He was waiting for an explanation. “I'm an angry drunk,” she said brusquely, hiding her thoughts.
Ferran laughed at that. “Then you'll be in good company.”
* * *
They first spotted the town about two hours before sundown. Sora was shocked by how long they had walked. Five miles, perhaps seven, she couldn't be sure—only that her feet were bruised and scratched from the long trek.
They paused atop a small ridge, a precipice of rocks jutting above the forest. Crash pointed into the distance. She could see a bright, gleaming line of quicksilver across the sky—the ocean dancing with sunlight. There was an indentation along the coast where the trees tapered off, unable to take root in the silty soil. Then she saw the shapes of buildings, blunt stone mounds that leaned inward, rounded toward the top. At one point, their roofs might have been made of wooden boards or grass, but they had long since rotted away, leaving only the stone blocks.
Then she saw a large pillar of smoke wafting into the air. Their companions had already arrived.
A thrill of excitement moved through her. Sora felt her heart begin to race. Another hour of walking, and she would see her friends again. Safe and alive. It was more than she could have asked for.
Crash helped her walk back down the rocks and maneuvered them to the deer trail that led toward the coast. They cut through a few acres of wilderness, wherever the underbrush grew thin, taking the most direct path possible. Finally, finally they reached the rim of the trees. The ground became grainy and dry beneath her feet. The soil gave way to sand. Large rocks speckled the coast, swept in by the tide, the same brownish-gray stones that the buildings were made of.
She could hear voices bickering back and forth.
“The fire is too large,” Joan's voice reached her, husky for a woman, immediately recognizable. “It's too visible from the water!”
“How else are we going to cook two deer and a boar?” Jacques argued back. His words were stout and rolling, in a strange accent that Sora had never been able to place. “From what we've seen, this island is deserted. There's no danger in a large fire.”
“What if we are seen by a passing ship?” Joan pressed. “What if pirates travel these waters?”
“I hear a lot of 'ifs',” Jacques grunted.
Sora stepped from between the buildings. At first no one noticed her. Burn had his back turned and was stacking firewood next to a large pyre. The flames were still low compared to the amount of wood they had gathered. A pile of fruit lay adjacent to him in the overhang of one of the old buildings.
Jacques and Joan stood on the other side of the fire, facing each other. Jacques had a deer carcass slung over one shoulder, already skinned. His pet crow sat on top of the carcass, hopping back and forth across it, inspecting it with an eager black eye.
“Look at this town,” Joan said emphatically. “People lived here once. We are not as isolated as we think.”
“These buildings have to be over a hundred years old,” Jacques replied. “If people used to live here, they are long gone.”
Joan rolled her eyes in exasperation, then paused, peering over Jacques' shoulder. Sora met her gaze; she couldn't keep a broad smile from spreading across her face.
“What?” Jacques asked, then turned. His eyes landed on Sora. His face went slack and white, as though staring at a ghost. “Oh, my.”
They all stared at each other for a long, shocked moment. Then Crash stepped up next to her, his arm gently brushing hers. To anyone else it would have seemed like a meaningless touch, but Sora knew him better than that. She glanced sideways, still grinning. He met her eyes. A small smile played about his lips.
“Sora!” Burn's voice reached her. She turned around. The giant Wolfy charged toward her, sand flying beneath his feet. He crossed the beach in a matter of seconds and grabbed her in a fierce hug. Sora felt all of her breath leave her at once. The mercenary lifted her far off the ground, held in his powerful arms, then spun her in a circle. Her bandaged arm throbbed at the contact, but the pain was lost in happiness. She started laughing, her face buried in his soiled shirt. He smelled good—salt and citrus mixed with the metallic tang of sweat. She would have hugged him back, but her arms were pinned to her body, trapped in his tight hold.
Finally he set her back down. The world spun around her, slightly off-kilter. She turned to find the entire crew of Dracians at her back. One by one, they came up to touch her good shoulder, or her hair, or take her hand in welcome. They were all in their human forms, their hair bright coppery-red, their eyes like gleaming jewels. She didn't know most of their names, and for a moment, she felt guilty about that. She had been so worried about Crash and Burn, she had hardly thought of the entire Dracian crew.
Laina squeezed through the crowd, ducking under arms and stepping on toes. The small, thin girl stared at her for a moment, a dark frown on her face, then suddenly lunged, her arms wide open. Sora wrapped her good arm around the street child, gripping her tightly.
“I knew you weren't dead,” the young thief said into her shoulder. “I knew it! I told everyone, but they wouldn't believe me!”
Sora stroked her head. “Well, I'm here now,” she said in amusement.
“I was worried,” the girl sniffed. Her tone bordered on accusatory. Sora couldn't tell if she was angry or just emotional.
“Oh, hush,” she said. “See? I'm just fine.”
“I knew you were fine!” Laina said defensively, then pushed back, rubbing her eyes, blinking back tears. “I take it back, I wasn't worried at all!” She turned to glare at Tristan, who stood close by, part of the ring of Dracians. “See? I told you she was alive!”
Tristan gave the girl a tight smile, then took Sora's good hand in his, raising her fingers to his lips. “We're relieved to see you,” he murmured. His deep-blue eyes glinted in the sunlight. Then he glanced over her shoulder at Crash, his expression darkening. “Thankfully all in one piece.”
Sora frowned, wondering what the Dracian meant by that. For a moment, the tension between him and the assassin was palpable, like the static before a lightning storm.
She shook her head, pulling her hand back from Tristan and rubbing her fingers, a slow blush creeping onto her cheeks. “Crash saved my life,” she said quietly.
The Dracian turned to look at her, surprise registering on his broad, handsome face. Then he nodded. “That's good to hear. He was in quite a mood when he left our camp. I'm surprised he didn't slaughter the first thing he saw.”
A mood? Crash? She glanced at the assassin, who still stared coldly at the Dracian. Crash was a few inches taller and a few years older than Tristan. His look was pure intimidation.
“This is a cause for celebration,” Burn said abruptly, interjecting. His arm landed around Sora's shoulders, and he guided her to the shade of one of the buildings. “Let's cook that meat,” he called to Jacques. “I think we could all use a hot meal and a quiet night.”
Sora let out a small sigh of relief. She crossed the short stretch of beach with Burn. Crash followed them at a distance, observing the series of buildings. She sat down next to the sandstone wall, pressing her back against the cool rock. Closing her eyes briefly, she finally asked, “What is this place?”
Burn handed her a flask of water and sat by her side, putting his back against the wall, mirroring her position. “A town, I suppose,” the Wolfy said. His voice was low and deep, like a small avalanche, soothing and familiar. “We arrived a few hours ago. The Dracians have been exploring. It looks like this might have been a mining town at one time.”
“Mining?” Sora asked, her curiosity piqued. “Mining for what?”
“We don't know yet,” he said. “But we found large metal carts in one of the buildings, and there's a series of mining tracks that begin at the rear of the village. It's a bit late to go into the jungle. We'll take a closer look in the morning, see if we can't find a way off this island.”
“A mining cart is a far throw from a ship,” Crash said wryly
. He stood a few feet away, still gazing at the buildings. He looked thoughtful. Something must have caught his interest because he turned abruptly and walked into the cluster of buildings, his steps fast and silent.
Sora watched him go. “It wouldn't hurt to look,” she muttered. And I don't have any better ideas. Her eyes slid back to the ocean. The sun was descending in the sky, creeping toward the silvery water. It was too bright, too difficult to look at. She guessed they had another hour before nightfall.
Burn searched her face, her entire appearance. “We were able to recover your weapons from the ship,” he mentioned.
She turned to look at him. She was reminded of all the little details she had forgotten over the past two days while focused on survival. “My staff and daggers?” she asked.
“Aye,” he murmured. “And the sacred weapons, too. They were all stored in a large chest. Thankfully the ocean didn't take them.”
The sacred weapons? She was shocked by the news. She had assumed they were at the bottom of the sea by now. She shook her head slowly, absorbing his words. They had recovered the Dark God's weapons from the wraiths they had killed: the hilt of a rapier and a blackened spearhead. With the weapons intact, they could still move forward.
“We won't get far without a ship,” she sighed.
“We might not be as far off-course as it seems,” Burn said gently. He pointed to the horizon, out over the water. “I've seen other land masses out that way. Jacques sighted them too when he and the Dracians were flying. We might already be on the Lost Isles—just not the main island.”
Sora's eyes widened fractionally. “Are you sure?”
Burn shook his head slowly. “As sure as we can be. But you're right. Without a ship, we still won't get far.”
Sora started looking around, taking in all the trees, the wreckage of the buildings. “Perhaps we can build one,” she said, her mind suddenly racing with possibilities. “Tie a few logs together, just enough to float. If we're already close to the main island, it can't take long—”
“Slow down,” Burn laughed, and put his hand on her head. “We've thought of that and a few other possibilities. We'll decide on something tomorrow. For now, we all just need to rest.”
Sora knew he was right. She was physically and mentally drained, but his words had sparked her determination. There was still a chance left that they could succeed—and she would take it.
Burn gazed at her face, his hand tugging at a knot in her hair. Then he frowned. “We found a well, too,” he offered. “You can take a bath.”
Sora's eyebrows lifted. “Really?” she said, then got to her feet, holding out one hand for balance. Her legs were sore and stiff, but she couldn't pass up this opportunity. “Show me.”
Burn laughed deep in his throat. He took her arm and led her into the village. They entered what must have been the main street. Mounds of sand were pressed up against the buildings, carelessly arranged by the wind.
It was a short walk from one end of the town to the other, perhaps fifteen buildings in all. The houses were short and stout, nothing like the towering structures on the mainland. In the center of the town was a deep hole with a small brick wall around it, chipped down and worn away through the years. Sora saw a rope hanging over its edge that looked new, probably scavenged from the ship. She assumed there was a bucket tied to the side of the well.
“You'll have to bathe here,” Burn said, indicating the rope.
Sora's eyes widened. “In the middle of the town?”
“Aye,” he grinned. “Don't worry. I'll let the others know what you're doing. You can kneel behind that hill of sand over there.”
Sora glanced over her shoulder, noting a small dune perhaps ten feet away. Hopefully the rope would stretch that far. She nodded, trying to focus on the positive. At least she would be clean. She trusted Crash and Burn to stay out of her business, but the Dracians were a mischievous lot. She would have to keep an eye on the rooftops.
The Wolfy turned and lumbered away, calling out to the Dracians, forbidding them to run about until she was finished bathing. They laughed distantly, joking with each other, though Sora couldn't make out the words. She shrugged and turned back to the well, then gripped the rope with both hands and began to pull. She heard a splash of water somewhere far below her. A small grin lit up her face. Finally, a bath!
CHAPTER NINE
LORI WASN’T FOND of ale. She was more of a wine drinker, when she drank at all. The bubbly, amber liquid made her stomach burn unpleasantly, but she kept sipping away, watching Ferran from the bar. Her friend had attracted a lot of attention since entering the Aurora, and for good reason—he was a head taller and more handsome than most of the tenants. Women flocked around him, waitresses and other pirate riffraff, and Lori looked away as one tried to sit in his lap.
The Aurora had once been a grand ship, made of brass filigree and dark redwood. The inside had since been gutted and turned into a massive tavern or a gambling hall, depending on how one looked at it. Tables stretched in all directions, fifty rows down and twenty across, three decks high. The noise of the patrons was contained to a dull roar, drowning out the musicians that sat on the opposite side of the room. A wide range of card and dice games were set up, everything from poker and spades to roulette. Gold coins flashed in abundance. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, lit with hundreds of candles. Wax spilled down the sides of the candles to the floor planks; the experienced patrons avoided walking underneath them.
As she watched, a dollop of hot wax fell from the ceiling and struck a drunk sailor on the shoulder. He yelped loudly, dropping a stack of cards on the floor.
A massive kitchen was located on the bottom deck. The tantalizing aroma of roasted meat and herbs wafted up through the upper floors of the establishment. The top floor was roped off, reserved for special guests. Lori peeked up the large, wide staircase, catching sight of a bright red stage curtain. Perhaps they held performances there, too. It was far grander than anything she had expected to see in a pirate city. She couldn't imagine how the sailors had moved this giant ship from sea to land. They must have rolled it on more than a hundred logs, up the shallow bay to the base of the rocky cliffs.
The patrons of the tavern were a wide and various lot, a broad mix of grimy sea dogs, young thugs and wealthy merchants. Lori watched them with removed interest, far from intimidated—she had seen similar crowds in the City of Crowns. A few fat, bald merchants sat at a nearby table, throwing down cards and laughing into their drinks, their faces bright red. She identified them by their thick, heavy robes of a more expensive make than the average population. The sailors were just as easily spotted, hunched over tables, flexing their muscular, tattooed arms. She even saw a few men who reeked of the King's guard—perhaps soldiers on holiday? They wore clean linen tunics, their hair cut close to their ears.
Sultry waitresses prowled the room, refilling drinks and cheering the men on, coaxing them to bet more coin. In Lori's opinion, the women looked haggard and malnourished, with deep circles under their eyes and bones jutting from their wrists. As she surveyed the room, she couldn't help but note other physical conditions. Rotted teeth—bad for the heart. Yellow eyes, liver condition—too much drinking. A lingering cough—too much pipe. Blackened nails—poor blood flow. Flaking skin—cured by fish oil. Runny nose—common cold. Sores around the mouth—could be allergies or a kissing disease.
Any of these symptoms could be connected to the plague. Especially the blackened nails, the flaking skin. She had treated the illness first in livestock, receiving numerous complaints that chickens' beaks were turning black, their feathers falling out. Then the chickens would start attacking each other, eating one another, turning cannibalistic. The plague moved from the flesh to the mind. The hosts became crazed, erratic, violent.
When the disease spread to the farmers, she knew something was amiss. An illness rarely afflicted more than one species, especially where livestock was concerned.
“You look troubled,” a
voice reached her. It was unexpected. Lori gave a start, surprised out of her reverie.
She turned, her eyes landing on a redheaded man of medium height and build. Around her own age, handsome, with a square jaw and quizzical blue eyes. His hair was tied back at the base of his neck. He wore a silky blue shirt that shimmered in the light of the chandeliers, smooth as water. A wide belt cinched his pants at the waist, which were soft brown in color, snug, perhaps leather or deer hide. A single gold ring adorned his lower lip, pierced through the center.
Lori was only five feet tall, so even if the man was of medium build, he was still a hand or two taller than she. And, by the look of him, he was a Dracian.
She frowned, staring a bit too long. “Perhaps I need another drink,” she said, lifting the corners of her mouth.
The Dracian sat at the bar next to her and nodded to the waitress. “Maria, two shots of rum.”
“I don't drink rum,” Lori said. “I'll do with a glass of wine.”
The Dracian nodded to the barmaid, who winked at him in turn. “On the house, Lucas.” Then she turned to get their drinks.
Lori looked at the man. On the house, huh? Was he a pirate? Probably. He seemed like a regular. Perhaps he was a resident of the city—and maybe he knew something about their book. She wondered if Ferran was having any luck at the craps tables. Her old friend had taken up a few games, claiming that men's tongues loosened after a few drinks. He planned to snoop around, but he had been gone a long time. He was probably doing more playing than snooping. She had lost sight of him in the crowded room.
“So what brings you to Sonora?” the man said casually.
Lori had her guard up—as much as she could, after a half-tankard of ale. “Sightseeing,” she said bluntly.
“Ah...and have you seen much yet?” he grinned at her disarmingly.
“Just got in tonight.”
“Hmm. New then? First time to the city?”
Lori watched him carefully. It probably showed on her. Despite being a peasant, she was better dressed than most of the women in the bar. Her white shirt was buttoned up to her neck, her green skirts long and flowing, reaching just above the ankle. All of her clothes were newly stitched and clean. “Aye,” she said softly. “First time.”
Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) Page 11
