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she
didn’t have a Cat’s Eye to protect her from the plague. Since Crash
was one of the Sixth Race—a child of the Dark God—he didn’t seem
concerned about catching it. He was probably immune. Sora
considered returning with her to the boat, but she couldn’t stand
the thought of waiting for Crash and Ferran on the ship, surrounded
by clowning Dracians and the irascible Captain Silas.
    For a moment, she and Crash were alone. The
assassin paused by her side. “Will your Cat’s Eye protect you?” he
asked directly.
    Sora’s mouth felt dry. “It should,” she
finally said, though she wasn’t all that certain. The bond with her
necklace wasn’t broken, just clogged, somehow dormant. But she knew
the Cat’s Eye would protect her in a real emergency, if anything,
for its own self-preservation. That was simply the nature of the
stone.
    Crash nodded sharply, then turned away.
Without another word, he started silently into the forest,
following the woman’s trail through the underbrush toward the
village. Sora started after him, fingering her necklace in thought,
her brow furrowed. She felt a strange chill on the back of her
neck. Who knew what they would encounter in the village?
    But it was too late to argue. Caprion
summoned his white magic and lifted smoothly into the air, soaring
above the trees. She, Ferran and Crash continued through the woods
toward the plague-ridden village.

CHAPTER 3
     
    It took them almost an hour to reach the
village. Crash followed the woman’s trail swiftly through the
woods. It was easy to pick out. Even Sora could see the
half-footprints in the damp soil, torn leaves, broken branches and
strands of snagged clothing. She knew how to walk softly in the
wilderness, but Crash’s steps were completely silent, as though she
followed a ghost and not a man. Ferran brought up the rear. The
tall, lanky treasure hunter chewed idly on his reed from the
riverbank, making little attempt at stealth.
    As they walked through the forest, the smell
of decomposing vegetation grew stronger, and Sora began to see
evidence of its source. Small berry bushes close to the ground were
bare of leaves, their fruit rotting from emaciated branches.
Countless blighted tree trunks sprinkled the forest, covered in
black splotches. They leaned haphazardly against each other, a sign
of slow decay. The deeper into the forest they traveled, the worse
the trees became, until they entered a grove of toppled oaks with
deteriorated roots twisting into the sky.
    None of her companions spoke, but continued
through the devastated grove, climbing over the ancient trees. At
this point, the ground was soft and spongy and the stench was
almost intolerable. It looked as though the forest were being
choked of life, dying from the ground up.
    Finally they reached the village. Crash
motioned for them to crouch behind a row of thick bushes. They
peered between the shrubs. Sora waited for a sign of life—the shout
of voices, the laughter of children, a barking dog, anything—but
there was only silence. Even the birds were quiet. It left her
chilled.
    To her eyes, the village looked like it was
home to nomads and gypsies. Unpaved roads cut through a cluster of
shacks and shanties with little rhyme or reason. She had heard of
wandering river-folk inhabiting the Crown’s Rush; wayfarers who
lived on giant rafts of misshapen boards, who steered with slender
oars and lived in lean-to cabins with canvas roofs. She had never
met such people, but looking at the haphazard arrangement of wooden
buildings, their roofs little more than thick oilcloth, she could
only imagine a large group had settled here in an attempt at
civilization. It would explain the village’s isolated
location—hidden deep in the forest, yet close enough to a river to
travel easily. They probably traded downstream at other established
towns. This way, they avoided the King’s land-tax.
    The woman by the riverbanks must have been
desperate for help. Anyone who found