Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (3 page)

The Grandmaster nodded. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. His green eyes glinted coldly in the afternoon light. “This is the way of the Hive, savant,” he murmured. “Now let me ask you a far more important question. Are you sure that you are ready to take a Name?”

Savant gazed at his Master, still reeling from the day's events. “Yes,” he finally said.

“Because your weakness is most apparent right now.”

The words shut him down. Savant realized what he was risking; what his Grandmaster was threatening. He locked his jaw, wiped his expression and cleared his thoughts. He let out a short, tense breath. “It was an unexpected morning,” he said abruptly.

The Grandmaster nodded again. “Understandably. Take a run on the beach. Clear your mind for the Naming.”

Savant bowed, his head touching the rock, then stood up. He reminded himself that he was lucky. Cerastes was far more understanding than some, and he was true to the ways of the Hive.

He climbed to his feet and turned, leaping nimbly across the slippery rocks.

Cerastes called from the peak of the giant's mouth. “You did not fail her, savant,” he said, and his student turned briefly, catching his eye. “Remember.
She was weak
.”

CHAPTER ONE

VOLCRIAN STOOD OUTSIDE the shop and gazed at the faded blue sign. A mixture of fish oil and salt water mingled in his nose; it was a scent that brought back painfully clear memories.

It seemed like only yesterday when he and his brother had stood before the very same shop. They had been mere children then, sixteen years of age, with the world at their feet. The year before, their father had died of a chronic illness, leaving them orphaned. The two brothers had grown inseparably close, relying on each other to survive. They had lived like that through their youth, far into adulthood.

But his brother had been dead now for three years. That haunted him like a sickness, plagued his thoughts, stole his sleep. He couldn't forget his brother's face, nor that of the killer.

Volcrian flexed his left hand, a crippled knot of twisted fingers and curling tendons, maimed the day Etienne had died.

That's why I'm here, is it not?
he thought with a small smile. Yes, so many years ago, he and his brother had run across a struggling merchant who was trying to sell fish. The fishmonger had begged them for money, for any sort of help. Etienne had worked a simple spell, a mixture of blood and fish eggs. He had anointed each barrel of fish, then the threshold of the door, the frames of the windows. The customers would crave the man's stock, feeling rejuvenated after eating it.

They had done the job in return for a favor. A favor that Volcrian had not yet collected.

The population of the docks passed by him quickly, hunched against the low clouds and stiff wind. The air was heavy with moisture, though it had yet to rain. Behind him, miles upon miles of moored ships stretched across the shoreline, from passenger vessels to fishing boats to giant freighters. Delbar was a bustling city, full of eager merchants and cunning thieves. Yet no one approached the door.

Volcrian had to wonder at that. Blood magic had a price. There was a balance to it—one couldn't just take and take. Eventually, one would have to give back. Usually the mage suffered the consequences, falling ill for days, drawing too much blood to recover, his life force drained.

But Etienne had been young, his magic fierce and unfettered. It took years for a Wolfy mage to build up discipline and control over his spells. Volcrian eyed the sign dubiously. Who knew what waited beyond the storefront?

“Are we going to stand out here all day?” came a woman's voice to his left, slightly slurred, as though her lips were numb. “I may be dead, but I'm still freezing.”

Volcrian grinned at the irony. “A cold corpse,” he murmured. “Quaint.”

The priestess rolled her eyes. They slid too far back into her head, almost full white. It took her a moment to refocus them, the eyeballs spinning lazily about, clouded by death.

Volcrian watched in fascination. She had taken on a kind of beauty these past weeks since he had killed her on the steps of the Temple of the West Wind. Her skin had turned gray and ashen; her lips were swollen and bloated, a dark purple. Her hair had turned white and was beginning to thin. Between the patches of missing hair, he could glimpse the curve of a perfectly smooth head.

She was bundled in a thick brown cloak several sizes too big, the hood shoved down over her head. His own silver hair and pointed ears drew enough looks. He didn't need people noticing a walking corpse in tow.

With a shrug, Volcrian reached for the old, weathered door. It creaked as he opened it, protesting the movement.

Inside, the store was small, cramped, and full of the overpowering stench of rotten fish. Something else lingered in the air, tainting the walls, sickly sweet. The old, old spice of magic. Volcrian's nose recognized it immediately, although he knew no human could detect the smell. He instinctively grimaced. The scent shouldn't be this strong, this sour. Something had gone wrong with the spell. Not entirely surprising.

“Lovely,” the dead priestess muttered, her eyes wandering haphazardly around the room.

“Almost as lovely as you, my dear,” Volcrian murmured back.

Something shifted in the gloom of the shop, hidden amongst the crates and barrels of fish. His eyes adjusted to the light, then landed on a stooped figure in the corner.

"Malcolm?" he said into the darkness, and the figure flinched as though struck. Volcrian took a step forward, peering into the shadows, ears twitching. He detected the faintest creak of floorboards as the creature within shifted. “Come out,” he ordered.

There was a croaky laugh from the depths of the room. The figure scuttled between two boxes, attempting to hide. Then a voice muttered, "A Wolfy, is it? Your kind are not common.”

Volcrian's eyes narrowed. Yes, finding a Wolfy was rare indeed. It was sad to think that humans, the weakest of the races, were now in control. The other races had all but perished—including his own.

“It's been years since I was last here.” Volcrian addressed the shadows. He sniffed the stagnant air again, wrinkling his nose. “I take it you remember.”

That odd croak answered him from the fish crates. “Oh, how could I forget?” he grumbled.

The mage shuddered despite himself. The voice that spoke was not natural. The vocal cords were warped, twisted, struggling to pronounce.

"At least twenty years I've been waiting," the voice snarled. “Etienne, isn't it?"

Volcrian straightened up. Etienne's name was far too pure to be tainted by that voice. Sliding through those dirty lips, the name sounded more like a curse, like sodden wood dropping on the floor.

He glared into the shadows, his temper piqued. He strode deeper into the room, shrugging through the tendrils of magic as though they were cobwebs.

“Etienne is dead,” he said calmly, despite the anger in his gaze. “I am Volcrian.”

“Ah, yes. The elder brother. But no different. Still a Wolfy. Still a mage.” The shadowy figure spit on the floor before Volcrian's feet, a gob of yellow phlegm that looked toxic. For a moment, the mage turned livid. The atmosphere of the room, so drenched with magic, began to shift.

The figure moved away from him, scuttling between boxes, remaining half-hidden.

“Show yourself,” Volcrian called. The magic squirmed, contracting. Although it had been years, the spell still responded to his presence. Its power was still alive.

The storekeeper had no choice. Abruptly, Malcolm stepped from between the boxes, pausing in the hazy light from a window.

Volcrian's lips twisted in disgust.

Before him stood something that might have once been a man. Now it seemed more of a toad. Hunched double, his skin was wrinkly and loose, clinging to the bone like a wet curtain. His ears were large and dangling, his hair all but gone, and his eyes...large, blind disks in a ruined face.

The man was aging almost three times as fast as normal, his life drained by the bloodspell.

Volcrian recognized the side effects of amateur magic. He and Etienne had caused much damage when they were younger, before they discovered their great-grandfather's journal. Volcrian shared a sideways glance with the priestess. She, too, had been changed by magic. Yet for all of her swollen, blue-tinted skin, she still held a semblance of beauty, something ethereal, vaguely human.

This man, on the other hand, was like a slimy animal dragged from the ocean.

“What do you want, Wolfy?" the creature bit out. "I take it you have not come to lift my curse. Name your purpose and leave so I'll never have to look at you again."

“Gladly,” Volcrian replied. He wanted to leave the shop as quickly as possible. “I am looking for a group of travelers: an assassin, a Wolfy mercenary, and a girl. Have you heard any news on the docks? Anything out of the ordinary?”

The man muttered to himself in thought, croaking and warbling. “A gang of Dracians stole a large seafaring vessel about two weeks ago,” he said. “Word had it that a Wolfy was with them. Big he was, almost seven feet tall.”

Volcrian nodded. He had noted a large population of Dracians in the city, another one of the magical races living side-by-side with the oblivious humans. But a giant Wolfy was exactly what he was looking for.

The Wolfy race was split into two factions—the mages and the mercenaries. All of the mages were short, effeminate, and silver-haired. The mercenaries were robust warriors, broad as an oak and tall as a bear. The only commonalities between them were their pointed ears and sharp teeth. The mercenaries could not use magic. In that respect, they were as useless as humans.

“Do you know their destination?” he asked smoothly.

The creature rolled its caving shoulders. “No,” he said bluntly. “But there's a mapmaker on Port Street. He might know. I'll warn ye, though,” he held up a finger. Volcrian noted the webbed skin. “He's a bit batty.”

A batty mapmaker? This, from a frog-man? It almost made Volcrian smile.

“Is that all?” Malcolm asked, a hint of relief in his voice.

“I have need of a ship,” Volcrian said, his voice ponderous, distracted by this new information. What was the assassin up to now? Fleeing overseas? “And a crew.”

The fish-seller grunted, almost a laugh. “You want my ship? Can't fish without a ship....”

“That is none of my concern,” Volcrian snapped. He refocused on Malcolm and took a threatening step forward. “I am hunting a deadly assassin and time is of the essence. If you will not give me your ship then I will take it.”

The man recoiled from the mage, muttering a stream of garbled croaks. Then he limped back into the shadows, attempting to hide behind another box. Volcrian followed after him, walking steadily through the cluttered room.

“And if I refuse?” Malcolm finally grunted.

“You can't refuse me,” Volcrian said in a low voice. “The price of your spell was one favor. It is in the magic that taints this store. In your blood.”

“I
will
refuse,” Malcolm replied bitterly, turning to face the mage, a small spark of defiance in his eyes. “You'll have to kill me if you want my ship.”

Volcrian knew that the frog-man was goading him. Malcolm wanted free of the spell, even if it meant death. The mage smiled grimly. “I could make your situation a lot worse,” he threatened. “How about another spell? One that takes your voice away? Or...one that takes your soul?” He raised an eyebrow.

The man's eyes widened, becoming perfectly round moons. “Y-you can do that?” he cringed.

“Of course,” Volcrian smiled thinly.

“Just...j-just a moment,” Malcolm said, his voice quivering. He limped into the depths of the store, vanishing in the maze of fish barrels. Volcrian's pointed ears twitched. He heard the sound of rummaging, the slide of a desk drawer, the man muttering to himself all the while.

When Malcolm returned, he held an oily scrap of paper in hand. “The title to the boat,” he said. “'Tis old, but sturdy. The crew will sail if you can promise them coin.”

“Oh,” Volcrian murmured, “I'll promise them something....”

Malcolm didn't seem to hear. He thrust the paper into Volcrian's hand. The mage took it, grimacing at the creature's wet grip. “Now leave,” Malcolm spat. “Leave, and never return here.”

“Oh, I don't plan to,” Volcrian smiled. It was a cold look. Then he turned and walked toward the door. As he passed the priestess, he put a casual hand on her shoulder. “Do your work,” he said darkly.

The corpse-woman groaned.

Volcrian winced. “Now.”

“Wait,” Malcolm said from the back of the room. “What do you mean? Who is this woman?”

Volcrian ignored the fishmonger and passed through the door. He closed it tightly behind him. He strode onto the docks, pausing next to the ocean, listening to the gentle lap of the waves against the wooden posts.

After a minute, he heard muffled screams from inside the store—only audible to his sensitive ears.

He didn't like the reminder of Etienne's untrained magic. It felt like a blight on his memory, some backhanded insult. There was no way to reverse a bloodspell, but he could kill the victim. Make the man's suffering shorter—perhaps end it completely. Only death would undo the curse and erase what his brother had done.