Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (61 page)

Will would forever remain unsure of what exactly happened then. One moment he was too far away to save her, and in the next instant he felt heat bloom along his entire body. There was fire all around him, licking at the air with insatiable hunger, and then, to his surprise, the beasts were no longer in front of him. Nor, for that matter, was Clare, and when he came to a halt and looked around in confusion, he realized that they were
behind
him. The fire evaporated as quickly as it had come, and he turned around just in time to see all three of Clare's assailants fall to the deck. They had been torn in half, the wounds ragged and rough—certainly not the work of a sword. There was no blood, though; where there should have been raw, bleeding tissue was only charred, smoldering flesh. Clare, still with her sword held over her head, looked around in shock and slowly lowered her weapon.

“Are you alright?” Will asked, dashing over to her with his sword held defensively out before him. He looked frantically around for any other would-be attackers but saw none. In fact, what few monsters were left on the deck seemed to be retreating. It was confusing, but at the moment his mind was preoccupied with other things. Everything else fell by the wayside.

“I'm—I'm fine,” she said, her voice shaking slightly, and he held out his hand. She took it and he pulled her to her feet. “Unharmed, thanks to...well, I think it was you, anyway.” She gave him a strange look. “Was it you? I assumed from the burn wounds...”

Will looked down at the charred corpses. “Erm...I'm not sure,” he said softly. Had he really done that? He supposed he must have; there were no other fire gods present aboard the ship. The knowledge that he was capable of such a thing was...unnerving. He shook his head, forcing himself back to the battle. “Come on—we shouldn't be dithering around.”

“Why?” Clare asked, casting her gaze around the armada. “They're pulling back.”

Will followed her eyes and saw that they were indeed; the tamyat had retreated from the smaller vessels as well as the capital ship. “Now that is odd,” Will said softly, and despite the roar of victory that echoed around the fleet a sense of unease entered his mind, gnawing at him like a starving rat. The Other seemed to agree, for it wriggled anxiously around as though nervous. “Something is wrong,” he said aloud. “Why are they pulling back? There must be thousands of them.”

“Agreed,” Clare said, and then her eyes widened. “Oh, no. Will—what if the Fallen are—?”

“Where is the Dragon King?”

The voice was like thunder, impossibly loud. It echoed across the armada with deafening force, and the power behind it was so great that the ships rocked and tossed as though they rode upon stormy seas. Their was power in the voice, power so unfathomably strong that Will felt it as a physical blow. His body weakened at the words, and he felt his muscles simply give in to the temptation to crumple. His knees hit the deck with a hollow thud.

“Fight it!” Leyra cried, and he turned toward her slowly, his mind blank. “You have to fight it, Will!
It is part of his power!”

“Give him to me, wretched creatures. I will not ask again.”

The voice crackled like lightning, stirring the seas so that they churned and tossed fitfully. Will felt a cloud of despair settle over him, smothering him like a thick blanket so that it seemed hopeless—pointless—to continue fighting.

You are weak,
said a voice in his head,
unfit to bear the title carried by men far greater than yourself. You are a lesser being, standing ever in the shadow of true gods. Give up, fool.

“Damn you, Will, fight it!” Leyra screamed, and then she slapped him so hard that his head whipped painfully to the side and he fell the rest of the way to the bloody deck in a heap.

And suddenly, his mind was clear. He shook his head, more for effect than anything else, and got tentatively to his feet. All around him men and women were crumbling in despair, their faces ashen and horrified. Some sobbed, hiding shamefully behind their hands. But most simply sat dumbstruck, unable to move or even think any longer.

Clare was among them; she had fallen to her hands and knees next to Will, and her dark hair hung in a curtain around her face. It did not hide the tears that dripped to the bloody wood below her, though, and as he watched her Will felt a wave of pity wash over him. He fell to his knees and put his arms around her, drawing her close. She tried to push away, but the resistance was weak and he pulled her into a bear hug, pinning her arms to her sides.

“Don't listen to him,” he said softly, not entirely sure of what he was doing but positive that it needed to be done. Clare was too important to him to fall under the traitor's sway, and he was not going to let them have her. “I know what he's saying, but it isn't true. You have to fight it.” He felt her struggling cease, and she sniffled loudly.

“I can't protect you,” she sobbed quietly. “My hand...my mortality...I'm
nothing
.”

“But that is
not
true,” Will said, and he held her out and lifted her chin. She would not meet his gaze, though, and her gold-flecked eyes focused on a point somewhere down by his elbow. “Clare, listen to me—
that is not true.
You have saved my life so many times that I am beginning to think you're truly a guardian spirit from the Void.”

“You have scant moments to live. Show yourself, Dragon King, or all of these people shall die.”

Will ignored the terrible voice and concentrated on the woman before him. “Clare, look at me—
look
at me.” She lifted her eyes haltingly to meet his own, and when she found them a spark of recognition lit within their emerald depths. “You are my protector,” he said firmly. “I have faith in you. None of those problems matter.”

She sniffled again and dried her eyes clumsily with the heel of her hand. “But...I...” she trailed off, searching in vain for further self-degrading words. So Will kissed her.

He reasoned that physical stimulation had worked on him, so he might as well try it on Clare. He had no intention of slapping her, though, so a kiss felt like the logical answer.
Oh, let's not fool ourselves,
he thought as his lips crushed against hers. It was not a soft kiss, especially after her hands came up to his head and pulled him against her even more deeply.
Missed my chance back at the City. Might as well seize the moment.

She broke away abruptly with a gasp, tilting her head down so that her brow touched his but her lips were free. Her good hand continued to rest at the curve where his neck met his shoulder, and for awhile she was silent, her panting breaths the only sound she made. “Thank you,” she finally said, her voice nearly a whisper, and then she started to laugh, albeit nervously. “Thank you,” she said again, and then she pulled away and rose unsteadily to her feet. He stood up next to her, suddenly feeling very awkward. The sensation was banished in the next instant, however, when the ship beneath his feet began to quake.

“I grow tired of this game.”

The voice was, if at all possible, even louder than before. The wind whipped into a frenzy, tearing at the ships' sails and battering Will with wicked force.

“This is no game,”
said a new voice, and suddenly the wind halted and the ships fell back into
quiescence. It was Feothon's voice, Will realized, and a burst of joy shot through him. The Titan's words tore through the air like righteous thunder, drowning out every other sound.
“The Dragon King is here, as are we all. You have chosen your battleground, coward. Show yourself and fight.”

Terrible laughter shook the air then, and in the midst of the seething mass of retreating tamyat the sea began to swirl, forming itself into a gargantuan maelstrom. Thousands of demons shrieked as they were pulled unceremoniously into its core, disappearing moments later as it sucked them into oblivion. And from the very center of the sea storm rose a shining figure, its arms outstretched as though to embrace the world.

The Fallen One had made his entrance far away from where Will stood, but the distance between them did nothing to diminish the brilliance with which the sun glared from the traitor's silver armor. It was blinding, and Will had to cover his eyes with his arm. He heard several people cry out in awe or terror, and beside him Clare gasped.

“You are finished, Feothon,”
the voice boomed.
“You have been finished for five hundred years. All of you have. You simply have yet to realize it.”

The glow began to diminish then, fading away into a shimmering halo of silver light around the figure. Will peered hesitantly over his forearm, squinting against the glare, and saw that it was drawing closer. The men it passed shrank back in terror, covering their faces and curling their bodies into fetal balls. “What are you doing?” Will cried, and hauled the man nearest him to his feet. “This is all a trick! It's just part of the Fallen One's power—you have to fight it!” The sailor stared at him fearfully, his eyes glazed, and Will shook him bodily.

“You are strong, Dragon King,”
the Fallen One rumbled.
“The most powerful creature in existence, without doubt. But you have yet to come into your strength. I can feel it, deep inside of you, clawing madly to free itself from the cage you have placed around it.”
His next words were pensive, and even slightly confused.
“Why do you fight it, I wonder? Why do you hold back? You could unleash it and annihilate me in an instant.”

Cage?
Will stared at the Fallen One in confusion. He could barely call upon his power even when he needed to; it came and went as randomly as the winds. He had certainly not placed any restraint on it—if anything,
it
had shielded itself from
him
.

“I sense doubt in you.” The Fallen One was near enough to speak normally, and his voice lost the disturbing rumble it had carried moments before. Now it felt as though the traitor's words were for Will and Will alone. “Doubt, and fear as well. Pestilence's minions were sure you were coming into your own. But...this is most perplexing...”

Unsure of how to respond, Will chose simply to remain silent and inspect his new adversary. Unlike Pestilence, this Fallen One looked positively regal—godlike, even. He wore shaped armor forged in the likeness of a male body, the metal pristinely polished silver; no matter how the traitor moved some part of it painfully reflected the sunlight into Will's eyes. Night-black clothing beneath the armor compounded the effect, making the glare seem even brighter. Will felt almost awed in the man's presence. And then his eyes came to the Fallen One's face.

Before, when the terrible words had echoed through the armada and bent Will to their whim, he'd had an inkling of which traitor he might be dealing with. Now, though, he was sure: Despair. Like Pestilence before, this one's face was covered. But rather than a cowl, Despair wore a grinning deathmask as bright as his armor. So detailed were the mask's features that Will felt he was in fact somehow gazing upon the Fallen One's true face. But it never moved, never shifted, and its mouth was stretched permanently in a rictus grin that made Will shiver with revulsion. Its eyes had no pupils; two flawless silver orbs stared back at him, and in their polished surfaces Will saw all of his fears realized—all of his nightmares.

He tore his gaze away, suddenly aware that his heart was beating much more quickly and his breath was coming ragged and heavy.

“Be careful, my king,” Despair said softly. “To gaze into my eyes is to invite defeat into your heart.
For an adversary such as yourself to fall under my power would be...disappointing.”

“You're nothing like Pestilence, are you?” Will said, ignoring the Fallen One's words and walking with forced calm up to the ship's railing. Despair was very close now, hovering a scant few paces from where Will stood. “He was mad with fear. But you...you're just evil.”

Despair chuckled. “Evil is in the eye of the beholder. But you are right about Pestilence. He was always afraid—afraid of death, afraid of Agony, afraid of the Titans. It was only through his machinations that we were able to gain this power, but he was rather tiresome to keep around.” He laughed again. The sound was slightly sickening. “You have my thanks for disposing of him. Not to mention the power that came to me upon his death.” He held one hand up and slowly curled it into a fist for effect. “It is...intoxicating. I want more. I had forgotten what it felt like to absorb another's essence. Were I so inclined, I would at this very moment be scheming the downfall of my brethren. Thankfully I am not.”

Perhaps it was a trick of Will's mind, but the silver mask seemed to grin even wider as the traitor leered down at him. “It is a pity,” Despair continued, “that I cannot simply wait for you to dispose of the rest of them for me. It would remove a terrible burden from my shoulders, and I would not have to wait such an abominably long time for my...comrades to die.” His shoulders slumped then, and his mask seemed almost to droop in mock sadness. He held his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Unfortunately, Agony would have my head on a pike if I left you at a time like this. The opportunity is too tempting to pass up, though I admit that was supposed to be the case in Prado as well.” He gestured expansively then, and his voice boomed with mocking joviality as he addressed the rest of the armada.
“And look! Fortune has truly smiled upon me today. Had I known the Titans would fall into a trap such as this so easily, I would have done it centuries ago.”