Viper's Creed (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (37 page)

“Right, and I've returned the favor... how many times?” He raised an eyebrow. “Let's not forget who saved whom last night.”

She rolled her eyes. He was being difficult, not the best thing after a restless night. Sora held the bowl steady as she looked around for a spoon. His eyes widened again at the smell of food, and he looked at the bowl dubiously.

"That's right," Sora muttered. "And you'd better behave, or else you're not getting fed at all!"

"That's fine, I'm not hungry,” he sniffed.

"Nonsense, you've been a full day without food. You'll eat if I say so."

"No."

Sora sighed at the finality in his voice. How could anyone be this stubborn? He reminded her of a grumpy old man, the kind her mother used to treat in the village, who would complain about the weather, about the farmers coming and going, about tired, sore bones—but would refuse to take any medicine.

She closed her eyes and begged for patience, then looked back at Crash. He regarded her with a flat look; he plainly wasn't about to give in.

"Why?" Sora finally asked. “Why are you being like this?”

He let out a slow breath. It seemed that her calm words had done the trick. He raised a hand to his face and rubbed it viciously. "Seasick."

"Seasick?" she asked incredulously.

"Surely you can feel it, too?" He nodded. "Like your stomach has turned inside out?"

On second thought, Sora did feel a bit woozy, and the thought of food didn't agree with her at all. Her eyes dropped to the bowl in her hand, and she felt her hopes plummet. If Crash wouldn't eat anything, how would he ever recover?

"Crash, you need to eat," she muttered.

"Why? I'm fine," he retorted. "And if you knew how I felt, you'd never want to eat again."

“You're not fine! You almost died last night.”

“It's not the first time.”

She set the broth down and sat back, wracking her brain for a solution.
Tea. Maybe a sip of tea will bring him out of it.
She stood and moved to the other side of the room, a short distance away, where a hot kettle sat on the bedside table. The tea had been dropped off along with the soup.

"How do you feel?" she asked, gingerly picking up the kettle of water.

"I'll live," he answered simply. "That concoction you're cooking up isn't the same from yesterday, I hope. It tasted as foul as it smelled."

Sora couldn't keep the thin expression from her face. She turned her back and concentrated on the tea.
Why is he being so nasty?
Couldn't he show a bit of gratitude?

"Pink thread?" his voice murmured behind her.

"Yup," Sora bit out.

"Is that all you could find—pink thread to sew with?"

"Well, would you rather be dead?" she finally yelled, and whirled around to glare at him. "If you don't like pink, it's not my problem! Gods, Crash, sometimes I wonder what I see in you! I'm tired, I'm dirty, and I'm trying to be nice, okay?" Her voice grew choked. "I've just had the worst ordeal of my life. I'm seasick, I'm hot, it's stuffy in here, it's about to rain, and all I want to do is go back home, crawl safely into my bed, and go to sleep! So if you don't want my help, that's fine. I'm leaving anyway!" She threw up her hands and spun away from him, abandoning the tea.

"Wait, Sora!"

She was already out the door and walking away, seething with anger, hot tears stinging her eyes.
How could he be so ungrateful, after all I went through?
She kicked at a pile of ropes in her path, wishing she could break something. One of the ropes snagged her boot and almost tripped her. Stumbling in anger, she slammed her fist against the wall and a hot, seething breath escaped. She should have never helped him in the first place!

After a minute of angry wandering, Sora found her cabin by sheer luck. She recognized the filigree carved into the wood. She went in, slammed the door, and threw herself onto the bed with a grunt.

She rolled over and tried to fall asleep, hoping to make up for the restless night, trying to put all thought of the assassin out of her mind.
We made it,
she reminded herself, trying to think positively.
We have a boat and we're headed to the Isles.
And they had found the second sacred weapon. No one had died. There was no more need to panic. Volcrian would follow them, certainly, but she doubted he would catch up.

And far across the wide plains, her mare would arrive at her mother's house, her letter attached. Lorianne would be reassured that her daughter was safe.

See? I've covered everything,
Sora thought confidently. All she had to do was enjoy herself, her first time at sea. She forced her breathing to slow, her heart to calm. She shut her eyes tight and tried to imagine that it was a pleasure cruise; that they were heading to some strange and exotic land, full of wildflowers and giant fruit. Sleep drifted over her....

Her rest was foiled, however, by a tide of unhappy dreams. She was at her mother's house, miles and miles away, watching Crash and Burn leave. Their backs were to her, and she watched them ride down the front walk, sinking into the distance... over and over again....

* * *

Miles and miles away, a dappled mare trotted up a long pathway, through the forest, and up to the log cabin where it had been born.

Cameron was mucking out the stalls when the horse appeared. He stared in surprise, recognizing the steed, though it took a long moment for his thoughts to catch up.

Sora's horse!

The steed was covered in dirt and mud, its legs scratched, its hooves full of pebbles. It was in terrible condition, malnourished, bones sticking out on its haunches and shoulders. He approached the horse carefully, running his hands over the ruffled fur of its neck.
Poor thing.
Cameron could remember training the horse, when it was just a young foal, circles and circles on a rope in the pasture. The horse neighed softly and pressed its nose against him.

He was about to take the mare to the stables when he noticed a slip of paper tied to its mane. He took it, unfolding it in his small, blunt hands.

The writing was tight and neat, with fancy loops and flourishes. He frowned, his head starting to hurt. He rubbed the large knob on the back of his skull that was left over from the accident, the one that had robbed him of his thoughts. He couldn't read anymore, but he recognized the handwriting. He had sat next to Sora on countless occasions over the past year, watching her write recipes and notes. She thought he had been trying to learn how to read again, and she tried to teach him, though he hadn't paid attention. Really, he had only wanted to watch her tiny, curling letters flow across the page.

He stood for a moment in the shade of a tree, shifting nervously from foot to foot, trying to decide what to do. He wished he could read the letter. He didn't know much about the situation, only that his mistress was worried for her daughter, and an unharnessed horse was a bad omen.

His thoughts turned to Lorianne. She had left almost a fortnight ago, but had given him detailed drawings of how to find her. His mistress was always prepared for an emergency; it was the duty of a Healer.

What if Sora was in danger? What if Lorianne came home, and it was too late to do anything, and she blamed him? Kicked him out?

The thought made his hands shake so hard, he almost dropped the note. He had lived with Lorianne ever since the accident, almost ten years now, and he could imagine no other life.

He folded up the scrap of parchment, tucked it securely in his vest, and went to gather his things. He had to deliver the message. It was his only choice.

A special preview of
Volcrian's Hunt
, available September 30
th
, 2013!

Volcrian's Hunt

(The Cat's Eye Chronicles, Book 3)
 

by

T. L. Shreffler

Prologue

Born into the colony, they lived without names, without parents. They became in all ways invisible. Brothers and Sisters. Servants of the Shadow. The Hive.

And the highest members of the Hive, those who fought and lived by the teachings of the Dark God—only they were given Names. Titles earned through combat at fragile ages, when children were the most eager to spill blood.

There was no word for
child
in their tongue. Only the word for the unnamed—
savant
. The same word for silence and sand and stagnant pools of water.

By the age of fourteen, he had waited long enough. He was ready to take a Name.

It was early, early morning. The shrine stood in a clearing of tall grass, covered in dew. It was the day before the Naming ceremony. The grass had a grayish hue, as did the dawn. Clouds covered the sky, drifting inland from the nearby ocean, which he could hear if he listened carefully. The air was heavy and brisk with moisture. Trees surrounded him; long, narrow things with smooth trunks, branching into wide canopies above. He had grown up with the smell of salt water; the rush and hiss of the waves.

His teacher, Cerastes—one of the Grandmasters, who had held the dagger of the Viper long ago—always trained him next to the sea.

“Look at it,”
Cerastes had said the night before, speaking in his low, rough voice, like the curl of waves against rock.
“At how it moves, coming and going. At all of the life that spills out of it. The ocean regurgitates life like a drunken sailor.”

The nameless savant had studied the ocean with his teacher.

“If it weren’t for us,”
Cerastes had said,
“for our kind, life would overtake the world. It would cram itself into every corner. Multiply out of control. Do you understand the danger in that? Just like the ocean waves, all things have a balance. The wave rushes in, then rushes out. It cannot just come in and in and in—then the whole world would be an ocean.”

The savant had nodded, watching the sea, alert.

“It is not beautiful or glorious, what we do,”
the Grandmaster had continued,
“but it is necessary. We are the outgoing wave. The harvesters. Hands of the Dark God. Soon you will enter into our tradition. Are you ready to take a Name?”

Savant had nodded slowly. In that moment, it felt as though he had waited a lifetime, counting each passing minute.
A Name,
he had thought.
A presence. A history.
He would become more than just a shadow—more than an unknown child of the Hive.

Then they had meditated, looking out across the iron-gray sea. He didn’t let himself consider failure. Those who failed at the Naming were scorned and shunned, often forced to leave the Hive. He didn't have to compete. He could refuse. At least then, he wouldn't risk losing his home.
But that's the way of a coward, not an assassin.

And now it was morning and he was ready.

He walked across the meadow to where the ground caved downward abruptly. Grass turned to gray, rough stone. The shrine of the Dark God was underground, hidden inside a massive cavern, formed by a centuries-old stream of perfectly green water. The dancing water could be heard throughout the cavern, resonating off the granite rock.

He stood at the edge of the pit for a long moment, looking through the ancient crags. Between the rocks, only darkness gazed back.

After a final glance around the clearing, he started down the rocky crevice. He gripped the loose shale with his feet. His fingers found crooks and handholds in the rough stone. He was quick and nimble, and slid easily downward.

Shadows enclosed him. It was a familiar darkness, soft and cool. A brief walk through the cavern brought him to the stream of green water, vaguely illuminated by shafts of sunlight, which shifted through the layered shelves of the ceiling. He leapt the stream easily.

On the opposite side stood a brass door embedded in the wall, wedged into a natural fissure in the rock. It, too, was centuries old, dating back to the founding of the Hive. The door had no key, and it took only the slightest shove of his shoulder to crack it open.

He entered the shrine of the Dark God, a long, stone cavern perhaps a quarter-mile long,. The walls were almost five times his height. Dim lanterns hung from the rocky ceiling, rusted by age and moisture. The stone was colored green by its high copper content and crumbled under his fingers, but the room itself was well-swept and maintained. The ceremonial offering of a dead shark had been laid on an altar the night before, toward the opposite end of the hall. This morning, the corpse had no stench. A sign that the Dark God had accepted.

Along the greenish stone wall hung an expansive collection of ancient weapons: dirks, maces, claymores, battle axes, pikes, staves, crossbows, chakrams and whips. Almost every kind of weapon that the world had to offer. The Grandmasters maintained them regularly.

But these weapons were not of average make. Forged from superior metals, blessed by the Dark God's fire, they were each imbued with a Name. When a warrior displayed the right skills, he earned the weapon and its title—and status within the Hive.

There, hanging from the ancient wall, he saw the one he wanted. The weapon he would use in the fight.

It was a recurved dagger with a trailing point, serrated towards the hilt, about twenty inches long. It hung from the end of the bottom row, where all the unclaimed blades were stored. He couldn’t touch it, not yet. But it was the same one his Master had used, the one he had been trained for. The Viper.
He who hides in the grass.

“Aye!” a voice suddenly reached him. It echoed around the stone walls with startling volume. “I know you’re in there!”

The voice was immediately familiar. He glanced out of the shrine, into the shadows of the underground cavern.

She stood ankle-deep in the dewy green water, a piece of oatbread in one hand, her shoes in the other. His eyes flickered over the girl’s plain black uniform. Although most in the colony were without names, he always thought of this girl as “Bug,” both because she was small for her age, and because she often trapped moths, putting them in small boxes or jars around her hut.

“Preparing for the Naming?” she asked, a slow smile spreading across her face. A dimple stood out on one cheek. He was surprised by it. The Hive did not encourage smiling—or any show of emotion, for that matter. He felt something swell within him: a certain strength.

“I am already prepared,” he said. “Will you be watching me?”

“I will be competing too.”

“What?” He stared. She was only twelve, far too young to fight for a Name. Most of the boys competing would be older than even he was, sixteen or seventeen.

She nodded. “My Master says I must. She says that she has no other students to compete in her Name.”

He watched her with careful eyes. There was uncertainty on her face. Adults knew how to mask their emotions, but she was still young.

To fail at the Naming was to be shunned from the Hive. Everyone knew that. He wondered why Grandmaster Nitrix would force her to fight.... Maybe she wanted to get rid of her. It was not unheard of, and Bug had always had it rough. She was small for her age and showed too much kindness toward animals. He couldn’t count how many times he had caught her leaving food out for wood-cats and squirrels.

“Come on,” he said, and held out his hand. “Let’s look at the weapons. Show me which one your Master used.”

She nodded. As they entered the long, cool stretch of limestone, she turned to glance at him, her green eyes still uncertain. All members of the Hive had the same make and coloring: black hair and green eyes. It was a trait of their people.

“I knew I would find you here early,” she said, perhaps shyly; he couldn’t tell. “I watch you practice sometimes. You are very good. They say Cerastes sired you himself; that is why he wanted you as his student.”

Savant only shook his head. “That’s rude,” he said. “We’re all brothers and sisters in the Hive.”

She shrugged, still grinning. “Perhaps. But not by blood. The humans say that you can only be related by blood.”

“We are different.”

“You think so?”

Savant didn't answer. The only ones who knew the true bloodlines of the Hive were the women, and they kept that knowledge well guarded. Biological siblings were usually traded with other Hives, to keep them from intermixing blood. Every now and then, a mother would be reprimanded for favoring her own child over others. All children of the Hive were supposed to be raised communally, and all elders were to be treated with equal respect; except for the Grandmasters, who were revered.

“Which weapon?” he asked, turning to the wall, hoping to change the subject.

She pointed at a short, curved sword. “The Adder,” she said. Then she wrinkled her nose. “To be honest, I don’t want that one. I want the Krait or the Asp. I’m much better at them.”

He glanced over her in thought. She referred to the whip or the shortbow. To be honest, he couldn’t imagine her with either one. She was too small. Too skinny. He felt his heart sink at the thought, though he quickly quelled the feeling. It was not the assassin’s way to show pity.

And yet, here they were. “Do you want to practice?” he asked slowly.

She blinked. “Practice? With the Named weapons?”

He nodded.

“But... it is forbidden!”

He shook his head. “Only if they catch us. I’ve been training for the Viper for seven years. Let’s try them out.”

She watched him warily for a moment, her assassin’s mask slipping back in place, then she grinned again. “Alright,” she said. “But only for a half hour, and in the forest where they won’t find us!”

He nodded, looking up at the dagger of the Viper.
What’s come over me?
he wondered, suddenly uncertain. He wasn’t one to break rules. It was especially forbidden to touch the weapons in the shrine... but something about Bug made things different. Something about her large, wide, slanting eyes. Their particular shade of green, like moss grown over a lake.

And the fact that he truly felt sorry for her. He doubted that she would win a Name. She might even be killed.

He grabbed the dagger before he could change his mind.

At first she went to take the short sword, but then she hesitated. She took the whip instead.

They dashed into the forest, the dawn light ever brightening, leaving the gray meadow behind.

* * *

Toward the back of the cavern, the rocks narrowed into a series of tunnels, leading to a secret exit, shrouded in ferns and bushes. The green water of the stream led to a dense woodland. They walked into the forest and found a place about a half-mile away from the sacred ground. Large, mossy elm trees swayed on each side. Ivy coiled across the ground.

They waited to regain their breath, then Bug loosened the whip from its coil, dangling it in front of her. “Prepare yourself,” she said, eyes glinting.

He leveled the Viper before him. It was a long, thick dagger, the blade jagged and sharp enough to pierce metal. He gripped it backwards from the handle and went into a crouch.

It was difficult to tell who lunged first, but suddenly they were fighting. Her whip lashed out, faster than the eye could see. But he heard it snapping through the air. He leapt to one side, the whip striking the tree behind him, tearing off a strip of bark and moss.

Then he lunged at her. She tried to engage him in combat, but he quickly slipped under her defense and grabbed her by the arms. Within seconds, he had her pinned against a tree, the knife against her throat. He was skilled enough not to cut her.

Her eyes widened. Then she glared. “Again!”

She ducked under his arms as soon as he released her, then spun, kicking him behind the knee. She was fast—faster than he. She caught his foot and he fell to the ground, but was up again within seconds. They circled slowly, each studying the other opponent, looking for a weakness.

Then she flicked the whip, catching him on the cheek. A shallow cut. He could tell that she had avoided his eyes on purpose.

He touched the thin streak of blood.

She lunged at him while he was distracted, drawing a knife from her belt. He hadn't seen the short blade, wasn't prepared for it. He turned slightly out of reflex, and the knife barely missed his neck. Then he ducked under her short arms and grabbed her by the shoulders. Rammed her up against the tree again. Pushed the Viper to her throat.

She dropped the small blade. “I give!”

He released her, barely even panting. It was somewhat disappointing. He had hoped she would be better than this.