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

by T. L. Shreffler

  Exposed, the puncture wound appeared narrow and thin to the untrained eye, only about two inches wide, but on further inspection Crash discovered just how deep it was. By what he could tell, she had been pierced almost completely through the chest. She was damaged internally, thus the blood dripping from her mouth. He shook his head in wonder. How could she possibly still be alive? The Cat's Eye? His eyes darted to the seemingly harmless necklace. What else did he not know about its powers?

  He pulled off his cloak, then wrapped it around her ribs firmly. A frustrated sigh escaped his lips. Now everything rested on time, and time was something he couldn't control. What was taking Burn so long? The town wasn't that far away.

  He allowed himself to rest his head against her chest and listen to her fighting heart. It was faint, fluttery, out of sync. But she was fighting; he knew she wouldn't give up on life so easily. The memory of her last words haunted him, and he pushed the sound of her voice away. Stupid girl, you should have let me die. How many times had he wished for death, for a killing blow? But it seemed the gods weren't done with him yet.

  A shudder ran through him. He might have prayed to the Goddess at that moment, begged a favor from the deity that he had never spoken to, but She wasn't his to ask. No, his people did not speak to the Wind... they worshipped something darker, something far less forgiving whose name remained buried deep in the earth, who had stayed hidden from the world since its very creation. And it was not the kind of deity to save a life.

  He lowered his head and let his black hair fall across his eyes. Once again, innocents were dying at his expense, and he could do nothing.

  Her body temperature was dropping fast; she was going into shock. The chill of the coming night only made it worse, the stars spilling across the sky, a brisk wind rising from the North. Crash wasn't cold — he was never cold — but he knew how important it was for Sora to stay warm. He began rubbing her limbs as the darkness deepened, trying to work a little heat into them. He was ridiculously tired after the swamp and just wanted to sleep, but he knew her life depended on him awake, alert, keeping her warm. Regretfully, he wished that he had the time to make a fire — but with any luck, Burn would be back soon.

  Frost started to form on his breath. It only made him notice how shallow Sora's own breathing was. He cursed the gods silently under his breath, then pulled the girl into his arms and leaned back against the tall, thick grass. Gently, he breathed near her face to warm the air she was taking in. It would do no good for her to get sick, and — although he still couldn't explain why — her presence against him was reassuring.

  * * * * *

  The sight of Dorian's dead body kept replaying itself over and over in his mind, and Burn couldn't stop it. Again and again he saw the wraith strike down and the thief throw himself in front of the blow, sacrificing his life. He had to have known what he was doing. A skilled fighter always knew when the battle was over.

  One down, only two left. There was no saving the Wolfy race. The females had all died out with his mother's generation, yet Burn had hoped that he and Dorian would survive long enough to make a new home for themselves. They had shared many dreams together, hopes about the future, about not having to spend it alone. And now those dreams were lost. Vanished, as dreams did. It was a familiar pain, the death of a friend, one he had experienced many times over his long life — yet the loss of one friend had never prepared him for the loss of another. He could already feel the sorrow creeping upon him, the despair, the fierce denial.

  At least he had died a noble death, though that was only a small comfort. Dorian, the mage he had stumbled across so long ago in a wayside tavern, the thief who was more sarcastic than sly, more caustic than cunning, was no more. Gone. Dead. He's dead.

  And if I don't hurry, there will be two deaths tonight. The thought lent wings to his feet. They both owed Sora their lives, and the girl was far too young to die. She was still practically a child, new to the ways of the world. He ran toward the town's front gates.

  It was against his better judgment to enter a town. If Volcrian found their trail again — which he most assuredly would — they would be easily identified. But Sora would die otherwise, which called for drastic measures. He hoped that Crash could keep her alive long enough until they found a proper Healer.

  Abruptly Burn slowed down. Two figures had moved in front of the gates to intercept him, hard to distinguish in the fading light. By the scent on the breeze, however, he knew they were soldiers: the night watch.

  He stopped before the gates where two guards had appeared, both encased in clunky armor, which appeared awkward and oversized on their thin frames. He thought one looked like a teenager, the other barely older. They strutted around pompously, clicking their spears on the ground.

  One sneered in his direction. "Sorry, chap," he said. "Can't let you in. Night's fallen, you know, and we don't let strange characters like you past the gate."

  Burn hesitated, wondering what would be the best course of action, but he was finding it difficult to think reasonably. He was exhausted, running purely on adrenaline, his mind still reeling from Dorian's death. Finally he drew his sword and glared.

  "Out of the way," he growled.

  The two guards jumped aside like grasshoppers — neither wanted to get in the way of his giant blade. The Wolfy strode through, six and a half feet of muscle and anger. He felt sorry for the next fool to get in his way.

  The town was small and made of short square buildings and cobbled roads. It looked quaint and friendly. The street lamps had recently been lit and cast flickering shadows across the ground. It was growing cold, unusual for this time of year – a sign from the Goddess? He hoped not.

  He started down the winding street. Most of the town's inhabitants had retired to dinner, but a few people were still wandering around outside, just in time to see the golden-eyed giant striding meaningfully past them. He would doubtlessly be the topic of much conversation in the morning. Despite the many looks, no one called out to him.

  A few minutes later, Burn found the kind of fellow he was looking for — a thin, honest type with large watery eyes and dark hair. He was wringing his hands nervously, sitting out on his doorstep, perhaps trying to calm himself by taking in the night air. The Wolfy didn't linger on why he was outside; he simply acted.

  "You," he snarled, pointing at the man, all patience and politeness forgotten. "Is there a Healer nearby?"

  "W-w-what?" the man stuttered. He started to shake all over, his skin turning white with fear.

  "Stop cringing! Answer me swiftly — is there a Healer in this town? This is life or death!"

  At that moment the door to the house opened. A woman stood there, outlined by the light of the room behind her, a halo of golden hair around her face. After a few moments of authoritative silence, she spoke sharply, "Well? Here I am! Now who's asking for a Healer?"

  Burn, taking his chance, said, "I am, ma'am. It's urgent. There is a young lady in the field bleeding to death. She was stabbed."

  The woman stepped down and lit the lantern in her hand. The light illuminated her face, and Burn saw it was damp with sweat, as though she had just come from a heavy workout. She looked around. "Oh, Jase, there you are. Your wife is fine, only a few hours of labor." Then a smile grew on her face. "It's a beautiful boy."

  The man nodded in relief and scurried inside, casting one last fearful glance over his shoulder before slamming the door shut.

  The woman turned back to Burn. "I'm the only Healer in these parts. It would appear that you got lucky. Now step over here so I can get a good look at you, then tell me again what the matter is."

  Burn tried not to roar with impatience. Had she not heard him the first time? Sora's life hung by a thread! He stepped forward from the shadows and looked down at the tiny woman, ready to growl in frustration, then he stopped. His mouth opened in surprise.

  The lady in front of him, though quite a bit older than Sora, looked almost exactly like her. From her hair, sligh
tly less vibrant, to her short stature and firm chin. The biggest difference was how she carried herself — it was plain to see that this woman was a warrior. From what he could tell, her arms were muscular and defined, her stance tall and straight, and she wore several different knives at her belt. Definitely not what one would expect from a Healer.

  The woman stared up at him with shrewd blue eyes, then let out a breath, equally surprised. "A Wolfy!" she said, and put her hands on her hips. "Goddess take me! I thought your race was extinct." The two stared at each other for a moment longer, then the woman waved her hand. "Come, show me this girl. I'll see what I can do. We might have to move her to my cabin, I don't have a lot of supplies on me. Just a moment while I get my horse."

  * * * * *

  Crash felt the tremors of horse hooves through the ground. His eyes saw perfectly through the darkness, and he made out a horse and rider in the distance along with a figure on foot. He let out a breath — he felt like he had been holding it for hours. Good, Burn had found someone.

  He shifted Sora's small body off of himself, surprised by how light she was; if he squeezed too hard, he might crush her. Gently he laid her down and listened for a heartbeat. It was there; she was just cold and stiff. Rubbing her arms again, he breathed warm air in front of her and patted her cheeks, trying to warm her up.

  Hold on. He would have murmured it into her ear, but that would have been a tad bit sentimental – she couldn't hear him, after all, and he was a far cry from a simpering fool. She looked limp, lifeless. He willed the Healer to come faster, then glanced over to the dead body of Dorian, a slight curl to his lips. His blood held a certain smell, heavy and sweet. Death, despite what the bards had to say, was not beautiful or dramatic. It was a cold body laying in the grass.

  Then he turned to face the oncoming horse. The beast halted just short of where he was crouched and he watched the Healer leap down. An empty lantern swung in one hand and the other held a bag; even from his position, he could see that the rider was short and slight of build. A woman?

  She lit the lantern; it illuminated their patch of grass. Crash looked down at Sora's body, now able to see the paleness of her skin, the blue tinge to her lips. The woman set the light down next to Sora and knelt by her side, carefully undoing the makeshift bandage. Once off, she firmly inspected the wound.

  "This is far more serious that it appears," she murmured. “It's very deep.”

  "It goes almost all the way through," Crash said sourly, glancing over at the woman. She better know what she's doing.

  Then suddenly he blinked — his breath caught. He turned his head slowly to look at her again. He took in her features carefully, his face schooled and flat, the opposite of his lurching heart. Because for a moment he thought he had seen a ghost – the mirror image of Sora crouching in her place, illuminated by the lantern, as though viewing her own body. But on closer inspection, he could see the lines around her eyes, a difference in the hairline, slightly thinner lips. Sora's hair was a deeper gold.

  Her hands, which traveled over Sora's body in search of other injuries, showed her age; they were rough and veined. Confident. Everything about her reminded him of a warrior. Someone who knew herself and knew the human body.

  The woman turned to look at Crash after a short inspection of the wound. "We have to move her to my cabin," she said, her eyes hard and serious. "We're losing her as we speak. Her Cat's Eye is holding her together, but it won't last much longer. She has lost a lot of blood." Her arm motioned to the other side of the field, west of the town. "My home is in a clearing in the woods. If we can move her there, we might be able to save her. No time to lose.” She hesitated only slightly. “How about you two? Are either of you hurt?"

  Crash was surprised at the woman's knowledge of the Cat's Eye; she had identified it immediately and had even avoided touching it, aware of its ability to bond. For a Healer, she seemed to know a lot about the stone. He decided not to mention it – for now. "No," he answered her question.

  "Yes," corrected Burn. "Crash here has quite a nasty knife wound on his side."

  The woman turned to look at him. Crash shook his head in response. "It's nothing, just a scratch. Sora is what matters."

  The woman nodded sharply, then glanced away, her eyes lingering on the dead body in the grass. She blinked. "Another Wolfy?" she murmured. "A friend of yours?"

  Crash didn't respond, but Burn cleared his throat. "A bit of a story," he offered. "We don't have time for it now."

  The Healer looked at both of them for a long moment, then finally turned to the fallen girl. "We'll have to hurry. Tell me, that is her name — Sora?"

  "Yes," Crash said. He watched the woman's face intently.

  She seemed thoughtful, momentarily withdrawn. Her eyes roamed over the body, the face, perhaps a little bit too long. Then she turned back to them. "Come on, help me move her."

  * * * * *

  Holding Sora securely in his arms, Crash made his way across the field on horseback. The beast did not need urging or directions, and personally, the assassin was far too tired to do either. Behind him the Healer clung loosely to his waist, and he felt that she was hanging on to keep him from falling off. It was working, too. He was so tired that he could have fallen asleep in the middle of a battlefield at war.

  This is a battlefield at war, he thought, and looked down at Sora's fragile form. She had lost a lot of weight from the last time he had carried her, long before the swamp. He hadn't noticed before; hadn't cared to.

  The Healer's arms shifted around Crash's waist, causing him to wince as they brushed his wound. A memory surfaced — Sora riding with him, holding onto his waist as well. A strange thing to remember at a time like this.

  A hand patted his knee, and Crash looked down to meet Burn's gaze. The giant Wolfy was carrying Dorian's body slung over one shoulder. The man seemed to have read his mind, unspoken communication. Concern, fear, and deep, mind-numbing exhaustion... all of it shared between them. Crash blinked at Burn's attempt to reassure him and looked back down at Sora's body. He had to save her — he owed her that much. Her blood kept leaking through the bandages, trailing down her mouth, a thin, small stream. It was a wonder that she wasn't dead already.

  Crash was thankful when the horse came to a stumbling halt. They had entered a wide clearing in the woods, covered in low grass and pine needles. In the middle was a log cabin. It was much larger than he expected, two stories high, dozens of windows, two or three chimneys — but somehow, it still appeared quaint and welcoming. Light shone from inside.

  The Healer got down from the horse and whistled. She was answered almost immediately by the soft panting of breath. A small man came running around the building, the light shining off his bald head. He was old and hunched, with long goblin ears, a jutting nose and drooping eyes.

  "Cameron? Take the horse into the stalls,” she directed. “Then could you heat up the remainders from lunch? Our guests will be hungry.”

  The man nodded hastily and made a lunge for the reins, but the Healer caught his wrist. "Cameron! Cameron, listen, take the horse into stall, gently, do you understand? Gently."

  The man, who was obviously simple minded, nodded solemnly and took the reigns. The Healer turned to glance at them, a wry expression on her face. “He was brought to me a few years ago, knocked silly from a fall off a horse. He survived the wound, but was never quite right after that. His family asked me to look after him. We've since become quite comfortable.”

  Crash nodded, barely listening. He was trying not to sway in the saddle, Sora's body becoming heavier and heavier. Abruptly Burn reached up and lifted Sora from his arms. He was reluctant to let go, but he couldn't have dismounted otherwise. Free of the excess weight, he swung his legs over and slid to the ground, stumbling slightly when he landed — the hard dirt was an unexpected shock to his feet, and his wound stretched, pain shooting through his side. He sucked in a breath, gritting his teeth. He could feel the gash reopening, pulling apart, chaffing agai
nst its bandage.

  Cameron led the horse toward the stalls.

  "Follow me," the Healer directed, glancing at him. She walked toward the front door of the cabin and opened it, letting them enter first. "I can see all three of you are in need of attention. Burn, take the girl down those stairs and through the first door on the right. You can place her on the wooden table.” Her eyes slid to Dorian's body, which was still slung over the mercenary's shoulder, cold and limp. “You can place him in the next room.”

  Burn nodded and stepped into the house, Crash following closely.

  Inside the cabin was warm and bright; hand woven rugs on the floor and paintings on the walls. Vases filled with wildflowers, lanterns strung on chains, a broad fireplace and ornate furniture. Obviously the Healer did quite well for herself – he wasn't surprised. Healing was a rare art form and took countless years to master. Apprenticeships were hard to come by, so skilled Healers were few and far between. She probably had visitors from all over the countryside at her door, perhaps even those who lived in the Northern mountains.

  The house appeared to be organized in no particular order; most available surfaces were covered in trinkets and candles. “Gifts from my patients,” she murmured, following Crash's gaze. At the end of the front room was a short step down, and they walked onto the stone floor in a large kitchen, filled with copper and brass pans that hung from assorted shelves. A massive stove. Lots of floor room. She led them to a short staircase which emptied into another hallway, branching out into several rooms.

  Here they paused at an oak door. The Healer unlocked it and led them into a small room lined by drawers and shelves. Countless jars were packed full of herbs, medicine, disinfectants, cotton swabs, antidotes, pain killers, and many other bottles that were unlabeled. Several clumps of plants hung from the ceiling, drying. The assassin only recognized a few.