Fire Heart

by Dan Avera

  It was then that he noticed a peculiar numbness in his arms. He tried to move them, and thousands of tiny needles prickled across his skin. His arms, he realized, were stretched high above his head—and there was something cold and unyielding clamped tightly around his wrists.

  Metal.

  Manacles.

  By sheer force of will he was able to open his eyes, and he blinked sluggishly to clear his blurred vision. His memories were returning to him now, and the knowledge of his situation leaped to the forefront of his mind. An instant later, all thoughts were banished in the face of another: Clare.

  Now his vision cleared in a flash, and he shook his head again, ignoring the pain. His arms were hanging, he saw, from a chain suspended high above him from the ceiling; he was kneeling on hard stone, and with an awkward jerk he got unsteadily to his feet, looking around to find his friends—and Clare most of all.

  She was only a few paces to his left, kneeling just as he had been. She seemed to be unconscious. The hair on the back of her head was matted and sticky, and a thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth, drawing a red trail down her chin.

  “Clare,” he hissed, and her body twitched in response. She groaned softly. “Clare!”

  Her eyes fluttered open, and with obvious effort she turned her head in his direction. Her hair hung across her face, and he realized that it was matted on the left side of her head as well. How many times did they hit her? he wondered, rage blooming inside of him and twisting his gut.

  “Will?” she asked, her voice hoarse and her speech slurred. “Will? Is that you? Oh, you're alright? That's good. Am I dreaming? Tired...”

  “Stay awake, Clare. It's me.” He licked his lips nervously and looked around. He saw Castor and Katryna to his right, and farther down the way the surviving Titans were bound as well. They, however, were also wreathed in twisting, crackling ropes of black and red energy. There was no sign of the rest of their army. He tried desperately to remember what had happened but was unsuccessful, and turned back to Clare.

  “I'm tired, Will,” she murmured, and her eyes drooped.

  “Hey!” he hissed, and she jerked awake. “Stay awake. You can't go to sleep. You've been hit in the head. Get up, Clare, now!”

  She stumbled to her feet, wincing as the feeling returned to her arms. “Where are we?” she asked in a hushed voice, blinking slowly and seeing the room for the first time. “Where are the others?”

  “Castor, Katryna, and the Titans are here,” he said, “but...I don't know about the others.” He jerked his head to the right. “I think the Fallen did something to the Titans. I'm guessing they can't break free. Spirits above...Clare, what happened?”

  “We were going to Spaertos,” she said slowly, her words slurred, and she squeezed her eyes shut in concentration. “I think...I think they betrayed us to the Fallen...”

  “Wait,” Will said suddenly, turning back to the Titans, “where's Borbos? Did he escape?”

  He turned slowly back to Clare when she did not answer. Her head was hanging, her eyes squeezed shut. “Dead,” she whispered. “He killed Strife. Saved us.” She shook her head, and he saw glistening tears drip to the floor. “Dead,” she whispered again.

  Will's mouth fell open in stunned silence. Dead? he thought. But...what? How? Leyra was right...

  But a moment later he shook himself and forced the thoughts from his mind. Now is not the time, he thought, gritting his teeth. Have to get out of here. Have to get Clare out of here. “Listen,” he said, “I think I can get my hands out of these manacles—I've done it before. I just need to—”

  “Well, well, well,” said a low, masculine voice, and Will turned slowly back to the front, a cold pit of dread forming in his stomach. At the opposite end of the room, sitting in a high-backed chair, was the Fallen One Despair. His grinning mask stared sickeningly and impassively back at Will, the eyes dead as before, but the silver features were dented now, twisted into an unnerving scowl. There was something else next to him, too, an inky specter that seemed to be comprised entirely of smoke. Somehow, despite its apparently sightless visage, Will thought he could feel its attention center on him. A moment later it evaporated, dissipating into thin air.

  “I see you have awakened,” Despair continued. “How nice.”

  He stood and began to walk toward them, his cloak trailing behind him and his boots thunking ominously along the stone floor. He now walked, Will noticed, with a pronounced limp. When Despair came to a halt in front of him, the Fallen One did not speak; he simply stared with his hands clasped behind his back. The faint sounds of breathing emanated softly from behind his mask.

  Will, for his part, met the stare with one of his own. He was too angry to be frightened anymore—angry that someone had hit him over the head, angry that his friends were bound, angry that one of them was dead, and most of all, angry that someone had harmed Clare. “I just want you to know,” he said evenly, his voice a dangerous growl, “that the moment I get out of these shackles, I'm coming after you. Pestilence died relatively quickly.” He leaned in close, his face a mere hand's breadth away from the Fallen One's mask. “But you won't. You, I'm going to kill slowly. I think I'll start with your legs and work my way up from there. What do you think?”

  His answer was an explosion of pain in the side of his face as Despair's armored fist collided with his jaw, whipping Will's head to the side and sending a tiny spray of blood from his mouth. Will rolled his head back—and spat a mouthful of blood and spittle onto the traitor's shining mask.

  “I haven't made you angry, have I?” Will sneered. Despair hit him again, this time on the other side. As his head snapped around, Will caught a fleeting glimpse of Clare's terrified face.

  “Stop it!” she cried, and started to struggle against her bonds. The chains clanked mockingly overhead. “Leave him alone!”

  Despair ignored her. “What are you?” he whispered, his voice so soft that only Will could hear him. The question caught Will off guard, and he could only stare at the silver mask in confusion as it leered at him, seeming somehow both mocking and...something else. Confused, perhaps? “What are you?” Despair hissed again, and one gauntleted hand came up to gently touch Will's bloodied face. “You are so like him, and yet...so different. This anger...” His hand went to his chest, and the mask appeared almost to twist in surprise. “It makes my heart pound in my chest. My blood is rushing like it has not in five hundred years. Your soul is burning with rage. Your eyes...I see my old master in them, and I feel...

  “Guards,” Despair called, whirling abruptly so that the silver mask was hidden from Will's view. His voice was carefully controlled, imperious and condescending, and yet, as with the mask, Will detected a faint trace of something else. What was it?

  The door at the far end of the room opened and two armed and armored men stepped in. They marched up to a point several paces from the Fallen One and stood at attention, their hands resting none-too-subtly on the hilts of their swords.

  “Yes, your holiness?” one asked. Will was something of a stranger to Westland customs, but he guessed that the silver chain hanging from the man's pauldron was an indication of rank. A white scar ran down his pale temple, giving him a permanent glower, and he looked as though he had seen more than his fair share of violence.

  “These people are traitors,” Despair intoned. “Agents of the Harbinger, come to damn us all.”

  The guards stared at Will with revulsion. “Beast,” the scarless one whispered.

  “Indeed,” said Despair.

  “We're not the bad ones here,” Clare cried, “he is! Can't you see he's evil? What kind of holy man dresses like that?”

  “Silence!” the guard with the scar roared, and to Will's horror he darted over to Clare and swung his fist into her stomach. She coughed and choked, and her eyes bulged. “You will not say such things of a Clergyman of Gefan!” His fist collided with the side of her face with a sickening smack, and her head lolled drunkenly to the side.<
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  “I'll kill you!” Will screamed, and he strained against his chains. To his surprise, he actually heard the groan of warping metal. He pulled harder. “Touch her again and I'll rip your heart out of your throat!”

  The guards laughed at him. Despair, however, did not. Will saw the Fallen One's gaze move from him to Clare, and then back again. “Ah...” Despair whispered, the word so soft that Will barely heard it.

  “What shall we do with them, your holiness?” the scarred guard asked. He lifted Clare's chin and leaned close to her. “This one is awfully pretty. My men could use some...reprieve from all of their labors.”

  “Indeed,” Despair murmured. “Do what you will.” Will gave a wordless scream of rage.

  “And what about the others?” the second guard asked. “I see three more fine women here. Well, make that two.”

  “You may take her as well,” Despair answered, pointing at Katryna. “But leave the desert woman. She is a special case.”

  The guards bowed low, and without another word, Despair turned on his heel and left.

  “You've made a foolish mistake attacking our city,” the scarred man chuckled, seizing Clare's hair in his fist and pulling her head back. He laughed and let her head drop, and then motioned for the other man to unlock her manacles.

  “No!” Will roared, and he strained against the chains again. A thin trickle of dust drifted down from where they were bolted into the ceiling, and the metal screeched in protest.

  “Shut it, traitor,” The scarred guard spat, and then he, too, punched Will in the face. This time his nose broke, and hot blood flowed across his mouth and dripped from his chin. “Do you know what we do to traitors and heretics here?” the guard snarled. “We burn them. But not before we teach them why it's a fool's errand to walk in the shadow of the Harbinger.”

  Will heard Clare's restraints open with a clank, and she fell to the floor in a heap. “Get up, bitch,” her guard snarled, and he aimed a kick at her ribs.

  It had been a ruse, though. His foot sailed through the air, and before it had a chance to connect Clare rolled to the side. The kick missed, and the guard was momentarily caught off balance. With a look of pure hatred in her eyes, Clare swung her fist into the man's groin—once, twice, three times—and then, when he bent at the waist, gagging, she stood and kicked him in the chin, putting every last bit of her weight into the blow. He fell to his knees, and she stepped almost casually up to him and seized either side of his head. For an instant her muscles tensed, and then she twisted with all her might, spinning his head sharply to the side with a sickening wet crack. The man stopped gagging abruptly and tumbled over, landing so that he was sprawled awkwardly across the stones with his head bent at an impossible angle.

  Right then, Will could have kissed her. His happiness was short lived, however.

  “Guards!” the scarred man cried, and instantly four more armed men dashed through the door with swords drawn. “Move and you're dead!” he cried.

  “You can try,” Clare snarled, and she bent and drew the dead man's sword from its scabbard.

  “Fine,” said the other man, and he turned and kicked Katryna, who was nearest him, in the stomach. Jerked painfully awake, she cried out in pain, and then her eyes widened in shock as the point of the guard's sword came to rest on her collarbone. “Drop it,” he said, “or she dies.”

  Clare's eyes darted to Katryna's. “Clare,” she coughed, “don't do it. Just kill them—ah!” The guard pressed his blade into the hollow of her throat, and a line of ruby red trailed down her skin.

  Clare dropped the sword with a clang.

  “No!” Will cried. “Clare, what are you—” Another fist, this time to the hollow just below his ribs, drove the breath from his lungs and silenced him. He gasped for air, trying desperately to beg Clare to fight, but the only sound he could make was a breathy wheeze. Tears of pain and frustration stung his eyes and blurred his vision.

  The guards advanced on Clare with their swords at the ready; she made no move to fight back, even when one darted forward and kneed her in the stomach, sending her to the ground with a grunt of pain. He bound her hands behind her back and then pulled her roughly to her feet.

  Will snarled wordlessly, the sound disturbingly akin to that of a caged animal, and he pulled at his chains once more. The metal dug into his flesh, cutting him and sending trickles of blood down his arms, but he barely noticed. The metal shrieked and groaned, and more dust drifted down from the ceiling.

  But then one of the guards kneed him in the stomach, and he slumped forward. They began to leave with Clare and Katryna in tow. “No,” he gasped, his words breathy and weak, and he struggled feebly against his bindings. “No, stop.” One of the guards, a look of profound annoyance on his face, lifted his sword and advanced on Will.

  Clare caught his eye then, and the look she gave him was both fearful and resolute. She shook her head slightly, and when he stopped struggling and slumped forward in defeat she gave him a nervous smile. The guard sheathed his sword and went to join his fellows.

  And then they were gone, the door slamming shut behind them with a clang of dreadful finality.

  Will slumped forward, his chin touching his chest. Blood dripped from his nose, pattering lightly on the stones below.

  “Will,” a voice murmured next to him, and he looked over to see that Castor was fully awake. “Are you alright?”

  “What do you think?” Will asked bitterly, coughing and spitting a mouthful of blood on the ground. He felt tears of rage and frustration burn in his eyes, and they dripped to the floor to mingle with the little pool of red. “Castor, they took—”

  “I know.” The look on Castor's face right then broke Will's heart—it was a look of absolute terror, not for himself but for the woman he loved. “I know,” he said again, this time in a whisper.

  “We have to do something,” Will said desperately. “Look—the bindings in the ceiling aren't very strong. I've been pulling on them and I think I can at least break mine. Try it.”

  Castor chuckled humorlessly. He indicated himself as best he could and said, “Normal human, Will. Remember?” He rattled his chains for effect. “There's no way I could break these.”

  “So you're just going to give up?” Will hissed, black rage burning through him. “You're going to let them rape Katryna? You realize that's what they are going to do, right? Rape her and burn her.”

  “What do you think I've been trying to do this whole time?” Castor shot back. “You think I've just been sitting here, patiently waiting to die?” He rattled his chains again. “I've been trying everything I know to get out of these damned manacles. But every time I move my hand out of them even a little, I think they tighten. It's like the Fallen did something to them to keep us from escaping.”

  Will did not answer. He simply turned away and got back to his feet, and made ready to pull at the chains once more. The rage was burning through him now, thundering around in his head with only one goal—saving Clare. He tensed and gritted his teeth, readying himself for the coming bite of cold steel on his wrists.

  And then he heard the first cry.

  It was dim, far away, but he heard it all the same. It paralyzed him, and all he could do was stare at the door with wide eyes. He heard laughter—men's laughter—and there was another cry. “No,” he whispered, and when he heard a muffled, choked sob he screamed, “No!”

  And, just as he knew she would, the little Eastland girl faded into view before him. The familiar spatters of blood across her face and clothing shone in the candlelight, glittering like rubies, and her dark eyes glared out at him from behind her hair. She seemed paler than usual, wraith-like, but he did not stop to wonder at such a development. She had not seen fit to haunt him for so long that perhaps he had simply forgotten what she looked like.

  “Will-yem,” she said in a slow sing-song.

  “What do you want?” he snarled. The tears streamed from his eyes to trace little paths through the blood on his face
. He tried to blink them away, but each distant cry gave them new life.

  “Here we are again, Willyem,” she giggled. Her voice was different now. Deeper. More. As if there was a second girl talking behind her, but this one was a monster. “Just like last time. Do you remember? When all of your friends were killed and you could do nothing to save them?”

  He screamed and pulled against the chains; he felt one of the links begin to twist and break.

  “And now she will die too, just like them. Just like you.” The girl smiled and traced her finger along Will's cheek; it came away wet with blood. “Do you see, Brother? Even a god can bleed.”

  Will gaped. Brother? “What?” he whispered.

  And finally, finally, the Other awoke inside of him. He felt it rise and coil like a snake ready to strike, baring its fangs in anger. It hissed and he roared furiously, and the little girl's eyes opened wide with fear. She took a step back—and vanished.

  Willyem, said a voice in his head, a voice that crackled and purred like a campfire, and he was only mildly surprised to hear it.

  You, he thought, for it could be no other—Koutoum had spoken to him.

  I can help you, Willyem.

  How?

  The Other growled as thoughts of Clare flashed through Will's mind. They were replaced suddenly by images of red and orange and yellow—fire. I can help you control it.

  Why are you just now doing this? Will cried, furious that Koutoum would choose this moment to reveal himself. Outside of his mind, his body screamed again and strained at the manacles.