Sora's Quest

  “Prepare yourself,” Crash said. Then he headed her onto the bridge.

  Sora started across carefully. Burn was almost to the other side, and this gave her hope. Dorian was just past the halfway point. The smaller Wolfy shouted back to her occasionally, pointing out rotted beams or loose ropes, but she could barely concentrate. She was too busy gripping her necklace in one hand and the horse's reins in the other, her eyes trained on her feet.

  Burn reached the other side. Dorian was two-thirds of the way across. Where he stood, the water was shallow and the bridge was supported by thick mud, much more secure. Sora felt a bit of tension loosen. With less weight on the bridge, she was certain it would hold. She started stepping more boldly, leading her horse as quickly as she could. The water flowed over her boots, icy cold, seeping through the leather and freezing her toes. At times, the bridge dipped downward, submerged. She was almost waist-deep in water, her clothes soaked. Her horse balked, and she had to pause for a moment, coaxing it forward, cautiously testing each beam before putting weight on it. It was painfully slow going.

  Finally Dorian made it to the other side. After securing his two horses, he returned to the bridge and waited for her, standing lightly on the planks, watching her progress. Sora, grateful for his vigilance, felt more secure.

  “Here they come,” Crash called. He was only a few paces behind her.

  Sora glanced back and spotted the shiny helmets through the tall grass. The dogs had noticeably calmed. Her heart lurched. The soldiers were right behind them and would probably try to cross the bridge too....What can we do?

  Crash raised his shortbow and fired a few arrows into the brush. One of them caught flesh and a gurgling scream split the air, along with the howl of a few dogs. Her horse paused at the sound, legs stiff, ears back. No! Sora tried to coax the mare forward, clicking her tongue, pulling on the reins. But her steed would not budge.

  “Ugh, stupid horse,” Sora snapped, trying to drag it forward. She could sense Crash's impatience. He fired off an arrow, striking yet another soldier. She cursed the steed and hoped that the soldiers didn't return fire. She and her steed were helplessly exposed in the center of the bridge.

  Then a sudden, terrible snapping sound reached her ears. Distracted, she looked down at her foot. The planks were bound by a frayed rope, and as she watched, the last strands split apart. The bridge sagged abruptly under her weight. Then, with several twists and snaps, the ropes broke apart in a chain reaction, one plank after the next.

  “Dorian!” she cried, suddenly sick. She looked up to see him a few dozen feet away, lingering on the bridge, watching her. He could make it to her side if he moved fast. “Dorian! Help! The bridge!”

  She waited for him to rush to her, or at least reply. But when she met his eyes, they were strangely dark. He watched her blankly, inquisitively, and for a moment...just a moment...she thought his face looked different. Like someone else.

  Then the center of the bridge dissolved under her feet. The water leapt up to claim her. Sludgy and thick, it felt like falling into ice-cold porridge. Rocks and twigs propelled by the vicious current snagged her skin, cutting and bruising it. Her horse screamed in terror, sinking up to its saddle, hooves buried in the muddy bottom of the slough.

  The horse bucked and kicked, dancing to one side. Its harness became entangled with a fallen tree branch, knocking Sora even further into the water. The current rushed up to grab her, twisting her away from the bridge and the ropes, dragging her downstream mercilessly. The river was much stronger than she had thought. Before she knew it, she was fully submerged, the water swallowing her whole.

  She fought her way back up to the surface, struggling against the current. “Help!” she screamed, kicking her legs and propelling her arms, trying to stay afloat. The water was impossibly deep, with no sense of a bottom, and she was quickly swept downstream. She grabbed hold of the rope that had once held the bridge, hoping it was tied to something at the other end.

  Luckily, the rope caught, and she tried to pull her way back. But the current was powerful and the rope tenuous, and her head kept going underwater. She was far away from the bridge, with no way back. She opened her mouth and inhaled mud, choking. She couldn't stop coughing, with the water splashing up in her face.

  The water was so cold, her fingers became numb. Her hands tired and slipped. Her head went under again, and this time the river yanked her downward, catching her foot in an undertow. She couldn't hold on anymore. She didn't even know if the rope was still in her hands.

  Then suddenly, strong, rough fingers snagged her shirt.

  She was dragged upward against a strong, toned body. Held tightly against a broad chest as the water rushed against her, trying to press her down. A rope was looped around her wrist, binding her tightly to her rescuer's belt. He started pulling her back to the bridge, fighting the fierce current and lots of debris.

  Relief surged through her. Dorian, it has to be! He had been paralyzed back there on the riverbank, perhaps by panic or fear. But he had come for her, just like he had promised.

  Her head broke the surface of the water and Sora gasped brokenly, weak and drained. She clung to Dorian's hard torso like a squirrel to a branch, digging her fingers into his skin, wrapping her legs around his waist, half-squeezing the breath out of him, terrified. A second rope was tossed to them; he grabbed it in two firm hands. Arm-length by arm-length, she was pulled toward the opposite side of the river, where Burn and the horses were gathered. It was all she could do to keep her head above water. Dirt muddied her eyes and mouth, twigs were caught in her hair, her clothes were heavy and tangled.

  It seemed to take an hour to reach solid land. Finally she felt the soft bank beneath her, but didn't have the strength to use her limbs. She was pushed and lifted through the water, propelling herself clumsily with her legs, too numb and weak to do much else.

  Once the water was shallow enough, her rescuer cut the rope between them and stood, lifting her into his arms, settling her partway over his shoulder. Then he carried her through the waist-deep water much as one might carry a child, her legs around his waist, her arms tight at his neck.

  She hugged Dorian tightly, still choking, spitting out sludge from the back of her throat. She wiped her face across his shoulder, blinking the grit from her eyes, then buried herself against his wet black hair.

  Wait! Black hair?

  “Burn! Bring a saddle blanket!” her rescuer called. It was not Dorian's voice, but deeper, stronger, carrying the weight of authority.

  Crash!

  Sora wanted to care, but she was too exhausted. She hadn't the strength to thrust him away. All she could do was cling and shiver.

  She was carried a short ways from the riverbank behind a thin copse of trees, then easily maneuvered to the ground. Although it was soft and sludgy, it was solid, not the quicksand of the slough. She wanted to stand up, but her limbs shook. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably. And, she suddenly realized, it was raining.

  When she looked up, the assassin knelt above her, his eyes the color of moss, his black hair bristling with water. He briefly checked her for injuries, silently and efficiently, his hands running over her body in a brusque manner. She tried to protest by pushing him away, but he deftly avoided her attempts.

  “Do you feel pain?” he asked, stretching out her arms and legs, pressing at her ribs.

  “No,” she gasped, then coughed again, spitting out a shard of leaf.

  “Good.” Then he reached up and took the saddle blanket that Burn offered. “We have to continue for a ways, but not far, just out of range of the soldiers. Can you stand?”

  Sora nodded and pulled the saddle blanket around her. It was rough and heavy, and not immediately warm. She couldn't stop shivering. Still, she managed to climb to her feet and pull her wet hair away from her face. She was surprised that Crash stayed there by her side, assisting with her balance. She slowly tugged off her leather boots and dumped out the icy water. He didn't release her arm unti
l she was able to stand on her own.

  Dorian appeared, leading their horses. Somehow, they had managed to rescue her mare. They had lost several bags of supplies to the river, but the majority was still intact, if a bit damp. Sora looked at Dorian strangely, but he avoided her eyes, focusing solely on the beasts.

  “I called for you,” she said, thinking back to the sinking bridge. “Did you ignore me?”

  Dorian still didn't meet her eyes. It seemed as if he hadn't even heard her words. He acted very interested in the saddlebags, untying a few to check their contents. Sora watched him, her hands tight on the rough blanket, speechless. It's like he doesn't even care! She would have expected this from the assassin, but not Dorian. He, at least, had acted like a friend.

  When she turned back to Crash, he was watching the Wolfy with a searching gaze. From the set of his jaw, he was definitely tense. His eyes flickered over Dorian's lean form, from his face to his boots.

  “You left her to drown,” he said shortly, then grabbed the reins of his gray steed, pulling the horse away from the Wolfy. “You left both of us to drown.”

  Dorian raised an eyebrow, unable to avoid the assassin. “I froze up! I didn't know what to do,” he said irritatedly. “I don't know what happened. I mean, I heard her....” He glanced to Sora, then looked away again, glaring at the horses.

  Burn took his steed as well, his gaze full of concern. Then he glanced to Crash, and the two shared a strained look that Sora couldn't interpret. “How are your wounds, Dorian?” Burn asked suddenly. It seemed like an odd question, given the context. “From the attack in the woods?”

  “They're healing,” Dorian grunted, and briefly lifted his shirt, showing the long red scabs. Then he winced. “Another week and they'll be gone.”

  Burn nodded slowly, thoughtfully. Then he looked to Sora. “Whatever just happened,” he said, “we can discuss it later. Come, let's find a place to set up camp and dry our things. I think a big fire is in order.”

  For once, no one argued. The rain became an honest downpour. Everyone took charge of their mounts and started into the swamp proper, eager to find shelter from the storm. The ground was much firmer between the massive tree roots, and the horses were able to walk easily. Sora looked up at the tall eucalyptus trees, the naked trunks that wove in and out of each other like thick tendons. The trees had wide, high branches, fanning out into a perfect canopy. The air was dense with noise: pattering raindrops, croaks and bird calls, rustles in the underbrush, chirping crickets.

  Sora gazed into the depths of Fennbog. She wondered what other surprises—what other horrors—awaited.

  * * *

  Volcrian looked up at the sound of bodies crashing through the underbrush. Bold and confident footsteps, perhaps a party of three, careless about whether they were being overheard.

  But why should they care? They were deep in the forest and evening was closing in. The woods were damp and slick with rain, glittering in the fragile twilight. In a sense, it was exactly what he had been waiting for.

  The spell using Dorian's blood was almost a complete failure, but at least he knew that the three travelers had entered the swamp. And that following them would have been a waste of time. His power over the Wolfy was dismally weak. He had been able to slip into Dorian's thoughts during a moment of distraction and panic, but he couldn't keep his hold and had caused only a slight hesitation in Dorian's actions, nothing more.

  He would need a new plan. Something stronger. Some sort of magic that could resist the Cat's Eye. Perhaps something that wasn't entirely magic at all.

  There was only one spell like that he could think of. But it was a dark spell, black-blooded. Forbidden magic, or so his great-grandfather's journal said. But what other choice did he have? He faced an entire journey across the mountains, a year before he could catch his prey on the other side, if they didn't make it to the coast before he did. No, he would need something to track and catch them—something more powerful than fox-corpses or sleight-of-hand.

  Which is why the footsteps in the underbrush attracted his attention.

  Next, he heard people speaking.

  “Twelve men, gone. Swept up by the river when the bridge broke. It's a shame. Too many rookies; they should've been better trained.”

  “They needed a Captain,” a deeper voice grunted. “They had no one to give them orders. It was a mistake.”

  “Is that what the King's army has come to? Mindless imbeciles waiting for orders?” the first voice demanded.

  “Well, that's how we train them.”

  There was a pause. The voices sounded familiar. Volcrian remembered the brief conversation in the guardhouse between Lord Seabourne and his commanding officers.

  “What are we going to say in our report? That we abandoned our men to the swamp?” the first voice asked.

  There was a brief, derisive snort. “Well, Lord Seabourne recommended that a few men die in the chase. He must be expecting this.”

  “Perhaps. But still it's our jobs on the line.”

  Volcrian slipped behind the three men, leaving his horse tethered to the bushes. It was easy to approach them, since they were making enough noise to drown out the crickets and evening owls. He followed the three captains a short distance until they came to a halt, bickering in the woods.

  “Since you're the senior officer, you should file the report,” one was saying.

  “We should all file separate reports, as regulations dictate,” the older one growled.

  “Then we need to decide on a story!”

  “Honesty, lads,” the third man broke in. “Honesty is always best when dealing with the Crown.”

  “Says the Captain with the lowest salary,” the first muttered.

  Volcrian slid through the underbrush like an eel. He was now close enough to see their boots, their red tunics through the underbrush. He watched them closely.

  “Damn,” the older man said. “It's starting to rain.”

  The third one sighed. “Lads, let's set up camp and eat a hot meal. The answer will come to us.”

  “Right,” the first one said.

  They rummaged about in a small area between the trees, clearing the ground of sticks and rocks. Volcrian waited. He was good at waiting. He didn't move until the camp was set up, a fire struck, and rations passed around the circle.

  The night deepened. Rain drenched his clothes. A low mist rose from the ground, but Volcrian didn't mind. Rarely did such an excellent opportunity present itself.

  He waited until the soldiers had constructed three tiny tents and stretched out their bedrolls, relatively sheltered from the rain. A half-hour later, he heard deep breaths rise and fall, soft grunts and snores. One of the officers was on watch, but he wasn't watching very closely. He stretched out on the ground with a book, reading close to the firelight.

  Volcrian whipped out a knife. He ran his tongue along it, senses heightened, eager for the taste of blood. His eyes dilated in excitement.

  Then he launched himself onto the watchman. Plunged the knife into his back, through the kidneys. With a loud, piercing wail, the man rolled on the ground, screaming in pain.

  Volcrian was prepared for the next man. Another officer jumped from his bedroll, entangled in his sleeping tents. The Wolfy leapt on the man, plunging his dagger straight through his heart. Or at least, that was his intention. He missed a few times before he struck it exactly.

  Then he scooped up a pool of blood into his hands, whispered a word of power, and threw it onto the last officer. The blood struck the old man in the face, burning and hissing like potent acid. His screams lit up the night, filtering through the darkness like music. The man died in pain. Horrible, blistering pain.

  The mage stood still for a moment, panting, staring at the bodies. He had his sacrifices. There was no time to lose. Now he would work his spell.

  Volcrian was up for hours afterward. He removed his clothes so as not to get them dirty, preparing the bodies by the light of the fire. He ran his knife
smoothly under each man's skin, stripping it piece by piece, then spread the blood across his arms and chest, letting it dribble over his tight stomach. It was warm. Thick.

  He pressed his hands against their quivering organs, the bloated mounds of stomach and intestines, down to the various muscles weeping fat. One by one, he cut out their hearts, still slippery, jittery in his grasp, a mimicry of life.

  It was a three-day ritual, one for each of the wraiths, one for each of the spirits he would tie to his will. Using ceremonial herbs, the bodies would be burned, each at a different hour of the day; the skin would be sewn into cloaks and new suits, ready for the use of magic. There were countless spells he would have to chant, ensuring that the soul did not remember its previous identity, or its own autonomy.

  It would take a large toll on him, but in the end, he would create minions that were all but invincible. Then he would send them after the assassin and his companions. He doubted the Cat's Eye would be able to affect them, not with the amount of blood and physical matter that they were comprised of. Spirits rode in the magical shells, ghosts were made flesh, solid and real—and they were at his complete command.

  Volcrian began building a bonfire, his crippled hand clamped tight against the cold.

  Chapter 9

  “Don’t listen to your head, sweetness! Listen to your gut!”

  Swoosh!

  Clack!

  Goddess! I think I’m going to die!

  “Yes, like that, good...don’t wipe your eyes; it leaves you open.”

  “I can’t see!”

  “You don’t have to see.”

  Dorian was a strange instructor. At times, she couldn't tell if he was teaching her or just teasing. She ducked as he took a swing at her head, the staff hurtling through the air, connecting solidly with the tree behind her. Crack!

  She gasped, desperate for air, too tired to appreciate the small victory.

  They had been traveling for a week through the swamp, following wherever the Cat's Eye directed them, which was seldom in a straight line. She tried to stay as focused as possible on their direction, but it was a challenge. Most days were given to hacking and slashing at the underbrush, clearing a pathway for the horses. Fennbog was a mysterious place, veiled in thin mist, bitterly cold and wet. Everything smelled of damp earth and mold. There was a definite sense of being enclosed, lost in the wilderness. At times it seemed like they weren't even walking on land, but on shallow lakes of grass, full of exotic fungi and large, white mushrooms. They had passed through fields and fields of well-disguised sinkholes, smothered with giant lily-pads as wide as she was tall.