Sora's Quest (26 page)

"Wait," Sora said, holding up her hand. "What happened? What does Volcrian have to do with this?"

Crash turned to her, surprise registering on his face, if only for a moment. Then he let out a short breath. "I forget that you don't know these things," he muttered.

Burn cut in. "Volcrian has somehow gotten his hands on Dorian's blood," he explained. "He's worked a spell with it. He's...uh...influencing Dorian's behavior, you could say." Burn frowned. "Not sure of all the details, I'm not a mage myself. But my guess is that he didn't have enough of Dorian's blood to work the full spell. It looks like his influence is only minor."

Sora nodded slowly. It was the first she had ever heard of this—and more than a little worrisome. She looked at Dorian, catching his eye, but the Wolfy thief glanced away quickly. She wondered if he was ashamed of what he had done.

"We've been trying to avoid this from happening again," Crash murmured.

"Again?" Sora asked, surprised.

None of the men would meet her gaze this time. Burn finally said, "We had a fourth companion very briefly, about a year ago. Volcrian got hold of his blood. Needless to say, he didn't last long."

"We had to kill him," Dorian said.

Sora shuddered. It hadn't occurred to her that more people might have been involved with Crash's party. She wondered what kind of men would fall into league with him. Cutthroats and kidnappers, she was certain.

"Twice this has happened around me," Sora said slowly. "Do you think that Volcrian is...targeting me? Through Dorian?" She hated to ask, and the words almost caught in her throat. The men looked at her, and she read the truth in their eyes. "It's the Cat's Eye, isn't it? He knows about it."

"If he didn't before, he does now," Dorian confirmed. "Using this spell, who knows what he has seen through my eyes?"

Sora paled. "So he is following us into the swamp?"

"The only way he can," Crash confirmed. "By invading Dorian's thoughts."

A brief silence fell. Sora winced, touching her sore shoulder, pulling back her bloody hand. It was disturbing to think about. Dorian hadn't just been playing rough—he had been earnestly trying to kill her. She had escaped by pure luck. If she had been just a little clumsier, he could have stabbed her through the heart, or pierced a lung, or cut the artery under her arm. She would have bled to death....

She looked back at Dorian, unable to hide her distrust.

He watched her with large, regretful eyes. "Sorry, sweetness," he murmured.

"My Cat's Eye," Sora said suddenly, realization dawning. "Maybe it can counteract the spell somehow. Like that monster in the forest, remember?"

"You're not going anywhere near him." Crash glared at the thief. "It's too dangerous. He's out of control."

"Careful, Crash," Dorian sneered. "You almost sound concerned."

The assassin stepped up to the thief, intimidating him with his presence, pushing him back. "I have reason to be," he said darkly.

Sora saw the fear in Dorian's face. The smaller man backed away.

"Enough!" Burn yelled, forcing himself between them. "Sora's suggestion might be our only option. We can't fight amongst ourselves. That is exactly what Volcrian wants!"

Sora watched the men, shaken by the confrontation between Crash to Dorian. She was unsure of what to say.

Burn spoke again. "Before we do anything, we have to get back to the horses. Sora, are you all right to stand?"

"Of course," she said, climbing to her feet and running a careful hand over her cut shoulder. She caught Burn's worried look. "It's not deep," she reassured him. It had already stopped bleeding. She glanced around the trees, searching for the best way back up the hill,. Then she paused and frowned.

"What is that?" she asked, pointing to an odd structure in the branches. It hung a few yards away amidst a thick tangle of bramble, obscured by leaves. She stepped boldly up to the nest of bushes, grabbed hold of a stick and pulled. After a short struggle, she dislodged it from the tree.

It might have been a scarecrow at one time, but it was missing a head. The pole was perhaps eight feet in length, and another branch had been tied to it crosswise. Old, rotted cloth, what might have been a shirt or a cloak, was draped over it. As she looked closer, Sora could make out a string of bones and teeth around the wooden neck. There was a pile of junk scattered at the roots of the tree: beads, feathers, chips of glass, old teeth and more bones. She couldn't tell if they were animal or human, perhaps both.

A cold wind gusted past them, slightly moving the damp cloth. The string of bones clinked softly in the breeze. Sora felt a chill run across her skin. She threw the pole down, suddenly loathe to touch it. Her eyes roved over the pile of scraps, tangled in the overgrown brush.

"What is this?" she asked again.

"A marker," Crash answered her. He shared a look with Burn. "Catlin territory."

"This must be the border," Dorian echoed.

"Catlins?" Sora asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

Dorian sighed and gave her a patient look. "Another one of the five races, dearest...."

"I know that!" Sora snapped. Catlins had also been mentioned in the stories of Kaelyn the Wanderer. Giant, savage beasts with the bodies of men but the heads of giant cats. They were thought to be the most ferocious and brutal of the races. But no one had told her they still existed. She struggled with that for a moment. "They live here? Truly? Why didn't anyone tell me?" She glanced around at their serious faces, but she already knew the answer. These men never told her anything. "This isn't just some cheap trick?"

"Far from it. It's a warning," Burn said. His hand landed on her shoulder, and Sora blinked her eyes, as though shaken from a daydream. "Travelers aren't welcome here. We'd 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 he added after a brief pause, "No more snoring, Sora."

She turned to him, surprised, the solemn atmosphere broken, and 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. Her maids had certainly never mentioned it. "I'm as quiet as a whisper! Burn is the one who snores!"

"Nonsense!" Burn rumbled.

"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. Sora rolled her eyes, wishing he would quit being so serious. The swamp appeared to be a dead place, deserted; she hadn't seen a sign of life in days, except for giant snails and bright red frogs. The silence of the swamp was deafening; she felt as though she were drowning in it, like someone had put a heavy blanket over her head. Perhaps Catlins had lived here once, but who knew how long ago that was? They might have all died off, or moved territories, or whatever it was that Catlins did.
I hope so.
The headless scarecrow certainly looked old and forgotten.

"We should go back for the horses. Staying in one place too long is dangerous on this ground," Crash said. Then he turned back to the hill and started upward, grabbing onto saplings and vines as he went.

Back at camp, they packed up swiftly and saddled their horses. Burn discarded a few pots and pans, 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 with old cloth, then continued on their way.

* * *

Volcrian looked at the three muddy pools of blood before him, his nose discerning each one clearly. His great-grandfather's book sat at his side, pages spread wide open, dog-eared and stained with dirt and blood.

It had taken days to chant the various spells, to enact the strange rituals and drawings that would summon the wraiths. He had lost track of time amidst his chanting, oblivious to day or night, storm or sun. He had done nothing more than drink water. The magical energy had nourished his body, along with the spell.

Today, he would raise the dead.

Would they remember their past identities once they were reawakened as wraiths? The thought nagged at the back of his mind, but, thumbing through his great-grandfather's journal, he couldn't find any word he had skipped, any symbol out of sequence. He had chanted countless spells over the last several days, hoping to erase the spirits' memories. They shouldn't remember their human life at all. They would arise as emotionless, thoughtless servants, following his commands.

It was one of the oldest spells, manipulating the very life force that tied the soul to the body. His great-grandfather's writing had hinted to its origin, back before the War of the Races, a spell that had survived their family's destruction. It was dangerous to use, black-blooded. The book had warned him of the consequences. A weak-willed and inexperienced sorcerer might be manipulated by the bond, become as dumb and soulless as the wraiths themselves, a servant to his own creations. The magic could burrow into one's mind, change one's thoughts.

But Volcrian's bloodlust was pure, his thoughts clean, his purpose clear.

Drawing a knife, the mage muttered a few words of power under his breath to concentrate his energy. He frowned, focusing on his hunt,on the assassin, his prey. Then he held his arm above the first pool of blood and slit his own skin, spilling a few precious drops of his lifeblood into the mix. It sizzled and bubbled. He allowed a small smile. The wound stung at first, but it was soon covered by a rush of energy. Of pleasure. His veins began to sing, his entire body vibrated with strength and vitality. Magic.

Steam began to rise from the first pool, a sign that the spell was working. He moved to the second, then the third, offering his blood and murmuring the few words of power. A dull wind picked up, slowly swirling around the fields where he had began the ritual, as though awakened by the magic.

Such power flooded Volcrian's veins, he could barely contain it. Fueled by a clear sense of purpose, the magic flowed much more strongly, thrumming down his arms, his legs. He could feel the spirits gathering. The shades of the dead men were thick in the air, practically solid, a tangible vapor.

"Rise," he whispered. "
Rise
and bond to me."

The steam rose faster, the blood swiftly dissipating into a dense mist, clouding thicker and darker. Soon the woods were consumed by it. The sun's rays grew dull, the air heavy with charged energy. Volcrian's eyes watched the fog sharply, waiting, unsure of what might happen next. This was the most uncertain time in the spell—one wrong word or move and the spirits could slip the noose, return to the dark forest between life and death.

But the blood was fresh and the bodies newly dead; the spirits would miss their physical forms and be drawn to the heaps of skin and organs next to each pool. He was confident that they would respond to his call.

Dimly, shapes began to appear in the mist, as though built from the air itself. The three figures began to solidify, turning darker, until Volcrian could make out humanoid forms, shaky and insubstantial as shadows. Then the piles of flesh began to tremble. The mist closed around them as though sucked inward, creating a whirlwind that brushed through Volcrian's hair, teasing it, tempting him. Finally the mist fully dispersed.

Three beings stood before him, shrouded in cloaks of darkest black. The cloaks seemed to dissolve into the air, as though made of smoke. Volcrian was not fooled—these were powerful beings, magic that reached beyond the veil of life and death. He took in their figures, neither feminine nor masculine, neither tall nor short, neither heavy nor thin. In fact, getting a good look at each creature was difficult. They seemed to constantly shift, blurring over before reappearing, each moment subtly different.

Volcrian grinned and licked his lips. The wraiths were perfect. "Minions," he murmured. "Do you know your master?"

The center wraith, who was slightly more substantial than the other two, raised one dark sleeve toward Volcrian, then pointed a skeletal finger. The Wulven mage nodded, still smiling. It was the only answer he needed.

"Correct. I will give you your first task. Find the four that evade me: Viper, Sora, and two Wolfies. Kill them. Do not return until your task is finished."

The figures looked at him for a moment longer, or at least, Volcrian assumed they could see. He could make out no eyes in their empty black hoods. Then they shimmered in the air. There was an eerie wail, so faint it might have been an echo of the wind—and they were gone.

Perhaps you have put some distance between us,
the mage thought to his prey.
But you're not free of me yet.

The hunt would be over soon. He wanted to laugh, to kick up his heels in giddy exhilaration—but suddenly he staggered. Volcrian was hit with a wave of exhaustion.

He felt he had been punched in the stomach. He collapsed to the ground, shaking, sweat pouring out of his body. It was impossible to remain upright. The cut on his arm burned, his muscles were cramped—he could have sworn his crippled hand was on fire. He clutched the limb, gritting his teeth, willing himself not to cry out.