Sora's Quest (Cat's Eye #1)

by T. L. Shreffler

  The dagger struck a fraction away from the man's face, rammed into the wooden wall, kissing his right ear.

  The room was silent.

  Then Crash turned, picked up their bags, and walked away. “Come on,” he growled, passing her, his black cloak swirling around him.

  Sora stared after him, momentarily paralyzed. She didn't want to follow. She paused, conflicted, her stomach writhing with anxiety. She didn't want to go with this man; he was no safer than the tavern owner, no more trustworthy. She gave the street entertainer a helpless look, wishing he could do something, but the red-haired man kept his eyes averted, staring resolutely at the floor. Crash didn't call for her twice, but his aura was overpowering, a silent expectation. He shot a glare at her over his shoulder and she felt her legs move, carrying her disjointedly to the door, wobbling with each step.

  The room stayed silent until they closed the door behind them.

  They didn't stop after they reached the street outside, but kept walking for several blocks. Crash moved swiftly, just short of a jog. They cut down several alleys and side streets, taking no particular direction, obviously trying to get as far away from the tavern as possible. The night was cold by now, the air laden with moisture, the houses dark and unwelcoming. Her legs kept shaking, threatening to give out. She tried to raise herself up and walk steadily, but it seemed impossible.

  Crash halted abruptly once they were far away from the tavern. They stood in the shadows of a building, the street cold and silent, not a person in sight. "Are you alright?" he asked, without looking at her.

  The way he said it was not comforting, and Sora didn't think he was truly concerned. She mumbled something, unsure of what to say; her mouth felt clumsy, dry.

  “What was that?” He glanced at her.

  She nodded shakily. All she could think of was the wicked knife under his cloak and the dexterous hands that had used it. He could have stabbed the tavern owner through the face, and she had the feeling that he wasn't used to holding back. She knew the truth — she was no safer now than she would have been with the bully. Except I can’t run from this man.

  Crash grabbed her arm roughly, startling her. Was he going to slice her up now, cut her into tiny pieces, punish her for causing such a commotion? This man killed my father. And to think, for a moment she had almost trusted him. I'm a fool. An idiot.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” It was unexpected; at first she couldn't even understand what he was saying, as though he spoke a foreign tongue. His voice was quiet, hushed. She couldn't believe his words. If anything, they confused her even more — after so many threats and mean looks, now he was stating the opposite? “You are under the Wolfies’ protection... and mine. I don't like men who bully women. That bastard deserves a lot worse than what he got.”

  And you're not a bully? It was shockingly hypocritical coming from a man like him. She would have said so if she hadn't been so afraid. Sora looked at him with uncertainty. She searched his eyes and he didn't look away this time. It could be just a game, just another way of manipulating her into a false sense of security. She didn't trust him. Didn't want to listen....

  But he kept looking at her, and eventually she felt like it was easier to breathe, as though a knot had loosened in her chest, though she wasn't sure why. His hand on her arm was not threatening — rather, she suddenly felt steadied, strengthened, and a strange warmth seeped through her, like honey or soup or hot spiced cider. She lost her wild look and became trapped inside his vibrant green gaze. What kind of human had eyes like that? They were so... so....

  “I will not harm you.” His soft promise broke through her fear. She knew she couldn't trust him — knew it — and yet the way he spoke, the sincerity in his gaze.... He's playing with me. Yanking me around.

  He stepped back and away from her, then started down an alley. “Come, we need to get out of this town.”

  Sora looked after him, eyes narrowed, unsure of what to think... but when she followed, her legs were strong.

  Chapter 6

  Sora was led back into the forest several miles from town. Her ribs ached where she had jammed them against the table, probably bruised — the horse ride was very uncomfortable. She was in a tired, hungry daze and she didn't expect any relief, not even when she was struck by the warmth of the campfire.

  Immediately a familiar voice mocked her. “So our dear Lady returns to her loyal servants. I take it you survived the battle, sweetness?”

  Her eyes snapped into focus and Sora glared down at Dorian, who was shining his daggers on the other side of a snapping fire. “Barely,” she grunted.

  Dorian raised an eyebrow, a silent question, but she ignored him. She nodded to Burn, a fragile greeting; the large man was propped up under a tree, reading a tattered book, much to her surprise. She was too tired to ask what it was, and she slumped down across the fire from the two men. She had never been more exhausted in her life.

  Burn stood and walked over to Crash, who was tending to his horse. They spoke in low tones. Crash handed over the map. Sora couldn't quite catch what they were saying. It’s probably about me, she figured. At this point, she just didn't care.

  “Sora,” Dorian’s voice drew her attention again, and once more her sleepy eyes turned to him. “Are you alright? You don't seem yourself. Did something happen in town?”

  She immediately thought of the assassin’s troubling promise, the blank expression on his face when he had almost shoved a knife through a man’s head, the way he had treated her the entire day. She took a deep breath and let it out, wincing slightly as her ribs let out a sharp complaint.

  “No,” she finally lied. “I suppose I’m just tired.”

  Dorian's eyes glinted. “You want to lay your head on my shoulder?”

  She found herself glaring at him again, this time meaning it. Bastard, she thought. “I'd cut my neck first,” she grunted. Dorian grinned in response.

  There was a crunch of leaves as Crash left the horses and headed in her direction. Sora watched him approach, nonplussed. Can't the man leave me alone? He paused next to her and dropped something in the dirt by her side.

  "These are your responsibility now — take good care of your weapons and they'll take good care of you,” he said bluntly.

  Sora blinked in surprise, and she couldn't help but sit up. Weapons? They were giving them to her to keep? She couldn't believe it — wasn't she their prisoner? She waited for Crash to walk away, then quickly unwrapped the bundle to look at her new knives and staff. The staff didn't interest her as much, but the knives did. She wondered if she would ever be able to use them like Crash, and if she could, if she would fight her way free. She made a silent promise to become as skilled as possible, as soon as possible.

  The four travelers settled around the fire again. Much to her surprise, Burn sat down near her, a friendly look in his eyes. “I heard what happened,” he said gently; his voice was so deep that she imagined it could shake the trees. "Mayville is a lowlife town. Lots of scum. There are better people out there."

  “Yeah,” she said in response. She wished she could speak her mind — but she didn't even know what she would say. Just let me go.

  "Well, you can never be too careful,” he finished awkwardly. “We'll keep an eye on you.”

  Sora frowned. “Why? So you can use me to get through the swamp?” she asked harshly. “I don't even know what you need me for.”

  The mercenary raised an eyebrow. She expected him to retaliate, but instead he looked puzzled. “Has no one told you?” he asked incredulously, casting a look at his companions.

  Dorian avoided the look, and Crash didn't speak. Burn turned back to her; he seemed concerned and a little disappointed. “Well, no wonder you're so skittish. No one's told you anything. You could say there is a curse over the swamp. It is impassible. Compasses don't work, maps lead you astray, friends turn against each other. They say the very air is laced with chaos and confusion. Travelers who go there are never seen again....”
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  “And I'm supposed to help you?” she asked, alarmed. It sounded like something out of a fairytale; it couldn't be true. “You guys are crazy. I don't know anything about traveling or navigating a swamp-”

  “Your necklace,” Dorian interjected from across the fire. “It will protect us from the spell. We will be able to pass freely.”

  Sora shook her head. It didn't make any sense. “But I don't know how to use the necklace. It might not work.” She could hardly contain her frustration. Let me go!

  “It will,” Dorian replied.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because we know who cast the spell,” Burn answered. “It's ancient magic used by one of the races: the Catlins. The last of their colonies reside in that swamp. They don't like trespassers and they don't want to be found. The Cat's Eye is the only thing that will work against them.”

  Sora didn't know what to say to that. Catlins? Another one of the races? She wanted to laugh at how ridiculous it sounded — impossible! Something from a storybook — but wasn't she staring straight at a Wolfy? She picked a leaf off the ground and turned it in her hands, thoughtful. Legend wasn't legend anymore, and she was right at the heart of it.

  “You'll be fine, Sora,” Burn said softly, and gave her that warm, understanding smile. “The only way to survive on the road is as partners, equals, a team. You might not have much choice in the matter... but we need you. You’re now just as much a part of the group as I am.”

  She stopped turning the leaf. Looked up. Stared. Was he serious? Easy for him to say! She wanted to roll her eyes. She was the one who couldn't walk free, who couldn't go her own way. They acted as though she had nothing better to do, no plans of her own. An intense longing struck her unexpectedly, and she touched her necklace. She wanted to find her mother.

  But they were all looking at her, waiting for her reply. She couldn't tell them what she was really thinking, then she would be right back at where she started, with no weapons, no choices, no respect. She nodded instead and tried to smile in an appeasing way, like the idiot they took her for. “Right,” she said. “I understand.”

  Burn grinned and patted her shoulder, also an awkward gesture. Then he turned back to his book. “You should sleep now, Sora,” he said quietly. “For tomorrow we begin your lessons.”

  * * * * *

  “Don’t listen to your head, girl! 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.”

  This was the most Sora had ever gotten out of Crash. Really, it was a breakthrough, though he still refused to call her by her name. Sometimes she wondered if he had forgotten it, and simply refused to admit the fact.

  “Good, now use that step I taught you — now, use it now, when your opponent moves like this — what are you doing?”

  Sora fell back against a tree, her shoulders aching and her hands numb; not to mention that her feet were about to fall off. Crash wasn't the most patient of teachers, and she suspected that he was working out some secret grudge against her. The assassin had beat the living daylights out of her every day that week, without even a word of praise. She was aching and sweating by the time they stopped each evening. Despite the lack of words, Sora figured she was getting better because the bruises were becoming less. I wonder if this was how he was taught.

  "Give me a moment," she panted, taking deep breaths, trying to suppress the stitch in her side. With a dirty sleeve, she wiped the sweat from her eyes; this was, without a doubt, the most physically challenging activity she had ever experienced. Already her nails were chipped down to the pink and her hands and fingers (along with the rest of her body) were covered with sore spots. She looked down at her staff in admiration; it wasn't chipped or dented like the rest of her. Crash had gone through three different sticks by this point, carving a new one each night. Witch wood — it made a difference. Recalling what the shop owner had said, she wondered if it would even be dented by a sword.

  Sora stood up and groaned; she could feel the pulled muscles only too well in her calves and arms. Would it ever end? Quick as lightning, she brought up her staff and heard a sharp crack! She smiled in grim satisfaction. Crash's blow was deflected.

  “And she shows potential!” Dorian called from where he was perched on a fallen tree. Sora barely heard him, nor Burn’s light applauding at the skilled move. The assassin wasn’t beat yet, and Crash came back at her, forcing his staff down on hers until she started to feel the strain in her arms. Using what little strength she had left, she threw him off and leapt over a low swing aimed at her knees. Whirling, she went for his chest and head, but found that no matter which way she tried, it was blocked. It was still a mystery to her how someone could fight so well with a large branch. I doubt I’ll ever be able to pull off those moves.

  In thinking such, Sora wavered from her strict concentration. A blow from Crash came out of nowhere, catching her hard in the ribs.

  With a cry of pain, Sora stumbled back against a tree and slid to the ground, clutching her rib cage and struggling to breathe. For a moment she even saw stars before her eyes. She was still bruised from the night in Mayville and had avoided mentioning the fact; pride had stilled her tongue. Gods, my ribs.... The bruises were still there despite the week that had passed, and still hurt when she touched them.

  When she refocused, Crash was above her, blocking out the light, face in shadow.

  “Foul, oh, foul!” she heard Dorian shouting, along with Burn’s soft complaints. It might have been her imagination, though — her ears were still ringing from the blow.

  “Shut up, you two!” Crash snapped over his shoulder. “I didn’t hit her that hard!” Then he turned back and she felt his hands searching her ribs, traveling gently yet firmly over her shirt. Wow, gently? She hadn't thought the assassin knew how.

  "Something you didn't tell us?" he murmured, and his hands paused just beneath her breasts, where the bruises were. Sora felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment, and she tried to ignore the awkward position. She looked away from his face, focusing on the tall trees and the overcast sky.

  “My ribs,” she said briefly. “From when I hit that table.” She wondered if he would remember the incident — and if he would punish her for hiding the injury. It was impossible to judge his reactions. “I bruised my ribs back at the tavern. I didn’t think much of it. I mean, they should have healed by now....” Her voice died at the set of his jaw.

  “If they were just bruises, then they would have healed by now,” he confirmed. Sora started to relax; he wasn’t yelling at her. “From here onward, you must tell me every injury that I don’t know about, alright? These aren’t bruises, girl. They’re fractures.” He didn't sound sympathetic.

  Sora nodded, still unable to make eye contact, his hands cradling her ribs. “Alright,” she murmured, face flushed with shame. She tried to ignore the fact that both Burn and Dorian could hear him. She didn't want to show weakness in front of these warriors; she was beginning to understand just how skilled they were. And he’s right, I should have just told him.

  “You're improving,” the assassin said abruptly. Then he was standing again, offering a hand to help her to her feet. Sora couldn’t believe her ears. “But you have a while yet to go before we reach the swamp. Catlins are not like humans; they're stronger, swifter, far closer to savage animals. Hopefully we won't run into any, but if we do, we need to be prepared. Injuries like this will slow down your progress, so we need to work twice as hard."

  Sora tried not to grimace. Ugh, really? How much can someone improve in a week?

  “Oh come now, Crash!” Dorian protested. “Give the sweetheart a break. You’ve been picking on her since day one!”

  “A breather would be good for all of us,” Burn agreed evenly. Sora looked over at the two gratefully, reli
ef written all over her face.

  “Fine,” Crash snapped. “Give it five minutes, then it's back to basics. We’re repeating that step until you get it right.”

  Sora sighed. The assassin turned and walked away, and she rolled her eyes at his back, making a face. Then she reached for her water skin and went to join the Wolfies on the log.

  * * * * *

  "And then the little miss ran away from the wedding! Quite a shame, that. She was probably distraught over her father's death. Elopement seems to be happening more and more these days. Last season there were two brides who disappeared, both of fourteen. One's rumored to be living on a farm out near Delbar. Can you believe that? Giving up that sort of money for dirt and love. Ugh, farming. I like to keep my nails clean, thank you. The only thing I know about crops is how to eat them! Ha!” Lord Garret took another swig of wine. “I'd expect Lady Sora to be dead by now. A sweet thing like that can't survive on her own. Now we travel to Lady Margaret's estate to meet with her father. She is of marrying age.”

  "Indeed."

  Garret motioned to the man across the fire with his wine skin. It was almost empty. Hopefully they would run across a merchant or caravan on these roads, because he couldn't travel for long without a refill. He had heard a joke once about wine... something about the only friend to the friendless... but he was too drunk at that moment to remember. "Go on, have some pork, we've got plenty!" he said. A wild pig roasted over a large fire between them, dripping fat into the flames. Tssssh! Tssssh! It smelled wonderful, downright mouthwatering. Garret took another slice for himself.

  The man opposite to him was strange indeed, with light blue eyes and long silver hair, the like of which he had never seen before. He seemed thin and underfed, perhaps a rich merchant who had lost his trade. His clothes were stained, if of a good make. Garret thought it might recognize the work of a tailor from one of the Northern cities; the stitches were neat and perfectly aligned, and the neck of the tunic held a familiar embroidery.