Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (5 page)

The timbers creaked, groaning like a wounded animal. Sora's hands grew clammy. There was a sudden commotion on deck, drifting down through the ceiling—the dim shouts of voices and thrumming feet.

Suddenly, the door flew open.

A Dracian crew member rushed into the room, a wild look in his eyes. "Get down!" he yelled, and threw himself to the floor.

No one moved, but looked amongst each other in confusion. The ship began to dip downward. Sora turned to look out the window. The blood drained from her face.

A solid wall of water met her eyes, blocking out the clouds. The wave was huge, far higher than any she had seen before. It peaked above their masts....

The ship dipped down, then tossed sideways as the massive wave crashed over them. One moment Sora was sitting in her chair, the next moment the room was backwards. The floor became the wall, the walls became the ceiling. She crashed to the ground, rolling to the side as the entire ship tipped and kept tipping. A loud, terrible
crack!
split the air.

“The masts!” someone yelled. “We've lost the masts!”

The lanterns flickered out. Darkness. The room was filled with scattered cries and screams. Sora scrambled to her feet and then slammed into a table. A body crashed into her from behind, knocking the wind from her lungs. Her thoughts spun in panic.

Then the windows shattered inward.

The table blocked her from the glass, but not from the flood of water. It gushed into the room like a spewing mouth. She was struck by an icy wave. The ocean greedily forced itself in, sweeping over the floor, consuming every inch of space. Before she knew it, she was up to her waist in freezing black salt water.

There was no time to think. The Dracian on top of her was panicking, trying to claw his way over her, away from the water. Sora shoved him off and struggled toward the door. It took her a moment to realize that the room was sideways and the door was, technically, beneath her boots. Submerged. More people bumped into her, panicked members of the crew.
Burn,
she thought.
Laina, Crash....
Where were her companions?

She was pushed back by the force of the next wave. The ship rose again, then plummeted downward, rolling and spinning. She sucked in a desperate breath, then the water slammed her up against the wall. Or was it the ceiling? The ship listed drunkenly on the waves, tossed back and forth by the violent ocean. The meeting room was on the lower deck of the ship, flooding by the second. They were sinking.

The water was now over her head. She swam upward, searching for air, and caught a quick gasp. The entire room was almost submerged.

Sora forced her eyes open and almost gasped—the bloated form of a Dracian was in front of her, pale white again the dark water. She pushed the drowned man away, trying not to panic.

It was less violent underwater. The waves tugged and pulled, but nowhere near as forceful as at the surface. She noted the other crew members fleeing the room. Some went downward, prying open the door and swimming into the lower hallway—mainly the Dracians, who moved powerfully through the water. The ship was on its side; there could be oxygen in the hallway, or not. She didn't think she could last that long. It was horribly, paralyzingly cold.

Suddenly, she saw Joan. The woman swam smoothly through the water, as elegant as a seal. Sora watched her friend take on her Dracian form, the true appearance of her race. Her skin rippled and gleamed. A layer of scales emerged, silvery-blue in color. Her feet and hands elongated, webs spreading between her digits. Joan's eyes flattened and darkened until they were two ovular black disks. The only thing remaining of her old self was her thick mane of red hair.

Each of the Dracians was born with a different elemental power. It defined their magic. Some took to fire, some to air. Joan, it seemed, had taken to water.

The female Dracian then slipped agilely through the broken window. Grasping the idea, Sora swam to the surface one last time to take a breath, then dove downward again. She moved with painfully slow strokes toward the shattered opening.

She had always thought of herself as a strong swimmer, but the tug and pull of the ocean made her movements awkward and clumsy. It was her first time swimming in salt water. Her eyes were burning.

I'm going to drown,
she thought, her lungs aching. No, she had to get out! On inspiration, Sora swam toward the wall and used it to launch herself at the window. Thankfully, it worked. She hooked her fingers on the sharp glass and pulled herself through. The cuts stung, but she could hardly feel them. She was too focused on escaping.

She propelled herself into the dark, open water beyond the ship and fought her way to the surface. It seemed an impossible distance, but she kept swimming. She grabbed onto floating debris from the deck, barrels and shards of the masts, using the wood to launch herself upward.

Finally, right when she thought she would pass out, her head exploded above water. She had only enough time for one short, desperate breath before a wave crashed over her. She was sent spiraling down, but was caught in the force of a second wave and shot to the surface again. The ocean tossed her into the air before dropping her back down. She felt like a small ant trapped in a river, spinning in useless circles.

Half-conscious, all she concentrated on was keeping her head above water. Now she was too numb to feel the rain, or even the freezing ocean that surrounded her. Basic instincts took over. Her world became very small—dark, swirling water and moments of blessed air. It was a battle against the sea and she only hoped that the Goddess would show her mercy.

The waves suddenly seemed to calm. She drifted upon the top of the ocean, barely keeping her head up. Although the rain and waves still lashed around her, no sound met her ears.

She turned and saw a large, dark object plummeting toward her on a fifteen-foot swell. It looked like a door broken off its hinges....

It crashed down on her head, forcing her under the water.

CHAPTER THREE

VOLCRIAN PAUSED BEFORE the door of the mapmaker's shop. The dead priestess wandered along behind him, scuffing her feet against the cobblestone road. He ignored her.

It was a circular building with a domed roof, thatched windows and a large brown door. The shop was located on the corner of Port Street and Sanction Way, far from the cheap inn where he had stayed the night.

It had taken him all day to find it. At first he had gone uptown, away from the fishmonger's shop, only to discover that he was on the wrong side of the city. Delbar was massive, sprawling at least twenty miles down the coast. It was slightly slanted, the roads wending downward or upward. The poorer districts were at the “sunken end” while the expensive mansions and hotels were opposite. The mapmaker's shop was right in the middle at the fringe of the merchant's district.

A small rose garden decorated the building. Thorny vines thrust into the streets like beckoning fingers. The windows flickered with lantern light.

Good, he had arrived in time. The mapmaker would still be inside. He walked up to the front door and knocked.

No one answered. After a few seconds of waiting, he let himself in.

The shop was a chaotic mess. Tables upon tables stacked with papers. Bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed full of leather-bound tomes. Most didn't carry titles. Oil lamps rested on several of the tables, burning quietly.

“Hello?” he called out. His voice echoed from the domed ceiling.

“A minute!” replied a voice from the back of the room. Volcrian squinted, scanning the tables. He didn't see anyone.

Then, abruptly, a figure stepped out from behind one of the bookshelves. It was an old man, stooped and weathered, a brown hat shoved over his head. Stiff gray hair jutted out from under the rim. The old man looked him over with small, shrewd eyes. Volcrian thought of Malcolm's words—the mapmaker didn't appear batty. Only eccentric, his gaze keen with intelligence.

The mapmaker observed him for a moment, then raised one thick, bushy eyebrow. “Eh?” he said. “Well? What do you want?”

Volcrian didn't like his tone. It was sharp, unwelcoming. “I am looking for an old friend,” he said. “He might have stopped by here a few weeks ago. Black hair, a young man, in his prime. He might have been here with a girl, or perhaps...a Wolfy.”

The old man let out a short bark of a laugh. “A Wolfy? Now that's a first. If such things exist, I've never seen one. You'd best search the docks. All sorts of rumors down there. I'm sure you'd find someone claiming to have seen a Wolfy.” He continued, one thought after the next. “I have many customers—sailors, treasure hunters, even nobility. Perhaps a hundred people cross my doorstep in a week. I certainly can't remember a black-haired man and a girl.”

Volcrian took a step forward, running a hand over the table nearby. He touched the cover of a large leather book. “You'd remember this one,” he murmured. “She wears a Cat's Eye.”

The mapmaker's expression shifted momentarily, a glimmer of thought. Then he turned away, shuffling across the room, putting a book back on the shelf. “As I said, I have many customers. I don't remember anything of the sort.”

“Ah,” Volcrian said thoughtfully. He glanced at the priestess behind him, her body shrouded in the heavy brown cloak. She stood quietly by the wall, taking no interest in the conversation. She had been admittedly quiet since their run-in with Malcolm. He wondered, for a moment, if she could be of any assistance to him. Then thought better of it.

Volcrian turned and crossed the room toward the old man. The mapmaker glanced up and saw him, then circled around another table, keeping it between himself and the mage. “What do you want?” he asked again, his mustache bristling.

“The truth,” Volcrian growled. “Don't test me. I can smell a lie at twenty paces. Tell me the truth...or I will force it out of you.”

The man's eyes flickered to Volcrian's silver hair, his pointed ears. The mage waited, practically hearing the man's thoughts. He might not have seen a Wolfy before, but he was staring at one now.

“You have a queer energy about you,” the mapmaker finally said. “From where do you hail?”

Volcrian was taken aback by the question. “The north,” he said briefly. It was somewhat true. Wolfies had originated from the northern mountains, adapted to cold weather and icy climates. Yet he had been born in the fields, far from his native homeland. The mapmaker didn't need to know that.

“Hmph,” the man grunted. Then he pulled a sheet of parchment from the stack in front of him. “I have a map here that may interest you,” he said directly. “I think I remember the girl you speak of. As I recall, they were going to the Lost Isles.”

That was easier than he had expected. Volcrian glanced out the window. He might have time for supper after all. “The Lost Isles?” he echoed. But why? The islands were all but a myth to humans. Long ago, back in the time of the Races, they had floated in the sky as the majestic island of Aerobourne, home to the Harpies. But that had been centuries ago. What could possibly be on the Lost Isles now?

The only way to find out would be to go there himself.

“Give me the map,” Volcrian grunted, and reached for it. The mapmaker pulled back, holding the parchment in the air.

“For a few silvers,” he grinned. “If it's so important....”

Volcrian felt a slow heat move through him. It built up in his chest—rage. He was on a hunt for vengeance—time was of the essence—and this man was toying with him?

“I have not the coin, nor the patience.”

“You're a customer in my shop,” the mapmaker cut him off. “Buy the map, and perhaps I shall give you a few parting words of wisdom.”

Volcrian felt the rage grow. A year ago, he might have been able to control it, but not now. Not when his prey was so close to slipping his grasp.

He launched himself across the table, hands grasping, his fingers eager for blood. The mapmaker let out a yelp and fell to the floor, scrambling away. Then the old man got back on his feet with surprising agility and dashed toward the door, abandoning the map on the table.

“Stop him!” Volcrian roared.

The priestess moved, but slowly, as though underwater.

The mapmaker dodged past her and grabbed the door handle, yanking it open, plunging into the street. A moment later, he turned the corner and was gone.

Volcrian stared after him, heaving. He had half the mind to give chase—but that would be an even bigger waste of time. Instead, he stood and brushed himself off, then turned back to the map. Glanced over it. It was new parchment, a copy of the original, by the freshness of the ink. He folded the scrap of paper and tucked it in his cloak, then ran a hand through his long hair, regaining some sense of composure.

“We have what we came for,” he said, turning back to the priestess. He crossed the floor to his minion and gave her a withering stare. “Next time, act quicker.”

“If you haven't noticed,” the woman said, “this body is not what it used to be. How am I supposed to waylay a man?” Her voice was like dust.

The anger bloomed again, rising quickly to the surface. Volcrian shook his head slowly. “I don't care if he takes your arm off,” he growled. “Do as I say.”