Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (6 page)

The priestess remained silent, staring at him with cloudy eyes. He couldn't read her expression. It was beyond the point of coherency.

He whirled toward the door, walking with swift steps. “Come,” he said. “We have a boat to catch.”

The two made their way out to the street and into the late afternoon light.

* * *

The sea breeze ruffled Burn's hair. His light-brown locks flashed in the sunlight and brushed against his long, pointed ears.

He gazed at the ocean, watching the constant roll of the waves, the breaking of the surf. He stood on a rocky beach, the white sand speckled with a myriad of smooth stones: deep reds, pale greens, slate blues. For now it was sunny, though he could see a long stretch of storm clouds in the distance, spinning turbulently as though conspiring amongst each other.

He could see little else from the shoreline. Still, his eyes searched and his ears listened. He was desperately hoping for any sign of her. Of Sora.

The ship had beached itself on a small island perhaps thirty miles wide, Burn judged by the curve of the shoreline. The hold of the ship was ripped open, gutted like an old shoe on a river bank. Shards of masts, crates, and other debris scattered the shoreline for miles. The Dracians were searching up and down the sandy beach, tending to the survivors and trying to scavenge what they could.

The frame of the ruined ship was about a half-mile away, lodged firmly on an underwater reef. The majority of the crew was still intact, only three fatalities...and one missing girl. Burn supposed they were lucky. Most had clung to the upper deck, the only part of the ship that hadn't been submerged. It had been their protection against the merciless storm.

He shuddered just thinking about it. He still couldn't quite believe that he was alive.

Burn glanced down at the compass in his hand. He wasn't sure if it was broken or not; it was partly waterlogged. He had no idea where this island was located, if they were anywhere near the Lost Isles, or if this was just another rock in the ocean, a resting point for migrating birds.

He squinted, still searching the water. Sometimes, far off in the distance, he thought he saw a large, gray shape against the horizon. Another island? It didn't appear to move. Then the clouds would shift and it would vanish again.

“We found the weapons,” a voice said from behind him. He glanced to the side, noting Jacques' presence. The Dracian Captain still wore his blue coat, though it was frayed and tattered, long rents on his arms and back. The black crow sat on his shoulder, its feathers slightly ruffled. It held a twisted piece of metal in its beak, perhaps a door hinge or a bolt.

“Good,” Burn said. It was an empty sound. At this point, recovering the chest of weapons seemed trivial.

Jacques cleared his throat and spoke again. “Your greatsword is intact, the assassin's equipment, the sacred weapons...and Sora's things,” he murmured.

Sora. Burn shook his head slowly. At least they still had the weapons of the Dark God, the key to undoing the plague. But first they had to destroy the mage who had caused all of this. And for that, they needed a Cat's Eye. “Without Sora, this quest is as good as finished,” he murmured.

Jacques' hand landed on his shoulder. It was an awkward position since Burn was almost two feet taller than the Dracian. “She'll show up,” the Dracian said. “A few of my men are flying over the island and won't return until it's fully covered. It might take a couple of days. Most of the wreckage turned up here, but she could be farther up the coast.”

“Right,” Burn muttered.
Or at the bottom of the ocean.

He turned and looked at the ravaged crew. They moved across the stone-studded beach, stiff and subdued. They were attempting to build a shelter out of ruined shards of the ship. By the looks of it, they weren't having much luck. They would do better to move into the forest, take shelter amongst the trees.

His eyes traveled to Laina, the young girl they had rescued on the mainland. She was throwing stones into the ocean, her pale hair matted with saltwater, her clothes ripped and salt-stained. Sora had found the girl in a jailhouse, slated for hanging, and had saved Laina's life. Thirteen was too young to be executed—too young to be in a shipwreck, to be stranded on an island. They shouldn't have brought her, but there hadn't been much choice. They couldn't have abandoned her on the streets of Delbar, with nothing and no one to turn to.

A bit of guilt lodged in his throat. He had once had a daughter her age. Two daughters—an older and a younger. Four years ago…only four years ago had Volcrian taken them. He had found his older daughter Alanna next to his wife's body, curled and blackened in the fire of their house. His younger girl, Avian…he had only found her bloodied cloak, wrapped around the tips of her pointed ears, cut from her head. He had searched for her…for weeks he had looked, but he had not found her body. He had nightmares about it, imagining what Volcrian had used her for. A sacrifice? Black-blooded magic? His heart twisted in his chest, stealing his breath.

“Laina,” he called to the girl.

She glanced up at him. Her eyes were a light lavender-brown in the sunset. Her gaze traveled from Burn to Jacques, then narrowed. “If you're wondering why I'm not fishing,” she said defensively, “it's cuz I don't know how!”

Burn glanced down at the Dracian. Jacques shrugged in response. “I was just trying to give her something to do,” he muttered.

Burn sighed. Laina was a street child, skilled at nothing but picking pockets. “Gather driftwood and help make camp,” he called to her. He pointed to the ridge of trees behind him. “Somewhere over there. Jacques will bring our weapons over.”

Laina dropped the rock in her hand. “I want to look for Sora,” she said.

“Stay close to us for now,” Burn replied. “We don't know the dangers of this island.”

Laina rolled her eyes and then turned, walking up the beach, picking up driftwood as she went. Burn took that as her agreement.

“Wolfy,” the Dracian said at his side, drawing his attention again. “You should tell Crash about the weapons.”

Burn raised a brow. “Why? Can you not do it yourself?”

Jacques shrugged. “He took off into the forest a little while ago. Honestly, he's your companion, not mine.”

Burn nodded, a quiet breath passing through his lips. The assassin did not make friends, did not suffer fools. And the Dracians were a friendly, foolish lot. He turned from the ocean and started across the beach.

“We'll start a bonfire,” Jacques called after him. “Catch some food and eat well tonight. You'll see. Everything will be better in the morning!”

“Just find Sora,” Burn said over his shoulder.

“Right.”

He started into the forest, picking his way through scrub grass, then into the shade of the trees. The dirt was grainy in texture, mixed with sand. The trees of this island were similar to those he had seen in the far south—long, naked trunks with bursts of giant leaves toward the top. Tropical. Others grew low and winding, spreading outward more than upward, wide and waxy.

He sniffed the air, taking in the new scents of the forest: saltwater, dense pollen and a fruity, sweet haze. Listening intently, he picked up the assassin's sounds. Crash was not trying to hide—otherwise he would be inaudible, invisible, as notable as mist. He continued in the direction of the noise.

* * *

Crash paced restlessly through a small patch of jungle, back and forth, flattening the grass. He didn't need to go deeper into the brush, but was content to cover the same clearing once, twice, thrice...countless times. The air was surprisingly humid beneath the trees, given the close proximity of the ocean. If he listened, he could still hear the distant rush of waves, the call of gulls. It brought back memories—visions of a past that he lingered on, perhaps too much over the years.

A cloud of gnats had grown quite attached to him. They followed in his wake, back and forth across the small clearing. He flicked his hand in the air, focused on his thoughts. Or rather, on his lack of a solution.

His mood darkened with the fading light. He kept listening for a sound from the Dracians, a whoop of excitement or the shout of a name, but there was none. Which only meant one thing. They were still searching for Sora.

And it was growing dark.

Damn.
He glanced at the sky, cursing the sun. Usually he had plenty of patience, a requirement in his line of work. Calm and collected, his thoughts clear and precise. But now his mind buzzed uncontrollably, terribly loud, conjuring pictures of Sora's body, crumpled and lifeless on the beach. Or even worse—a league under the ocean, eaten away by fish.

Waiting is necessary,
he told himself. He was a man of action, but pacing would have to do for now. He felt like he should be walking the beach, scouring endless miles until he found her—but a larger part of him knew that it was in vain.
Don't fancy yourself a hero.
The Dracians could fly over the island much faster and return with any news. A whole body of news, perhaps, wrapped in a damp cloak, one lifeless hand drifting toward the ground.

Don't think of it,
he told himself. What had happened to his training? He was out of control. No, he was doing all that he could—it just wasn't enough.

There was a thrashing in the underbrush. He recognized Burn's steps, heavy with exhaustion. Crash felt that same weariness tug down at shoulders. Defeating the ocean was no small feat. He was surprised that any of them had survived. Part of him had almost wished for death. It would have been an unexpected—if welcome—end to this ridiculous quest.

Burn emerged between two waxy leaves, his clothes smeared with bright orange pollen. He gazed at the assassin, his eyes a deep amber in the evening sun. Crash wished he would look away. He saw far too much sympathy in that gaze.

“They found our weapons,” the Wolfy said, indicating over his shoulder. “They're a little stained by salt water, but salvageable.”

Crash nodded curtly and resumed pacing.

Burn hesitated for a moment, watching him. His eyes traveled to the bent grass. “Do that much longer and you'll flatten the forest,” he remarked, humor in his tone.

Crash didn't respond. He waved another hand at the gnats around his face. He grimaced in annoyance.

Burn cleared his throat slowly. “I'm sure she's alive.”

“I don't care,” Crash growled.

Burn paused, watching him closely. Then the Wolfy crossed the clearing, stopping before the assassin, cutting off his steps. “You don't need to lie to me,” he said solemnly.

Crash sighed. At this point, Burn was his oldest companion. He used the term loosely. In the wide scheme of things, the two barely knew each other. He had approached the Wolfy long ago, seeking help to defeat Volcrian, or at least more knowledge of the mage's power. But Volcrian had found them first.

Burn's family had suffered the consequences. One night, they had returned to find his daughters and wife dead, the house razed to the ground.

Crash hadn't asked the Wolfy mercenary to join him and hadn't expected him to. But Burn had lingered with him on the road, perhaps on his own hunt for vengeance, perhaps because he had nothing left. Both options were ultimately empty. Crash didn't pretend to know the man's motives, and they made no difference. Volcrian was a menace, and now his magic tainted the entire mainland, a spreading plague.

They hadn't spoken of Burn's family since that night. They had shared very little of their pasts, spent too much time and energy on survival.

“Volcrian will find us,” Crash muttered. “The plague will continue. Without the Cat's Eye, we will have to face him as we are. And you know how that will end.”

Burn's frown deepened. “That's all you care about?” he growled. “Volcrian's wrath?” He took a step forward. “Sora risked her life for us countless times. The least you can do is show concern. You should be out searching, just like the Dracians, not wasting time on your own selfish motives.”

Anger surged. Fire burned in his arms, his chest. Crash felt his skull throb. Before he could stop it, a dark shadow rose up from the grass, gathering in the air. The Wolfy's face flickered, a hint of fear.

The assassin shoved Burn away and glared, seething. “Search the beach?” he snapped. “And not be here when she returns?”

A sudden, inexplicable smile cracked Burn's lips. “Ah,” he murmured. “So you do care.”

Crash paused, still breathing hard. The blackness glinted in his eyes again, and he passed a hand over his face, trying to clear it. No. He had to regain control. He could feel the fire spreading down his legs, up his back, dancing around his skull. Assassins were not meant to show emotion. He had been warned from a young age of its danger, the peril of losing oneself to wrath, to fear, to love—to anything.

He turned away, pacing again, this time in a new direction. “We covered five miles today on foot,” he said bluntly. “The Dracians have searched farther. She's gone.”

“Sora is resilient,” Burn murmured. “Don't give up hope.”

“Hope?” Crash said bitterly. “Open your eyes.”

His words hung in the air between them, an impenetrable wall. He gazed at the Wolfy, unflinching. Then he turned and stalked into the forest, back toward the beach. He rubbed his other hand over his face, swatting at the gnats. Burn was right about one thing—he needed to make himself useful, and now that his weapons had been found, he had plenty to do.