Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (9 page)

She took a slight step back. “Don't come any closer,” she said, shifting into a fighting stance, hands up, knees slightly bent. She glanced behind her. The two men had stopped arguing and were watching the confrontation. The blond one looked infuriated.

“My name is John Witherman,” the third man drew her attention. “Perhaps you've heard of me? Captain Witherman of the Strongarm Pirates. I am quite a well known treasure hunter on the mainland.”

Sora shook her head wordlessly.
Pirates?
That didn't bode well.

The man's grin widened, twisting his face into a wrinkled map. “Then I will educate you, my dear. Join our fire tonight and I will share my story.”

Sora gave him a tight smile. “I'll have to decline,” she said bluntly.

“She's mine!” the blond man yelled behind them. “I saw her first!”

“Idiot!” the cripple said. “She's the Captain's now!”

Sora balked at that. It was time to run. She turned on her heel and dashed for the trees without a second glance. The forest was several dozen yards away—a towering wall of impenetrable leaves. She emptied the oranges from her shirt as she ran, leaping over the round fruit, moving as fast as she could. The men shouted behind her and gave chase.

A second later, something hit the back of her head.
Thwak!

It was hard enough to cause her to stumble. Then a body slammed into her from behind. Sora was tackled to the ground just before the fringe of trees.

John Witherman rolled her over, a second orange in his hand. He tried to smash it into her face, but she twisted to one side, trying to break his grip. They scrabbled for a moment, wrestling, Sora gaining the upper hand—but he was too strong, and her left arm was starting to throb. She didn't want to dislocate it again.

Then, suddenly, a second man landed near Sora's head. It was the blond one with the ax. He pinned her with one hand and pressed the dull blade to her throat, effectively stopping the fight. Sora spat at him and glared. He licked the fleck of spit from his mouth.

John Witherman pulled a length of rope from his belt while holding her down. The rope appeared to be woven of plant fiber and vines.

“Tie her, Benny!” he ordered, and passed it to the blond man.

Benny flipped her onto her back, dragging her arms behind her. Sora grunted in pain. She wanted to fight back, but she was outnumbered and weaponless. He tied her wrists firmly, then stood up, rolling her over.

Sora's heart hammered. Her vision narrowed with panic. Would they kill her now?

“Pick her up and take her back to camp,” John said. Then he nodded to the crippled man who stood behind them. “Help me gather the catfish from the shed, then douse the fires. We don't need any of her crew finding us.” John Witherman gave her a wide smile. “Not until we're done with her.”

Sora's body went cold.

Benny happily obliged, throwing her over his shoulder, putting a firm hand on her buttocks. Sora tried to squirm away, struggling as hard as she could. “Help!” she screamed, on the chance that someone else might hear her. “Help me!”

“Gag her,” John said with another disturbing grin. “Your crew won't find you. We're the only people on this island. Been that way for the past seven years.” Then he turned to his companions. “Let's go.”

Sora kicked and writhed, trying to break free, but Benny's grip was like iron. Of course he wouldn't let her go. He probably hadn't seen a woman since leaving the mainland.

Goddess.
The thought made her sick. She had to get away somehow. If only she had her staff and daggers, she could have made short work of these three.
There's still time,
she tried to calm herself. As long as they thought she was helpless, they might get clumsy, overconfident. In fact, she was certain of it.

Sora went limp and laid against the man's shoulder, awaiting a chance to escape.

* * *

Crash looked up. The sound of wings met his ears—giant, leathery wings of emerald hues that glowed in the late afternoon light. The sun shimmered against their outstretched skin, dancing across their scales. A group of five Dracians emerged from beyond the treeline, headed slowly toward their camp on the beach.

They were not so strange in their natural forms. Still humanoid in shape, their limbs were longer, more powerful than humans. Their jaws and foreheads had become pronounced, their mouths extended into short muzzles, long tails stretching from their backs. They were clumsy fliers, not like the Harpies, who could glide gracefully through the air like eagles on an updraft. No, the Dracians were heavy, bulky, and flailed against the wind with exhaustive efforts, dragged down by their own weight.

Only Jacques flew easily. He kept to the front, his scales a bright gold in the sunlight, leading the pod of Dracians. His elemental magic was the Wind, and he used it to help him fly, creating a strong draft beneath his wings.

Crash could remember when Jacques had demonstrated his magic, back on the docks of Delbar. A giant dragon, made completely of nimbus clouds, had been summoned from the sky. Lightning flashed from its mouth. Its jaws could have swallowed a bell tower whole. Still, the magic had been all show and no force. It had taken a Cat's Eye to defeat Volcrian's wraith. Sora's Cat's Eye—and almost her life.

He stood as the Dracians landed. Their wings kicked up a cloud of sand. Laina leapt to her feet and dove into that cloud, one arm thrown across her eyes. She ran up to Jacques. “Did you see her?” she demanded. “Did you find her?”

The sand slowly settled, blown away by the ocean's breeze. Crash watched the Dracians, wondering the same question, though he wouldn't voice it aloud.

Laina danced about from foot to foot, repeating her question eagerly. Crash eyed the girl in annoyance. Her shrill voice pierced the air—“Where is Sora? Did you find her?!”

Jacques turned his eyes to Crash. There was no warmth there. “No,” the Dracian said finally.

“But we did find a town,” Tristan piped up. The younger Dracian stood at Jacques' side. His scales were bright red in color, the shade of fresh blood. His element was Fire.

“A town?” Crash asked quietly, tilting his head in question. Tristan wilted under his gaze.

“Aye,” Jacques agreed. “Old abandoned buildings made of stone. Looks like they've stood for a long time. We would be smart to go there, see if we can recover anything.”

Crash nodded sharply. “How far?”

“Roughly ten miles to the north,” Tristan offered, and pointed aimlessly over his shoulder.

Crash absorbed this news. A town. Could it be that they were on the Lost Isles after all? When the great island of Aerobourne crashed into the ocean, it had splintered into several smaller islands, lodging itself into the side of a massive underwater coral reef. It made sense, suddenly. Perhaps they were on one of the smaller outlying islands. His eyes shifted to the horizon where the storm clouds roiled and thrashed. The storm kept its place in the sky, several leagues out, not moving with any natural weather patterns. Perhaps they had made it through the magical boundary of the Isles.

“Ho!” a new voice interjected. Burn strode into camp, two boars hung over his shoulder. An arrow to the heart had killed both beasts. He twitched his long ears at the crew. “I overheard you in the forest. You Dracians are so loud, you scared off all the game in a half-mile!”

Jacques winced. “Sorry 'bout that, old boy.”

“No matter,” Burn replied. “As you can see, the hunt was successful.” He shrugged his massive shoulders, jostling the two dead boars.

Their camp was nestled between a sand bank and the border of the dark, tropical forest, enough shelter to keep them out of the wind. Last night, they had attempted to camp on the beach proper, but the winds off the ocean had scattered the fire, stealing their warmth. They would have camped closer to the trees to begin with, but Laina had protested, claiming that Sora might drift in with the midnight tide. A morbid, if likely, notion.

Burn slung the boars onto a large log that bordered their new camp, then turned back to the crew. “We will head to the town in the morning. Perhaps we can find a map in one of the buildings, some indication of where we are.”

“And you saw no settlers? No people?” Crash asked, looking back to Jacques.

The Dracians all shook their heads, murmuring the same answer.
No. Nothing. No one.

Crash took his seat again on the sandworn log, next to the dead boars. The Dracians continued to talk amongst themselves. The rest of the crew drew close as Tristan described the old town, the weathered buildings and overgrown foliage.

Crash went back to cleaning his blades. They were damaged by the ocean, but not beyond recovery. He was attempting to redirect his thoughts, but no matter how hard he tried, Sora's face kept swimming into view, lifeless and cold under the waves. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to clear his mind. He had left her for a reason, long ago, at her mother's house. She should have stayed put. He hadn't wanted to see her again—right? No, of course not. And he had forced himself not to think of her while they were apart. Not until he had stumbled across her in the forest, Laina in tow, fleeing from bandits in the field.

He had accompanied her, fully knowing the risks. She needed someone...someone better than he, perhaps. But who else could protect her? Who else could shield her from Volcrian?
Don't think of it that way.

She had been trying to rectify the problem, put right what was wrong, even though it wasn't truly her responsibility. He had kidnapped her, intending to use her necklace against Volcrian's magic. Then the bloodmage had summoned the wraiths from the underworld, releasing the Dark God's presence back into the land of Wind and Light. Sora had taken it upon herself to stop the pending disaster, but really, none of that was her burden. No, it was his.

He needed to set things right.
It's why I left the Hive.
Why he had turned away from his Grandmaster, his past, everything he had ever known. He had wanted to change.
But you can't outgrow the past, can you?
No, not when it was still so much in the present.

Guilt was a strange feeling, as alien and unwelcome as fear or doubt. And yet he couldn't push it away. Sora had relied on him, helped him, fought alongside him...and for what? An icy death, smothered in salt water.

Then the guilt bit at him again. They had argued the last time they saw each other. He hadn't tried to bridge that gap. Instead, he had pushed her away.
I had to.
She couldn't grow close to him, couldn't see what he really was. He couldn't let her.
If she had known the truth...
the darkness that lived inside of him, churning his gut, aching to escape....All he had done to contain that shadow, only to have it burst out at odd moments, a writhing, destructive force....If she had known his true nature, she never would have trusted him, never would have accepted his help.

But now she was dead. She would never look to him again.
Was it worth it?
No, of course not. He should have told her his secrets, made his confessions while he still had the chance.

Darkness passed over his eyes, strange and flitting. His shadow shifted on the ground, coiling up to his feet. Crash stared at it, wondering if he was losing control, if he would do so right now, in front of the Dracians, the Wolfy, the bastard street child who sat across the fire, twiddling her thumbs and asking a thousand questions....He knew he couldn't contain it. Not in the face of all this.

He stood up wordlessly. Burn cast him a questioning look. The Wolfy knelt by the edge of the fire, preparing the pigs, his eyes soft from the dimming sun.

Crash turned away from him. From the entire camp. He picked up his weapons, strapping them to his belt. “I'll make my own way to the town,” he said bluntly.

The small company stared at him. Then Tristan spoke up. “This late? It'll be dark in a few hours. You won't get far in that kind of wilderness.”

Jacques held up his hand, silencing his younger companion. “If the man wants to get lost, let him.”

“'Tis a matter of space,” Burn said loudly. He was back to skinning the boars, running a sharp knife under the skin, stripping it from the flesh. He glanced at Crash, briefly meeting his eyes. “Be safe, friend.”

Crash nodded briefly, then stalked into the forest, unfazed by the Dracians. He was focused on something deep within himself, a terrible emptiness, a blackness that he had tried to escape, to control. It moved inside him, begging to be released. He wrestled with it, hoping he could leave the camp far behind before the demon came out.

He was a monster. They all knew it—he could see it written on their faces, in the subtle glances of the Dracians, in the way their voices faded in their throats. Volcrian's hunt was justified. His kind wasn't meant to save lives. Only to destroy them.

CHAPTER SIX

VOLCRIAN PAUSED BY the docks. The evening sun glinted across the bright water of Delbar. He held two pouches of sand he had scooped from the beach. He viewed the ship from the distance. It was smaller than he had hoped, perhaps only fifty feet long, two masts and a small cabin with a single lower deck. The entire ship could be manned by twenty people. He watched the sailors that lingered on the docks, wondering which were his crewmen. A series of large, burly men sat close to the vessel, eating a plate of crabs. He decided to start there.