Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (42 page)

And then he began to laugh again. Grim cocked his head and looked at the man quizzically, but otherwise did nothing. “I think, perhaps, my time here is finally done,” Borost whispered, and he held his hand up to one of the first rays of waxing moonlight. It shone dimly on his wrinkled skin, and his fingers gently stirred the motes of dust that had gathered in the air. “I am finally set free,” he breathed.

Clare gasped and took an involuntary step back; the dust
was
the old man—he was dissolving before her very eyes, crumbling slowly into sparkling particles that trailed away like miniature stars on the wind. His hands and feet were the first to go, and they drifted off into the night. Soon only his head was left floating in the air, and his blind eyes turned to look at her one last time. “Remember, child,” he murmured, “your heart knows what is best for you. Tell Serah...tell her I said I will be waiting.”

And then he was gone, the last of his twinkling remains tumbling slowly away. For a long time, Clare could only stare numbly at the spot where moments before there had been a man. Finally Grim nudged her hand, and she shook herself. “I...I suppose we should be getting back,” she said softly, the old man's words ringing loud and clear in her mind. “I wonder if Will will even talk to me...”

She turned to go with Grim close on her heels, and it was then that recognition dawned on her.
Wait,
she thought, looking slowly around her,
I know this place.

It was the clearing she had awakened in; there, just to her left, was a patch of dead plants, their shriveled brown husks marking where her life had been spared for reasons still unknown to her. She knelt down next to their corpses and gently brushed her hand over them. “Thank you,” she whispered, and stood once more.

As if in answer to her words a sudden flash of light blinded her, and she shielded her eyes with her arm. There was a steady, low hum, and then a heavy thump—the sound of an active portal—and this time Grim
did
growl, low and deep in his throat. A moment later the light faded away and she let her hand fall to her side. A man stood before her, slumped as though from exhaustion. She could only make out his dim outline for he stood in shadow, but then he pitched forward drunkenly. She caught him in her arms, staggering from his weight, and was shocked to feel something wet and warm and sticky touch her skin.
Blood,
she realized. She knelt, lowering him to the ground as gently as she could.

“Borbos,” the man gasped. “Have to see...Borbos.”

“What's happened?” Clare asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep her voice level. “What's wrong?”

“City in the Waves attacked...” he whispered, and his head lolled to one side, a thin stream of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The plants, Clare noticed, had already begun to creep toward him. “Have to tell Borbos...traitors attacked...City in the Wa...”

When the plants paused in their delicate advance and then began to slither back into the earth, Clare knew it was over. For a long while after the man died she could only kneel and hold him. And then, when realization finally struck her, she set the man gently on the ground and turned and dashed off with Grim at her heels. She did not notice, but in her wake a single rose petal detached from her dress and drifted lazily through the air, tumbling and twirling and wilting as it went.

Its final resting place was on the dead man's lips, and as his blood stained the petal an even darker red, its crimson edges crackled and browned, curling in toward the center until it was as lifeless as the body it lay on.

But the Dark One would not be beaten so easily. For his divine family, he created three special nightmares—nightmares which would persist until the death of the cosmos, each an unstoppable force of destruction that would harry the Titans to the end of their days.

First were the Gruund, a race of monsters given the intelligence and free will to accomplish what his other creations could not.

Second was the Black Fortress, an immense structure of power that blighted the land around it and turned all it touched to evil.

And last was the Behemoth, the Great Devourer, hunger made flesh.

And Keth, locked away in his prison of madness, gave his power to the Dark One unquestioningly.

~

“Hurry, Will. You must hurry.”

“Follow our voices quickly, for there—”

“—is no time to waste. The—”

“—City in the Waves needs your help.”

“Hurry!”

Whumpf.

Will stepped forward out of the light and into almost complete darkness. He stopped and blinked rapidly in an attempt to let his eyes adjust. His disorientation was only exacerbated by the  din that assaulted his ears—the clank and rattle of weapons and armor, the tramp of hundreds of booted feet, and the intermittent wails and snorts of warhorses all combined to dull his senses for a short time.

He was used to the constant racket of war, though, and blocked it out. Such noise had long ago ceased to have any lasting effect on him. His vision adjusted a short time later, and in the dim light of the forest he could see perhaps the strangest-looking army he had ever laid eyes on.

Clare's news had sent the Faellan into a frenzied rush of activity; Will had not thought a group of people as peaceful as Feothon's would be capable of mobilizing for war so quickly, but the more the idea danced around his mind the more he realized that they must have been trained for such action from childhood. Each Titan had a legion of loyal souls ready to die for them at a moment's notice; it was small wonder, then, that they had readied themselves with such speed.

And now, with the combined forces of the Faellan and the new Dragon Guard, they were much stronger than the Ravens and the Pradians had been. These were no youngblood soldiers. Each warrior was a veteran, each had battle experience, and without fresh recruits to watch over, each would perform to the peak of their ability. Now, Will realized with some surprise, his Dragon Guard were the ones who were outclassed. Though each had fought on many varied battlefields, they were used to quick strikes under the blanket of darkness, or harrying their opponents' flanks on horseback while a much larger force took the brunt of the enemies' attack. Now, though, they would be going into terrain that they had never before encountered, fighting in a way they had been forced to do only a few times before. The forest people, though, were a different matter entirely.

Now that they were no longer at peace, Feothon's warriors carried themselves with a quiet, chilly dignity that belied the violence Will knew without a doubt they were capable of. Each wore boiled leather and scale armor covered in the gold and green livery of the Forest Lord—Will and Clare had been given similar raiment to replace their ruined equipment, albeit in the more modern form of Southland plate—and each man carried some form of weaponry that, Will could not help but notice, had all seen much use over the years. He could only imagine the antics Feothon's people had been up to in secret; perhaps they had been quietly and efficiently beating back the darkness in the world, and their feats had simply gone unnoticed by the oblivious humans who ruled the Inner Kingdoms.

Stranger to Will than their obvious battle prowess, though, were the women in the army. He knew it was not an uncommon thing, especially in such modern times as they lived in; it was not unheard of to use women to man siege engines or fire arrows, or—in extreme cases—to have women such as Katryna in an army, who had few practical skills other than the ones necessary to inflict pain and suffering. Rather, what surprised him was the fact that
every
archer in Feothon's army was a woman. When questioned about it, the Forest Lord's response had taken Will aback.

“They've a better arm with a bow,” Feothon had said simply, as though the answer were obvious.

“Really?”

“Yes. Their hearts beat more slowly than a man's. It makes their aim truer.”

Will had raised an eyebrow in consternation, but Feothon had only shrugged and told Will to see for himself.

Now the Forest Lord was riding atop a chestnut stallion that snorted and pawed fitfully at the ground. Feothon himself was clad in beautiful bronze battle armor, with a helm fashioned in the likeness of a stag's antlers atop his head. His face was still visible, and he wore a grim mien on his normally passive features. The changes in the Titan's appearance startled Will, who had grown accustomed to the man's easy bearing and disdain for clothing.

He's not the only one on edge, either,
Will thought, and his gaze roved across the other Titans. His eyes settled on Serah who had, like the soldiers, adopted a visage of grim stoicism. Her bodyguards Jhai and Zizo sat tensed and on edge atop their own mounts, her mood apparently having worn off on them.
Then again, Borbos' city is under attack,
Will mused.
Serah's mood probably has nothing to do with theirs. Everybody wants a crack at the Fallen at this point.

Leyra, as always, was silent and macabre. She rode atop a massive horse—one conjured for her by the Dark Forest specifically to match her size—surrounded by her men, with her ever-present axe resting on one shoulder like a lance. Her man Vulf rode next to her, his eyes constantly vigilant and his face a blank, emotionless mask. His hands played restlessly across the haft of his poleaxe, though, betraying anxiety amid his percei
ved calm. Will saw Leyra reach
out and touch him gently on the shoulder, however, and he relaxed instantly. They shared a brief, silent smile before looking away.

And then there was Borbos. Will's heart went out to the Sea Lord every time he looked at him; the Titan's face, normally exuberant and playful, looked drawn and sallow in the dim light of the torches the soldiers carried. There was rage in his blue-green eyes, rage that frightened Will with its intensity. But there was also an intense sadness there, and Will could only imagine what was going through Borbos' troubled mind.

He's worried for his people. Spirits, it must be terrible for him. He probably feels like I did when Clare was...

The thought came to a shrieking halt in his head, and the sadness inside him that had been ebbing and flowing like the tide suddenly washed over him once more.
Clare...
He tried to force her from his mind, but as always the attempt was futile. Even when she wasn't there, she continued to torment him.
I was so sure,
he thought dully.
I was so sure she felt the same way. Is this my sick fate? To never find love unless the one I find doesn't want me?

“Will,” Castor said beside him, “your dark mood is scaring me. I've never seen you like this. What in the name of the Void is wrong with you? And don't say it's Borbos' city again, because I knew you were lying last time and I'll know it again.”

Will turned his head slightly and attempted to banish the sadness. “Is it that obvious?” he asked, chagrined.

Castor nodded, his lion-head helm making the gesture look something like a formal challenge among beasts. Will's gaze fell away and he sighed, but Castor said nothing, apparently waiting for an explanation.

“I...” Will stopped. Should he tell Castor? He knew the man loved him like a brother, so what would happen if Will told him about Clare? He didn't want to risk any infighting, especially not for his sake,
and he certainly didn't want to see Clare ostracized simply because his feelings were hurt.

He closed his mouth, and then shook his head. “Sorry,” he murmured. “It's nothing. Don't worry about it.”

“But I
am
going to worry about it, Will,” Castor hissed. “For one, we're about to head into battle, and
your
head needs to be clear. You're the Dragon King now—you're important, much more so than any of us. What happens if you lose focus, hmm?” He scrubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger in exasperation. “Will, I'm your friend. You can tell me when something is wrong.” He was silent for a moment, and then, to Will's surprise, he asked, “Is it Clare?”

Will gave him a quick, sidelong glance. “What makes you say that?”

“You're completely bonkers for her. Thanks for confirming that, by the way. So?”

Will shook his head in defeat. “I told her how I felt,” he said quietly.

“And?” Castor asked expectantly.

“She couldn't even speak to me. She just stared with this terrified expression on her face.” He pressed his knuckles into his forehead until it began to hurt. “Death and damnation, Castor, I thought she felt the same way.”

Castor cocked an eyebrow, and for a short time seemed at a loss for words. “Er,” he said finally, “I thought so too. So did Katryna.” He scratched the back of his neck. “You're sure she wasn't just speechless from joy?”

“If that was joy, I'd hate to see her upset.” Will ran his fingers through his hair and let out a deep breath. “I just thought...”
I thought she might be the Phoenix Empress. I thought she would feel like I did.
He shook his head and did not finish his sentence. Serah had told him that when he met her, he and the Phoenix Empress would simply feel right—like their souls would be suddenly complete. Had he mistaken feelings of lust for those of love? Had it all just been some great cosmic joke, where he was at the butt of it?

“Maybe she's afraid, Will.” The voice came from behind them, and they both turned in the saddle to see Katryna riding a short distance away. She urged her horse into a trot and came up alongside Will.

“Afraid?” Will asked, and then he covered his face with his hands. “Oh, Black,” he moaned. “You mean because of what I did to her?”

“No, not that. What happened in Prado...I think she would do that again in a heartbeat, no questions asked. I mean she's afraid of spending her life with you.” Katryna touched him gently on the shoulder, and he looked at her. “I've been spending a lot of time with her, Will. I don't think she realized it, but she's been asking Asper an awful lot about what it was like to be with Feothon. I think...I think she's afraid of your immortality.” She gave a half-hearted chuckle. “I mean, I know I am. I keep imagining me old and you just the way you are. It's a bit disturbing.”

The thought struck him like a blow to the head. How had that not crossed his mind before?
But it did,
a nasty little voice whispered in the back of his head.
You just ignored it because you wanted her so badly, just like you convinced yourself she was the Phoenix Empress. Selfish bastard. Now look what you've done.

He shook his head slowly, unable to formulate words, and his mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for water. Katryna's hand found his shoulder again, and she patted him gently, the gesture marred somewhat by the awkward distance between them. “I've been so selfish,” he finally whispered. “I was only thinking about what I wanted. Not about what she would have to go through to...” He closed his eyes softly and did not continue.

“Will,” Katryna said softly, “stop it. Really—stop it right now.”

Will waited for her to keep going, but she never did. “Why?” he finally asked. “This is my doing. Me and this stupid curse they call a gift. Where's the point in living forever if you can't spend it with...” He trailed off and simply shook his head with a resigned sigh.

They had nothing else to say to him. He had been half-hoping they would; some sort of insightful knowledge or divine revelation from on high would have been most welcome at that moment.
But I'm
the god here,
he thought.
And they've never had to deal with immortality in their lives.

So instead he tried with limited success to forget about Clare for the moment, distracting himself by studying the strange flora and fauna all around him. He had never before heard of the odd furry creatures that hooted from the branches overhead, and looked disconcertingly like tiny humans with tails. Nor had he seen such trees in all his life—the strangest were tall, with upward-reaching scales of ragged bark and great, broad fronds for leaves. And they had enormous, round seeds the size of his head, their leathery skins covered in coarse hair...

Memory flashed through his mind, and for an instant he was back in the clearing where he had first met Clare, and she was telling him about the palm trees that lived along the Westland coast.
Clare...

He curled his hand into a fist and pounded it heavily against his thigh. Rage bubbled inside of him.
Why did I tell her? Death and damnation, why?!

When the smell of burning metal reached his nose, his eyes widened in surprise and he looked down to see a small black scorch mark on his thigh armor. He took his hand away in embarrassment and tried to will himself to think about happy things. The anger died away, albeit slowly, and soon he was left with an empty pit in the bottom of his stomach. He rode on in silence as they moved away from the heart of the forest and into the light of the open day beyond, concentrating on the new and unfamiliar terrain rather than his personal woes.