Staying in one place too long is dangerous on this ground," Crash said. Then he turned back to the hill and started upward, heading back to camp.

  They packed up swiftly and saddled their horses. Burn discarded a few pots and pans from his equipment, saying they would clank together and cause too much noise. Dorian followed suit, though they carried very little metal other than their weapons. They muffled their saddles as best as they could, then continued on their way.

  Several days passed as the swamp became more and more dense, the trees larger, the ground softer until it was like wading through mud. Their beasts grew thinner and weaker over the days, and they had to take more frequent stops. Grass became less and less common, and the horses were reluctant to eat moss or any of the other roughage in the swamp. They were running low on feed, and the beasts would sink into the mud if they stood in one place too long. Sora began to wonder why they had brought them in the first place, and more than once Dorian mentioned eating them. There was no other sign of game or wildlife. She didn't like the idea of killing their steeds, but a slow death by starvation sounded even worse. She was worried about taking the animals much farther.

  The trees continued to change, thickening and growing despite the soft earth, or perhaps because of it. Their bark became grayish white and they leaned at odd angles, split at the trunk. They appeared like large hands reaching for the sky. The trunks became so thick that Sora couldn't reach her arms around them, and their branches weren't much smaller, tangling with each other, growing in a mess above their heads. The clouds became thicker and thicker until they were a solid wall above them.

  As far as Sora was concerned, this was a place that should exist only in her nightmares. She could easily see how travelers could get lost, with the Catlin's spell or not. It started to smell of sulfur soon after and thick vines hung down from the branches, like the bodies of giant snakes. A silence enveloped the four travelers, and she felt a vague depression come over her, a sadness that she couldn't explain. She wanted to go home, she wanted to sleep, she missed sunlight, and she longed desperately for a soft chair and a warm fireplace.

  I’d like to go home, but I don’t have a home anymore, she thought; it sat in her gut like a rock.

  They continued through the damp gray world, sleeping in trees at night so as not to sink on the soft ground, eating handfuls of berries and a rare strip of dried meat. Her beautiful mansion seemed like a dream now, although it couldn't have been more than a month since she had last seen it. It seemed as unreal and nonexistent as the once legendary races.

  Chapter 7

  Sora tried not to fall asleep.

  It was their fourth week in the swamp, and they were riding their horses now because the muck had become too deep to walk through. She had taken to riding with Dorian, since he was easiest to fit next to in the saddle. His back was thin and hard against her cheek and she shifted against him to match the movement of the horse.

  “A bit rougher, love,” she heard him murmur. She had no energy to actually respond.

  Her hips and lower were sore from riding, but that was the least of her discomforts. She had by now given up on ever seeing blue sky again, and the smell of the swamp seemed to be the only air she had ever breathed. Every now and then her Cat’s Eye would jingle and the artificial depression would lift, but that didn’t stop her own mind from torturing her.

  “Are you sure we're not lost?” she muttered into the thick cloth of Dorian’s shirt.

  “We're following the map closely,” he responded. They had already passed two of the unmistakable landmarks. “But who knows how long it will take to get all the way through.”

  Sora's stomach rumbled; she couldn't remember the last time she had felt full. “I don’t feel so well,” she murmured.

  The Wolfy grew tense. “Are you going to throw up?” he asked anxiously.

  “No... for that, I'd need something in my stomach.”

  Dorian nodded. “It’s one of the side affects of the Catlins’ spell,” he murmured. “The necklace is probably exhausting you, draining your strength in order to protect us. You look pale.”

  Sora felt pale. She sighed against his shirt.

  “Maybe you should sleep,” he suggested.

  “Sleep?” Sora asked, blinking. “How am I supposed to sleep on the back of a horse?”

  Very easily, she answered herself. She didn't hear Dorian's response; her eyelids were already drooping. She felt him grab a hold of her hands, securing her position in the saddle, but she couldn't focus anymore. She gave up to the beckoning darkness.

  * * * * *

  Sora was walking through her manor, her steps swift and frantic. She had to get to her room. In the way of dreams, she didn't know why, but dashed up the stairs anyway, down the hall, then to the large doors of her bedroom. She was wearing slippers and a dress, and she kept having to push her skirts out of the way.

  She entered. Her room was a mess. Someone had left the window open, and a strong wind had knocked over the flower vase on her desk; papers were scattered everywhere, mixed with leaves from outside. She walked around the mess carefully, trying not to step on anything valuable — crunch, a small porcelain cat broke under her foot. No matter how hard she tried, she kept stepping on things, snapping her hair brush, bracelets, pretty little baubles.

  A man sat with his back to her, looking out the window. Sora didn't recognize him... yet she had the oddest sensation that she knew him, that she had been expecting him. She felt relieved that he was there.

  “Hello, Sora,” his rich voice flowed over her. It was pitched near Burn’s, deep and warm.

  “Do I know you?” she asked with a frown.

  Immediately, the man laughed. “Know me? No, of course not. But I know you.”

  “Um....” Sora took a moment to think about this. He seemed familiar, even though she hadn't seen his face yet — it was as
though she had known his presence for a long time. As though she had stood in this very room, speaking these very words.

  “The magic is getting stronger in the swamp,” the man said abruptly.

  Sora blinked. “What?”

  “I don’t have much time,” he explained, without explaining anything. “There are places you’d best avoid. Your companions do not know everything about this area.” Sora felt like the man’s eyes were boring into her own, even though she still hadn't seen his face.

  “How do you know?” she asked, suspicious. “What is your name?”

  Abruptly the man was standing directly in front of her; she didn't remember him moving. He reached forward with a large, calloused hand to touch her Cat’s Eye. There was a soft jingling in her ears.

  “I have been with you for a long time,” his voice murmured.

  Sora suddenly felt dizzy. She couldn't seem to keep her balance. She turned toward her giant fourposter bed, planning to sit down, but was alarmed by a red stain on the white sheets. Hadn't the maids washed them just that morning?

  “What...?” she murmured, and ran her hand over the smooth sheets. The red stain grew with her touch, spreading outward, and her eyes widened in horror. Blood.

  The stain spread and spread, expanding with a life of its own. Within seconds, her bed was soaked in it. Then it seemed that gallons of fluid gushed from the center of the mattress, like a bleeding heart, soaking her quilts and precious furs, pouring to the ground. It was an unstoppable fountain. Sora shrieked and stepped back, alarmed, trying not to step in it.