Fire Heart

by Dan Avera

  Something blew a torrent of water into the air off to her left, and she whipped her head around just in time to see the front half of a massive shark's body rise from the waves, a scaly monster locked tightly in its jaws. The tamyat shrieked, its eyeless head lashing from side to side and its talons scrabbling at the shark's snout, tearing into its skin. But the shark held on relentlessly, oblivious to the rents in its flesh, and soon the embattled pair fell back out of sight.

  The water began to glow sky-blue—the telltale sign of the Sea Spirit's power—and Clare looked down to see countless minuscule squid darting to and fro on a single-minded search for a victim. One of the water demons lunged for her, its claws outstretched to topple her from her perch atop the drake, but the monster halted midway, stopped as though by an invisible wall. Clare could see the squid swirling around its middle just below the surface, and then they dragged the thrashing demon back below. A cloud of red boiled up to the surface a moment later.

  “And now,” Borbos said to Clare's right, “we make for the ships as quickly as possible.”

  Clare was ready this time, and when the water drake beneath her darted forward yet again she kept her grip tight on its spines. A rooster's tail of white water leaped into the air behind her, and her hair whipped back as the wind lashed her face. The armada before her grew at a frightening rate, and soon they were inside the cloud of cannon smoke. The pungent smell of burning firesand made her nostrils flare, and she coughed as the acrid fog choked her lungs.

  The ships were very close now, the thunder of their cannons deafening, and the water was clouded with blood and scattered with the bodies of the slain, both human and demon. Corpses bobbed like corks on the surface or floated just below it, staring at the living with glassy eyes as they passed. Wreckage kept the dead company, and at one point they came upon what little remained of a ruined ship's hull, its bow rising from the waves like the burning skeleton of a whale forever frozen in mid-breach. Water bubbled and churned around its edges as it sank slowly beneath the surface, and thick, greasy clouds of black smoke billowed from its wounds, choking the air and marring the crystalline sky. Clare wondered how exactly the water demons had managed to dismantle and set fire to a warship; the implications were disturbing.

  Soon the waters became darker, and when Clare dipped her hand into the sea her skin came out stained red. The blood was so thick that when the last droplets of water had trickled from her fingers, traceries of gore stayed behind. She shuddered, trying not to imagine where it had all come from, and wiped her hand ineffectually on her breeches. The human fleet must have inflicted catastrophic casualties on the Fallen's horde to choke the sea so, and Clare was unable to wrap her mind around the staggering amount of bodies needed for such an act.

  The corpses were thicker here too, and despite the Sea Spirit's prior reassurances that the armada had not taken heavy losses, Clare felt her gut twist with anxiety. The water drake she rode growled deep in its throat, a strange thrumming sound that vibrated down to her bones and rattled her armor, and she looked down to see its golden eyes questing rapidly to and fro. She ran her fingers along its cheek and it quieted.

  By the time they reached the first ship the smoke was so thick in the air that Clare could scarcely breathe without coughing. Wrecks floated like silent sentinels, rocking sluggishly on the crests of waves or sinking slowly beneath them. Nearly all of them leaked smoke as though it were blood from an open wound. The skies were choked with soot, the sunlight dimmed behind the incessant curtain of refuse that littered the air, and little flurries of ashes and sparks drifted along on those scant lackluster breezes that managed to penetrate the hazy barrier.

  For Clare, it was a scene that was fast becoming alarmingly familiar; memories of Dahoto's ruined and burning shipyards seared through her mind, bringing with them the painful emotions she had fought so desperately to keep buried. She could still see the gutted carcasses of the Dahotan fleet sinking inexorably beneath the dark surface, their shattered masts reaching for her like the hands of drowning men.

  “Ho!” called a man's voice, and when she looked up to the ship she saw a ragged sailor covered in splashes of blood and streaks of soot leaning against the aft railing. He waved at them, and Borbos waved back.

  “How goes the battle?” the Titan called up to him.

  “It goes,” said the sailor, and he gave a rueful grin. “The main fleet lost us some time ago. The tamyat ruined our rudder, and you can see the shape our sails be in.” He indicated up and behind him, and Clare followed his arm to see that their sails were indeed in poor condition; it looked as though they had drifted right through a storm made entirely of sharp objects, and the tattered white sheets flapped sadly in the breeze. Again, she found herself wondering how the water demons had managed such a feat.

  “Are you sinking?” Will called.

  The sailor shook his head. “Nay. We've sprung a few leaks, but we'll be fine. Just so long as those creatures leave us alone and the Darkmen don't show up.” By this time several more men had gathered round the first, and though they looked beaten and weary their faces seemed to brighten when they caught sight of Borbos.

  “I'll be leaving some merfolk for you, then,” Borbos called back. “Just in case.”

  Again, the sailor shook his head. “Thank you, my lord, but they be needed more at the front lines. Trust me—there be so many of those foul beasts that our problems pale in comparison.” He put his fist over his heart in a salute. “Good hunting, Lord Borbos. And good hunting to you as well, Dragon King.” He turned without another word and began shouting orders to his men. Borbos hesitated for a moment before looking away as well and urging his mount to continue. Soon, they had left the stranded vessel far behind.

  It was then that Clare noticed—yet again with a shock of fear—the reappearance of the shark fins all around them. She urged her pounding heart to be still, and noticed that there seemed to be just as many of the creatures as before. “Borbos,” she said, her voice quaking slightly, “just how many sharks do you have here?”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Why, all of them.”

  Clare stared at him.

  “Well, all of them in the western sea, anyhow, which be a substantial number, I assure you.” He patted his mount's side with a soft, wet slap. “And I've got more like this one, as well. Ancient, and big. Some bigger, even. Been around for ages. Just like the...eh, like the Leviathan.” He fell silent then and looked away. After a moment's hesitation Clare urged her drake toward him, and reached up to pat him awkwardly on the shoulder. He half-turned toward her and gave her a sad smile.

  “At least it died heroically,” she said, and though using such words seemed strange for the Leviathan, they also felt fitting. “That's more than most can say.”

  Borbos nodded sadly and breathed a heavy sigh. “Aye,” he murmured, “that it be. Still, 'tis hard to let go. The last Leviathan died thirteen hundred years ago, before I was born. That be a very long time. I feel...sad that it had to happen again on my watch.” He smiled at her once more and patted her hand. “But enough of that. It'll be reborn soon enough. Thank you...Clare.”

  The sounds of scattered cannon fire were much louder now, nearly deafening despite the blanket of smoke, and Clare tightened her grip on her sword; the rest of the fleet had to be close—she could see great dark shadows drifting all around her—and that meant that the tamyat would be near as well. She gritted her teeth and willed her pounding heart to calm itself.

  It didn't.

  ~

  Fang had not drawn blood in a long, long time—Castor was not sure how he knew this, but somehow he did. Where his hand gripped the longsword's hilt, it felt almost...excited. As though the blade had a mind of its own, and he was less its wielder and more a host for its wrath. He found himself wondering if the weapon was, in fact, somehow alive. Void-forged. Isn't that what Borost said? he wondered idly. Fang hissed through the air like a viper and caught a tamyat at the base of its neck, cleaving it wide o
pen almost to the other side of its torso. Blood poured and spurted from the wound, leaving the body so quickly and in such volume that soon what little remained was reduced to trickling into the rapidly spreading pool across the wood decking.

  But by then Castor had long since turned his attention elsewhere, and he lashed out and impaled another monster through its chest with a wet, sickening squelch. It screamed, its eyeless head craning back in pain, and he pulled Fang away only to sweep it in an arc that sent the creature's gaping maw tumbling from its shoulders in a spray of gore.

  That was another thing—the blade was remarkably light. It felt more like an extension of his arm than anything Castor had ever used before despite its size, which he had worried at first would render it much heavier than his familiar side-sword. He had, however, been pleasantly surprised. And there was, of course, the matter of him not actually wielding it; it felt more like he was simply being pulled along behind it, a parasite attached to a much stronger host. Castor was a renowned swordsman in both the Southlands and the Westlands, and he had even met Eastlanders other than Serah who had heard his name—but now, suddenly, this jeweled sword was making him do things he had never done before.

  He whirled, his tattered cloak flaring out behind him, and Fang blocked a demon's talons with a metallic clang. The creature loosed a piercing, ululating screech and snapped at Castor, spattering his face with its hot, stinking saliva. With a roar of fury Castor shoved against the tamyat and kicked it in the chest. It had no legs, so it could not stagger, but it rocked back for an instant as it tried to regain its balance. Castor never gave it the chance; he leaped and raised Fang high above his head, and then brought it scything down on the demon's head. It shuddered convulsively and fell limp.

  The blood along Fang's edge glistened in the dim, smoky light, glittering like liquid ruby, and Castor felt a thrill of jubilation jolt through him—though whether it had come from him or from the sword he was unsure. He looked around for something else to kill and was disappointed to find only his fellow soldiers. Disappointed? he thought, slightly unnerved, and an icy chill shivered up his spine. I wonder if this sword is healthy to keep around... He felt a flutter of anger run through him, and knew it was not his own; the sword did not wish to be cast aside, especially not after lying dormant for so many centuries.

  “Alright, alright, calm yourself,” he muttered aloud, and he felt the sword's consciousness give the mental equivalent of a grumble before receding back into the blade. The sensation of it leaving his mind was...unpleasant—as though his veins had suddenly been filled with ice water only to have it drain slowly out of him. And what was that strange voice whispering? He shivered.

  “Castor,” Katryna called from behind him, and he turned to her. She was spattered with blood, something he found rather revolting considering the manner of creature they were fighting, but she seemed not to mind. He reasoned that if she cared, she would use something other than shortswords to fight with. He had never actually asked her, but on several occasions he'd had the distinct impression that she enjoyed it.

  “That really is foul,” he said, indicating the sticky ichor.

  “Oh, dear,” Katryna said in mock fear, “have I displeased m'lord? Will my filthy mannerisms keep me from his bed hereafter?”

  “Not likely, woman,” he answered with a grin, and walked over to her, his feet thumping loudly along the wooden decking. “I take it we're clear for the moment?”

  Katryna reached up and swiped her finger across his cheek. It came away red—though it had scarcely been white before. “Blood,” she said, shaking her head. “Disgusting. I'm afraid I have to leave you.”

  Castor shrugged. “Suit yourself. I've a dozen suitors waiting for you to run off on your own.”

  Katryna threw her head back and laughed. “Castor, Hook is not exactly an ideal mate. I would suggest finding an alternative, especially considering Will is now taken.” She grinned and nudged his chin lightly with her fist. Then she leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. “You can't win against me, darling,” she purred as she drew away. “No matter how hard you try. And yes, the ship is ours.”

  “Vixen,” Castor muttered, but he grinned and smacked her on the rear as she turned away.

  “Save it for later, my love,” she called over her shoulder. “You're far too messy right now, and I shan't be seen with such a filthy urchin.”

  A shadow ghosted silently up to his shoulder then, and he turned to see Hook staring after the receding Katryna, whose hips were swaying voluptuously. He grinned and gave a gurgling chuckle, nudging Castor in the ribs with his elbow. Castor arched an eyebrow, but the thin man only laughed.

  Hook, too, was covered in blood, though Castor found it a sight more fitting than with Katryna. “What news, wretch?” he asked, and in response Hook made a lewd gesture before turning with a flourish, bowing low, and pointing with one outstretched arm. Castor followed his indication out to the sea, where the waves rolled in gentle mockery of the battle around them. For a moment he saw nothing, and then a dark shape appeared from out of the haze and made for the ships with frightening speed.

  No, not a dark shape—countless dark shapes. There were so many of them that it could only be another horde of monstrosities from the deep. He raised Fang and felt it meld with his mind again—and then recede just as quickly. Confusion blazed through him for an instant until he recognized the shapes in the front of the swarm; they were not demons.

  They were people.

  Will and Clare.

  Castor gave an elated shout and dashed to the side of the ship. “Will!” he called, waving frantically and laughing like a madman. “Death and damnation, man, what took you so long?” The relief on Will's face was so strong that Castor fancied he could feel it as a tangible energy. His friend breathed a sigh of relief, and Castor laughed. “What,” he called, “did you think we couldn't handle ourselves?”

  “Are Katryna and Hook still alive?” Will called back.

  “Would I be smiling if they were dead?”

  Will grinned. “A fair point.”

  By then the group on the water had reached the bottom of the ship, and Castor threw a rope ladder over the side. Clare came first, followed shortly by Will. “Lord Borbos,” Castor called to the Titan, who remained perched atop an enormous fish the likes of which Castor had never seen, “will you not join us?”

  “Nay, lad,” Borbos replied. “My place be here, on the waves. I'll be of no use to you on a ship, I promise.” He inclined his head to Will and Clare then, his dark mane briefly hiding his features. “Stay safe, you two,” he said, and then with a shrill whistle he urged his mount forward. It dove beneath the waves, followed closely by the rest of the Titan's strange entourage.

  What Castor had at first thought was simply a patch of floating weeds suddenly, and much to his surprise, rose from the sea and slithered aboard the ship. It took the rough shape of a human, and the strands of its body slowly twisted and writhed like a patch of snakes.

  “Willyem,” it said in an inhuman voice that reminded Castor all too much of Pestilence. It inclined its head, and two yellow orbs flashed for an instant where its face should have been. “Father. It has been a great honor.”

  “The honor was mine,” Will replied. “Um...what should I call you? I can't just call you 'Sea Spirit' all the time. That's a mouthful.”

  Castor's eyes widened. So this thing was the Sea Spirit they had been sent to collect? He had been expecting something more...impressive.

  “I have many names,” it replied. “To Borbos, I am Son. To the creatures of the sea, I am Master. But you...it would please me if you would call me Yalkahn.”

  Will cocked an eyebrow. “Yalkahn? Is that your name?”

  “It is not my name, but it is a name. It is a word from a language long forgotten, used by a race of men that all but disappeared from the annals of history a very long time ago. The word means 'place of water.' It was their name for the sea.”

  Clare looked at the
Sea Spirit thoughtfully. “Asper told me that Feothon called the Dark Forest Yalkul. Is that from the same language?”

  “Indeed,” the Spirit said. “It was called Felothel, and it was Feothon's long ago. I doubt he remembers very much of it now; what few remain of the Faellan certainly do not. Yalkul means 'place of trees.'”

  Clare laughed. “So he calls the Dark Forest 'Forest?'”

  “Yes,” the Spirit answered, and Castor could have sworn its face twisted into its own version of a kelpy grin. “But I must return to Borbos. The battle is still underway.” It inclined its head first to Will, and then to Clare. “Thank you both for rescuing me. May you stay safe, and should death come to claim you, may you find peace in the Void.” And then it left, its body unraveling and pouring over the side of the ship to the water below. Soon it, too, was gone.

  “'Father'?” Castor asked, giving Will his best bemused look.

  “A long story,” Will said.

  Castor shrugged. “I'd like to hear it all the same.”

  ~

  By the time Will finished telling Castor of their adventure to the bottom of the sea, their warship had caught up to the rest of the fleet. A steady wind was picking up, and though the air was still hazy the main body of cannon smoke had begun to dissipate and was drifting slowly off into the distance. Will guessed Serah had something to do with that. Now they were able to just barely see the thin, black line of the horizon far away, and the rest of the armada all around them.

  They were, Will had to admit, much better off than he had been expecting. The bloody water had kindled his fear to new heights, but the fleet of ships was in surprisingly good shape. What remained—he estimated a good three-quarters of the original number—had been bloodied but not beaten. And as Borbos passed among them with his column of sea creatures, the surviving sailors raised a stirring cry that echoed far across the waves.