Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (43 page)

One long, sloping ear twitched, and that sick grin widened. "It seems that you are quite firmly trapped," the mage murmured, and began to walk forward. Sora's stomach lurched with each step. The closer he came, the more she could smell something heavy and sour in the air. The stench of rotten meat.

"Volcrian.” She hadn't meant to say his name, but it fell from her lips like poison. The Wolfy's fangs glinted at the sound of it.

"So you've heard of me," he murmured. “Sora Fallcrest, isn't it? My, but you are a pretty young thing.”

Sora blanched. She hated how he said her name—mockingly, like an insult. She hadn't used her surname Fallcrest in more than a year. It was a taunting reminder of her past, of the life she had left behind, of the family she didn't belong to.

He approached her from behind. Sora felt a surge of anger that shocked her into action. She sent a silent command to the Cat's Eye, and the necklace twisted against the force of his magic, trying to break free. Blood magic was more complicated than that of the other races—it wasn't purely energy, but made of physical matter, difficult for the stone to absorb. She focused her mind, commanding the necklace—and with an audible snap, her legs returned to her.

She stumbled forward, not expecting the shift of balance. Volcrian lunged at her at the same time. She ran a few steps, then felt his hand snag her hair, wrapping it around his wrist, dragging her backward. A shriek escaped her lips. He pulled her against his body, holding her with bruising force.

The taint of his magic made her skin crawl. He was icy-cold, clammy, like a dead corpse. Sora struggled, trying to slip from his grasp, but he was far stronger than he appeared. Unnaturally strong. He held her effortlessly, dragging her into the air by her neck, her legs kicking futilely. She tried to bring her staff around to hit him, but it was at a bad angle. He was using her body as a shield.

"Bastard!" she choked in outrage. “Let me go!”

"Keep struggling and I'll snap your neck," the mage hissed. His hand tightened viciously, cutting off her air. Sora went limp, knowing a threat when she heard one.
This is all wrong!
she thought, screaming in her head.
This wasn't the plan!

Volcrian held her up like a caught fish, facing the treeline across the clearing. He breathed deeply, sniffing the air. Finally he paused, facing a particularly thick patch of shrubbery; she felt his hand clamp a little harder on her neck. She was forced to breathe in small, short spurts through her nose.

“I know you're there, Viper!” he called out, almost friendly. “I can smell you!”

A pause. Nothing stirred but the wind.

If anything, the breeze only seemed to make the mage more certain. "Oh, come now, my friend," the Wolfy barked out jovially. “Do I need to persuade you? I have a pretty girl here who I believe you know. I could kill her, if you'd like.”

Sora grasped the mage's hand, trying to pry his fingers from her neck, but his grip was like iron. His strength was inhuman, fueled by magic. He dug his nails into her throat and she felt a burning sensation. Blood leaked through their entwined hands, staining her shirt. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to gather herself.
I must remain conscious,
she repeated over and over again. Her head began to swim.

A shadow emerged from the treeline. Sora's eyes fastened onto it desperately. It had to be Crash, though her vision was growing blurry, interrupted by white dots. He stood against the dark shade of the forest, his clothes ripped and stained, his features grim.

“Kill her then,” he called.

Sora would have gasped if she could breathe. The assassin's voice was cold and strong, rough from his brutalized neck. This was not Crash speaking—it was Viper, the trained killer. A knot of fear formed in her belly.
He's bluffing,
she thought desperately.
He has to be!

Volcrian shifted. He seemed disappointed by the turn of events. “How dull,” he murmured quietly, as though personally confiding in her. Then he shook her viciously, like a small kitten. Sora stiffened, trying not to break her neck.

“Maybe I'll have some fun with her first,” he said loudly, his voice carrying easily across the clearing. They stood perhaps a hundred feet apart, not quite yelling distance. “She's a firm young thing. And if her blood is any indication, she hasn't been touched yet.”

Crash watched him silently.

Sora's skin crawled. She writhed against Volcrian, kicking futilely with her legs. It was a position that her mother had warned her about. There was no easy trick to make him let go. His nails dug deeper into her skin, and she heard his voice in her ear. “Tsk tsk,” he muttered. “Oh no, you aren't going anywhere.”

Suddenly, someone lunged out of the trees. Burn charged at Volcrian's back, his longsword already swinging through the air. A guttural cry ripped from his throat.

Volcrian staggered in surprise and loosened his hold. It was all that Sora needed. She sank her weight downward and then up, cracking her head back against his chin. The Wolfy stumbled and released her.

“Run, Sora!” Burn roared. His blade whirled past Volcrian, barely missing the mage's head. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed her staff, then took off across the clearing, running toward the nearby cliff.

“Priestess!” Volcrian yelled from behind her. “Stop her!”

What?
Sora didn't know who he was talking to. She looked around, prepared for an attack, then noticed several bulky shapes emerge from the jungle ahead of her. They limped awkwardly into her path, moving so strangely that at first she didn't know what they were: human or animal? The wind changed, blowing against her face, and she almost gagged from the bitter, bloated smell of dead flesh.

A figure in a brown cloak ran to cut her off. It moved faster than the rest, though still clumsy in the long grass. The wind shoved the cloak's hood back and she saw the face of a dead woman staring at her. Sora stumbled out of pure shock. The woman's flesh dripped from her bones, flaking away with each gust of wind. She could see patches of teeth through the rotted holes in her face. In her hand was a long, naked dagger.

Sora felt her gut sink. So these were the men that Caprion had mentioned. Only they weren't men at all. They were corpses.

The priestess paused, blocking her path. The other corpses reached her side, fanning out in front of her. They stood between Sora and the tall cliff that led to the Cat's Eye's pedestal. She had no choice. She would have to force her way through.

Sora ran forward, brought her staff up, and jammed it into the chest of the first corpse. The body imploded, crumpling inward, oozing with blood and putrid gas. She held her breath as she slammed her weapon into the man's head, his skull shattering beneath her blow.

Yet the body did not fall. It continued to lurch toward her, hands grasping at her weapon, trying to pull it from her grasp.

Sora fell back and touched her Cat's Eye, desperate for help. The necklace was slow to respond; it jingled distantly. A shield of green light fell around her, moving inward until it sunk into her skin. She felt strengthened and protected—for the moment.

A cry of fury ripped from her throat, and she launched herself again at her foe. Two more corpses converged on her only a few yards away. They were slow, but strong.
I can handle this,
she thought, and she ducked down, sweeping her staff under the first corpse's legs. It fell onto its back, flailing helplessly on the ground like a toppled turtle.
That's one,
she thought.
Twenty more to go.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

OUT OF THE corner of his eye, Crash watched Sora sprint across the wet grass toward the hill. Numerous shapes were emerging from the trees and wandering into her path. He didn't know what they were, but he could see that she was sorely outnumbered. “Burn!” he called. The giant mercenary stood facing Volcrian, his sword held at the ready. The two Wolfies appeared to be at a standoff. “Burn, help her!”

The hulking warrior must have heard him, because he turned and dashed back to the treeline, following it to Sora's position. Volcrian watched him go, his blue cloak brushing in the wind. Then the mage turned to look at Crash. He could see the man's smile at this distance. He gritted his teeth, a black rage boiling inside.

Crash drew his dagger and started across the grass, closing the distance between them.

“You seem very eager to die,” Volcrian called. He drew a saber from his cloak, a thin blade used for fencing. Crash barely glanced at it.

“Thought you could escape me?” Volcrian continued. “You certainly had a good run.”

Crash didn't reply. There was no point in speaking to a man who would soon be dead. He felt a grim satisfaction move through him at the thought. This was a kill he would enjoy.

Volcrian waited until he was only a yard away. Then he whipped the saber up and lunged. Crash parried the blow with his dagger, sparks flying between the blades. The mage whirled and attacked again, unfastening his cloak and allowing it to fall to the ground. He lunged forward once, twice, thrice—Crash was able to block, but he was surprised by Volcrian's strength. The mage's blows were unnaturally hard, close to breaking the saber's blade. Such a sword was built for speed, not force.

Crash saw an opening. He ducked under Volcrian's swing and lunged forward, ready to stab the mage under the ribs.

Surprisingly, the Wolfy grabbed his arm and pulled him forward, as though assisting Crash with his attack. Then he dropped his saber and slipped a small knife out of his sleeve. He brought the knife down on Crash's arm just as the dagger entered his body.

The mage stumbled backwards. Warm blood sprayed across the grass, dampening his shirt. Volcrian clamped a hand over the wound, then looked up, a smile still plastered on his face. They stood a few yards apart. The Wolfy was breathing hard, his skin shiny and pale.

Crash stared at him. An average man would have collapsed to the ground, entering his death throes. But not this mage.
Blood magic,
he realized.

“First blood is spilled,” Volcrian hissed, then let out a breathy laugh. “Go on, stab me again. It will only make me stronger!”

Crash paused. There were spells that could strengthen a mage's body, he knew that much. The blood lost to the mage would work as a sacrifice, and fuel his strength until he was killed. Dorian had described it to him once, long ago, when they had first met. It was simply called
bloodletting.

Then Crash felt a burning sensation. He looked down and saw a bloody gash on his forearm. The pain sharpened his senses, heightening his adrenaline. The demon slammed against its inner cage, knocking on his chest, eager for release. Crash took a steadying breath, trying to contain it.
Not now,
he thought desperately.
Gods, not now!

When he looked up again, the mage had raised his hand to his mouth and was sucking on his fingers. Blood graced his lips. “The Unnamed tastes like burnt ashes,” he said. “How very appropriate.”

Crash's eyes widened marginally. It had been a ploy. The mage had attacked him in an attempt to get his blood—and it had worked.
Clumsy,
he thought.
I'm too distracted.
He needed to stop worrying about Sora and focus on the fight.

Suddenly, his head swam. He felt a strange sense of vertigo. Crash dug his feet into the ground, unwilling to fall.

Then something snagged his boot.

He paused, glancing down. The very tail end of a tree root protruded through the grass, tightly wrapped around his ankle. He frowned, uncertain for a moment; several other roots had ripped out of the ground, tearing up the earth. Crash slashed at them, cutting down two on his left, but more rose to take their place. Another root grabbed his second foot.

When he looked up once again, the entire clearing seemed to have changed. The large obsidian stones were taller, more menacing, spaced closer than before. The trees had grown darker, leaning forward with malicious intent. Clouds were gathering in the sky, pressing down above his head. He had the intense impression that everything was staring at him. It seemed like a thousand eyes lay hidden in the grass, in the black branches of the trees, in the rocks that littered the ground.

“Did you think it would be that easy?” Volcrian crowed. His voice sounded different now, larger, echoing. “I've been preparing for this moment a long time. My magic is more than strong enough!”

Crash swept his hand over his eyes, trying to regain his composure. He had been foolish to attack first. The mage had obviously planned it this way. Crash's anger had gotten the best of him.
I need to step back.
He was an assassin—he knew better than to rush headlong into the unknown.

A sick grin spread across the Wolfy's features. "Any last requests?" he called.

Crash looked at him coldly. “Just that your brother might be here,” he said, “so you can die in front of him.”

Volcrian's facade slipped and his eyes filled with manic fury. He threw back his head and howled. Then the mage drew his knife across his own arm. Black blood spilled from his veins, falling to the earth and singeing the grass. Smoke rose from the mage's feet. The air thickened with an unknown magic, becoming dense and warm.