Sora's Quest (25 page)

Volcrian whipped out a knife. He ran his tongue along it, senses heightened, eager for the taste of blood. His eyes dilated in excitement.

Then he launched himself onto the watchman. Plunged the knife into his back, through the kidneys. With a loud, piercing wail, the man rolled on the ground, screaming in pain.

Volcrian was prepared for the next man. Another officer jumped from his bedroll, entangled in his sleeping tents. The Wulven leapt on the man, plunging his dagger straight through his heart. Or at least, that was his intention. He missed a few times before he struck it exactly.

Then he scooped up a pool of blood into his hands, whispered a word of power, and threw it onto the last officer. The blood struck the old man in the face, burning and hissing like potent acid. His screams lit up the night, filtering through the darkness like music. The man died in pain. Horrible, blistering pain.

The mage stood still for a moment, panting, staring at the bodies. He had his sacrifices. There was no time to lose. Now he would work his spell.

Volcrian was up for hours afterward. He removed his clothes so as not to get them dirty, preparing the bodies by the light of the fire. He ran his knife smoothly under each man's skin, stripping it piece by piece, then spread the blood across his arms and chest, letting it dribble over his tight stomach. It was warm. Thick.

He pressed his hands against their quivering organs, the bloated mounds of stomach and intestines, down to the various muscles weeping fat. One by one, he cut out their hearts, still slippery, jittery in his grasp, a mimicry of life.

It was a three-day ritual, one for each of the wraiths, one for each of the spirits he would tie to his will. Using ceremonial herbs, the bodies would be burned, each at a different hour of the day; the skin would be sewn into cloaks and new suits, ready for the use of magic. There were countless spells he would have to chant, ensuring that the soul did not remember its previous identity, or its own autonomy.

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

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

"Don't listen to your head, sweetness! Listen to your gut!"

Swoosh!

Clack!

Goddess! I think I'm going to die!

"Yes, like that, good...don't wipe your eyes; it leaves you open."

"I can't see!"

"You don't have to see."

Dorian was a strange instructor. At times, she couldn't tell if he was teaching her or just teasing. She ducked as he took a swing at her head, the staff hurtling through the air, connecting solidly with the tree behind her.
Crack!

She gasped, desperate for air, too tired to appreciate the small victory.

They had been traveling for a week through the swamp, following wherever the Cat's Eye directed them, which was seldom in a straight line. She tried to stay as focused as possible on their direction, but it was a challenge. Most days were given to hacking and slashing at the underbrush, clearing a pathway for the horses. Fennbog was a mysterious place, veiled in thin mist, bitterly cold and wet. Everything smelled of damp earth and mold. There was a definite sense of being enclosed, lost in the wilderness. At times it seemed like they weren't even walking on land, but on shallow lakes of grass, full of exotic fungi and large, white mushrooms. They had passed through fields and fields of well-disguised sinkholes, smothered with giant lily-pads as wide as she was tall.

Now they had entered the thick of the forest. Giant, moss-covered trees exploded from the ground, so tall that Sora lost sight of the canopy overhead. Their roots were so vast and wide, it wasn't clear where one tree ended and another began. Vines sprawled across every surface, falling like curtains from the sky. Vibrant flowers speckled the landscape, some larger than her head, blooming bright purples and yellows. She had seen more species of frogs than she could count, and almost as many birds.

She trained a few hours with her new weapons each morning, when it was easiest to see.

"Good, sweetness," Dorian murmured. Then he started speeding up his attacks, mock-jabbing at her ribs, her face, her legs. Sora practiced blocking, using the top and bottom of the staff, trying to think three-dimensionally. It was very different from how she imagined a sword. She had two ends to work with, not just one.

"Excellent; now jump!" Dorian instructed, and went low for her legs. Sora gave a tired, halfhearted leap in the air. The staff passed under her—barely.

She stumbled when she landed, staggering to one side. She clumsily dodged another blow and caught herself on a tree, her shoulders aching and her hands numb; her feet had been rubbed raw by her leather boots. Her arms were covered in bruises and her nails chipped down to the pink.

"Give me a moment," she panted, taking deep breaths, trying to suppress the stitch in her side. With a dirty sleeve, she wiped the sweat from her eyes. This was, without a doubt, the most physically challenging activity she had ever experienced: dancing across the tree-roots, trying not to slip on the damp wood. Yet despite her bruises, her staff remained in pristine condition. It was neither chipped nor dented. Dorian had gone through several different poles by this point, carving a new one each night.

Sora gazed at her staff in admiration. Apparently the salesman in Mayville hadn't been exaggerating. Witch wood—it made a difference. She wondered if it could even be chipped by a sword.

Sora groaned; she could feel the pulled muscles only too well in her calves and arms. Quick as lightning, she brought up her staff and heard a sharp
crack!
She smiled in grim satisfaction. Dorian's blow was deflected.

"And she shows potential!" the thief cried, grinning at her fiercely. Sora flushed, trying not to look too pleased with herself. She could hear Burn applauding in the background. The two other members of their camp were lingering near the horses, tending to the beast's hooves. Crash didn't spare her a glance.

Then Dorian swooped down. He picked up her daggers and tossed them to her. "Let's finish with a bit of knife-fighting, shall we?" He dropped his makeshift staff and pulled out his knives, his weapon of choice. Sora sighed and picked up her daggers reluctantly. She liked the staff because it had a longer range. Knife-fighting was a bit riskier.

"Can we find more even ground?" she asked, wiping sweat from her eyes. Daggers required more concentration and she didn't want to watch her feet.

Dorian nodded and pointed off to their left, through the trees. "There's a circle of grass that way. Let's move over there. We'll be back in a few minutes," he called over his shoulder. Burn waved a distracted hand, busy repacking his saddlebags.

Sora followed her instructor through a brief stretch of ferns, pushing through the hanging vines. When she reached the small circle of grass, she found that the ground was soft and spongy, definitely not what she had hoped for. She sighed, then leveled her daggers in front of her, readying herself for the fight.

Dorian lashed out unexpectedly. She barely dodged his blow, leaping out of range. She gasped. "What are you trying to do? Stab me?" she laughed, taking a few steps back and shaking out her arms.

Dorian remained quiet. His eyes glinted in the pale morning light.

The smile faded from her lips and she looked at him uneasily. He had the same empty, solemn expression he had back at the river, when he had watched her almost drown. Sora frowned. She hadn't thought about the incident for a week or more; they had been too busy struggling against the difficult terrain of the swamp.

Dorian lunged forward again, swiping at her with both knives in a butterfly pattern. She jumped back nimbly, deflecting one blade out of pure instinct. He backed her around the clearing.

"Dorian?" she asked quietly. "What are you doing?" The change had come over him so suddenly, she couldn't tell if he was testing her or if he had somehow become another person. It felt like he was trying to push her deeper into the woods. She wanted to head back to camp, suddenly unnerved, but she couldn't tell from which direction they had come.

He lunged at her again, using moves that he hadn't taught her, combining dagger swipes with kicks and punches. Sora dodged desperately, her knives forgotten. She threw herself to one side, tumbling across the wet ground, then tried to roll back to her feet. She slipped in the grass and went down. Dorian was directly behind her, and he plunged the dagger into the ground, an inch from her arm. She rolled again, scrambling to her feet. When she looked into Dorian's face, he stared back at her blankly, stoically, like a sleepwalker.

He lifted his knives again. Sora screamed.

She kept screaming as she deflected two more blows with the flat of her blade. His knife caught her shoulder, ripping through her shirt with ease, puncturing flesh, although she had no idea how deep. Her adrenaline pounded and she couldn't feel the wound.

Instinct took over. Sora threw herself on the Wolfy, trying to dislodge his knives. She clawed at his face, kicking him in the ribs. He grabbed her easily and threw her off, picking up his knives from the ground. Sora scuttled backwards on her hands and legs, like a crab.

"Dorian!" she screamed. "Dorian, it's me! What's gotten into you?" But her companion did not reply.

She finally regained her footing at the edge of the clearing. She paused, watching Dorian come at her. He charged across the muddy ground, his boots sucking and slipping.

At that moment, a black shadow shot across the grass, fast as a wildcat. Crash threw himself on the Wolfy, slamming Dorian face-first into the ground. The thief howled, an inhuman sound, and turned on Crash, the daggers forgotten. The two men wrestled, rolling back and forth. Sora tried to avoid the chaos, but they tumbled directly into her legs. She leapt backwards, out of the way, into the forest...except suddenly, there was no more ground. She put her foot down—on air.

"Aaah!" With a short, sharp yelp, Sora pitched backwards, falling down a steep slope. The two men spilled after her, carried by the momentum of their fight. She grabbed at a bush, but uprooted it. Grass whipped her face, thorns tore at her clothes. When she landed at the base of the steep slope, 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 Dorian landed a second later. The assassin, on top, smashed the air from the Wolfy's lungs. Then he grabbed the thief, heaving him effortlessly off the ground, and slammed him into a tree. The assassin's knife was out, the blade shoved against Dorian's stomach, his other hand tight on his throat.

"You fool!" Crash yelled. "You fool of a thief!"

Dorian blinked, his eyes slowly refocusing. Sora sat up and watched, her lips dry and parted. Speechless.

"W-what?" Dorian started.

Crash shoved him back against the tree again. "You idiot. You could have killed her!"

"Wait!" another voice broke through the panic. Burn skidded down the steep slope, far more balanced and controlled than when Sora fell. He reached them a moment later, sinking into the soft earth. "Hold your blade, Crash! Dorian didn't know! He wasn't in control!"

"And what about next time?" Crash snapped. "We might as well be traveling with Volcrian in our midst. Dorian's a danger to all of us. I say kill him and be done with it."

"You are quick to use a blade," Burn said steadily. Then he nodded to Dorian. "Let the man speak."

Sora didn't know what was going on. She watched as Crash let go of Dorian. The Wolfy slid back to the ground, shaking. When he looked at her, his eyes were full of fear.

"I-I don't know what happened," he said. "I blacked out. I can't remember anything."

"Dorian," Burn said slowly, steadily. "Did you bleed a lot from that cut on your hip? Could Volcrian have gotten hold of it?"

"I think it's obvious that he has," Crash grunted.

Wordlessly, Dorian raised his shirt, inspecting the thin strip of pink flesh. It was almost completely healed. When he looked up again, there was more than just fear in his eyes. There was despair. "What do we do?" he asked quietly.