Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One)

by Dan Avera

  But the yaru never came. The defenders waited tensely for what seemed half a belltoll, and all the while the barrier of flaming oil continued to rage with unchecked fury, its heat washing over the defenders and making Clare sweat despite her distance from it. The moon and stars were now almost completely concealed beneath a thick blanket of smoke, and the flickering orange light from the fire cast a demonic glow across everything it touched. And then...

  “What's that?” Will asked suddenly, and Clare felt a thrill of fear course through her.

  An inky black figure in the shape of a child had materialized within the inferno. It walked toward them slowly, its outline wavering and distorted by the intense heat that should have been melting the skin from its body. But the flames parted around it like the petals of some monstrous flower, driven back by a slowly pulsating field of dark energy. Then the child was through, the hole in the fire snapping shut behind it with a resonating thud. The boy stood for a moment, surveying the soldiers before it with an expression of placid indifference.

  “Titans.” It growled the word as though it were an insult, and its voice was hoarse and gravelly. “Disgusting creatures.”

  “It sounds different than last time,” Will murmured.

  “You are a blight on this world,” it continued, its red eyes glaring in the inky shadows of its face. It spoke haltingly, as though constantly fighting to draw a shallow breath. It almost sounded ill. Clare wondered if perhaps the wound Will had inflicted upon it in the forest was graver than they had thought. “But no longer,” it continued. “Your destruction is nigh.” It cocked its head slowly to one side. “And yet still you fight. Your tenacity is admirable.”

  “You once worshiped us as gods,” Serah suddenly said, her beautifully clear voice a sharp contrast to the boy-thing's. The sound of it returned strength to Clare that she had not realized the boy's was sapping. “Or have you forgotten, traitor?” The last word she said with such venom that Clare felt a shiver go up her spine.

  “Do not lecture me, Wind Witch,” the boy hissed. “I was a human once, and a slave to your power, but no longer. Now I am something more. I have a power no man could dream of possessing.”

  “A stolen power.”

  “But it is mine all the same.” It was silent for a moment. “Dragon King,” it said at last, “I know you are here.” A murmur rippled through the ranks of the soldiers at the creature's words. “Your scent has been covered since last we met, but I know you. Your predecessor never fled from a fight—especially when innocents were in danger. I would hate to see his shining reputation tarnished by your cowardice.”

  A choked scream reverberated suddenly across the city center, and Clare snapped her head around toward the source, her eyes widening in surprise. A man was dangling in midair, his body seemingly supported by nothing and his limbs flailing in terror. He went still a moment later as though paralyzed, and then with agonizing deliberation his sword hand began to turn inward. Soon the point of his blade was resting against the base of his own throat, and his wide, terrified eyes locked onto the shining metal.

  “Show yourself, Dragon King,” the boy hissed in that horrible, dead voice, “or this man dies. I will live in fear no longer.”

  Will stood. “Will, no—!” Clare whispered frantically, seizing his sleeve, but he tugged away from her grasp, his face set with grim determination.

  “I'm here,” Will said, and his words carried clearly though he had not raised his voice. “Now what do you want?”

  To her surprise, Clare saw the boy flinch as though struck. Then it narrowed its eyes and took a step forward. “I do not know how you escaped me in the forest,” it hissed, “nor do I care. But the voice in the darkness grows stronger each moment you continue to live, and I can no longer stand it. I was sent either to bring you alive to the Black Fortress, or to kill you. It makes little difference to me which path you choose.”

  “Are you still Agony's slave, then?” Serah called. “Still blindly obeying him like a mongrel pup?” She made a noise of disgust. “You sicken me. To think that we trusted you.”

  “We are all slaves to Agony's will,” the boy answered. “Do not spit on me when you do not understand, witch. I would have run from him long ago if I could.”

  “Then you are a coward!” Serah cried. “You all are! Join us and we can stop him!”

  The boy silently lowered its head, and for the briefest of moments Clare believed the strange creature might actually do as Serah said. “I cannot,” it said quietly, its eyes rising to meet the desert woman's. “His hold on us...it is stronger than you realize. And he is powerful, so terrifyingly powerful...the only thing I fear more now is that voice in the shadows.”

  It began to grow then, just as it had back in the forest, only this time a cloud of thick black smoke materialized from the air around it. It twisted and billowed around the boy-thing's form like an unnatural, living fog, shrouding it from sight until all that was left was a dark, writhing, pulsating column. When the smoke dissipated a tall man garbed in black stood in its place.

  His face was completely hidden beneath a cowl, though Clare had the strangest feeling that pulling the hood back would reveal nothing but shadow. He wore robes that covered his entire body except for his skeletal hands, which shone pallid and sickly in the light of the waning fire, the nails cracked and rotten. His body was unnaturally large, and he was taller even than Will by at least a head. He would have stood higher still had he not been perpetually hunched over as though from intense pain. He held in his right hand a plain halberd with a long, sweeping blade. Clare's eyes widened in horrified recognition. Every child in the Inner Kingdoms had heard stories of this man and his ilk. Every child had suffered at least one nightmare about them.

  “Belahan,” Clare whispered, and a chill so cold it made her head ache shivered through her body.

  “I am Pestilence,” the man hissed. “Wanderer, Darkling, Krish, Shadowlord, Belahan, Fallen—whichever suits your tongue the best. Perhaps you have heard of me. It does not matter. It was I who struck the final blow against the Titan Renne; it was I who chained the Dark One to our will; and it was I who bound Talyn and drove Davin to his death. For these crimes I will suffer an eternity of torment in Kotaros. You are the only one who can send me to that fate.”

  He began to walk toward Will, black smoke billowing from beneath the edges of his robes. His boots clanked heavily upon the cobblestones as he moved, each footstep sending a haunting echo around the city center. He used the halberd as a walking stick and moved with a limp, and Clare wondered again how much of his condition had to do with Will.

  “My brethren are disturbed by your sudden return,” the man rasped. “Even the great and powerful Agony trembles at your rebirth. We had hoped your soul was lost to the ether. Naturally it was I, the least and the greatest of us, who was chosen to assassinate you before you came into your power.”

  “Well and good,” Will answered, “but you have the wrong man. I'm no Dragon King.”

  “You answered when I called to you.”

  “Only because all of you people have the twisted notion in your heads that I'm more than I really am.” Will narrowed his eyes. “But I answered you all the same. Let that man go.”

  Clare's gaze darted back to the unfortunate soldier still hanging in the air. She had almost forgotten about him. His body, though unable to move normally, continued to writhe against his supernatural bonds.

  For a moment Pestilence stared at his victim as though in deep contemplation. “No,” he finally said, a note of surprise edging his voice, “I will not. You have managed to make me...angry. It is something I have not felt in many, many years. I usually prefer to leave depravity to my brethren, but in this case I feel...obligated.” Clare was suddenly aware of dozens of glowing red eyes staring down at them from the rooftops and within the depths of the shadows. The yaru had been using Pestilence as a distraction to get closer to the survivors. “You will watch him die slowly, just as you will watch all
of your friends die slowly. You have cost me a great deal, Dragon King.” His hand went absently to his chest, almost as if it pained him. “A great deal indeed.”

  Will took a step toward him. “Stay away from my friends,” he snarled. “You will never—ever—touch them.”

  “Will, no!” Serah cried, and she reached for him, but the movement made her gasp in pain and clutch at her side.

  “Silence,” Pestilence hissed, and with a wave of his empty hand he brought Serah to her knees. She screamed in agony.

  Will began to walk toward Pestilence. There was rage in his eyes, so deep and thick that it seemed almost tangible. He tightened his grip on his sword, and the leather grip creaked in protest. Clare caught his arm and wrenched him back. “Don't go,” she whispered frantically. “Will, he'll kill you—please don't go!”

  “What other choice do we have?” he replied quietly, and for a moment she could have sworn his eyes flashed crimson. “Look, I'm going to try to buy you some time. Get the rest of the people out of here. And make sure Serah stays safe. Listen...I believe her. I believe she is a Titan.” He took a deep breath, and there was sadness in his eyes. “There have to be more of them. Save her and find the others. Maybe they can...can keep you safe.”

  Tears of frustration threatened to spring to her eyes, but Clare blinked them away. “No, damn you,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “There has to be another way. I—”

  Will gently cupped her cheek with his hand, shocking her into silence. It was the most forward gesture he had ever made, and even despite the nightmare surrounding them Clare felt her heart skip a beat. “I'm going to fight him,” he said. “You can't stop me. You need to get everyone out of here. I'm counting on you, now.”

  “Then I'll help you—”

  “Death and damnation, Clare,” he hissed, and his expression was pained. “Please just go! I need you to stay alive!”

  It was right there on the tip of her tongue, but for some reason she couldn't say it: I don't want to live without you. The words surprised even her, for despite their short time together she knew they rang true. And yet she could not say them; for some reason, her mouth would not work and her lungs would do nothing but draw air.

  Finally she nodded, and then turned away without a word, refusing to look at him any longer. Slowly, she eased her grip on his arm. For a moment he simply stood by her and did not move away, and it was all she could do not to turn to him again.

  “How very noble,” Pestilence rasped, his voice sounding strangely nostalgic. “I had almost forgotten...”

  And then Will was gone.

  She heard his footsteps trailing away, sounding for all the world like the ticking of a morbid timepiece made for the sole purpose of counting the moments until his death. Clare squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth.

  “Rest assured,” she heard Will say, “if I don't kill you, somebody else will. It's only a matter of time, and yours will come.”

  The Belahan did not respond; Will's words were simply met with a clash of metal that rang ominously throughout the city.

  Clare opened her eyes and seized Castor's arm much more forcefully than she had intended. “You heard him,” she said in a choked voice. “We need to get them out of here.” She looked into his face and saw, with no small amount of surprise, that his eyes were glistening. Somehow the sight gave her strength. “Castor,” she whispered. “We need to do what he asked.”

  The man nodded slowly, his gaze distant as he watched the duel behind her. The blows were coming quickly now, and the song of steel rang clearly across the courtyard.

  “Fall back!” Katryna cried, taking the initiative that neither Clare nor Castor was willing to. “Fall back! Archers, cover our flanks! Soldiers at the ready! Move!”

  There was a last, lingering pause as nobody responded, and the world was silent except for the sounds of the duel. And then, slowly, the low thunder of footsteps began to grow as more and more of the soldiers trickled away. Clare, Serah, Castor and Katryna were the last to leave. As they began to jog behind the group, Serah supported on either side by her bodyguards and Clare running blindly through a veil of tears, she heard a cry of pain. It tore at her and she stumbled with a sob.

  “Come on,” Castor said, tugging at her arm. There was another scream, longer this time, and it shattered Clare's willpower. “Clare, we have to go now!”

  “Leave,” she said. “I'm going back.”

  “Clare, don't be—”

  Her fist collided with the side of his helm and he staggered backward, his grip on her arm coming free. She barely felt the slow burn of pain that began to spread through her hand. “I said go!” Clare shouted, and then she was sprinting back to Will and swiping fiercely at her eyes to clear her vision. Grim bounded at her heels, his fur bristling with rage and his lips drawn back in a silent snarl. She only hoped she was not too late.

  ~

  The tip of the soldier's sword began to bury itself in his own flesh, and the man cried out as a growing line of crimson began to trickle from his throat. A low, strangely bestial growl emanated from beneath Pestilence's cowl.

  “I do not usually take pleasure in such things,” he hissed, “but tonight seems to be an exception. It is liberating.”

  Will gritted his teeth in anger, trying desperately to remember everything he had ever heard about the Belahan—or whatever this thing called itself—but remarkably little came to mind. Can they even be killed? he wondered, but immediately pushed the unwelcome thought from his mind. It did not matter; all he cared about was giving the others enough time to reach safety. With no other options in sight he charged at Pestilence, who brought his halberd up almost lazily to block Will's blow. The Belahan's movements seemed slow and deliberate, and yet he was able to deflect each of Will's strikes effortlessly, and with only one hand on his weapon.

  What in the name of all the spirits is this? Will thought, lashing out desperately. This can't be real—nobody is this strong! The floating soldier cried out again, much louder this time.

  “Oh, my,” Pestilence cackled, and the sound was so completely alien that it made Will pause for the briefest instant. It was disgusting, gravelly, like his lungs were full of phlegm and disease. It made Will want to clear his throat. “Look what you did,” Pestilence said, a manic edge to his voice. “My concentration wavered. I believe I am beginning to enjoy this.”

  Will darted his glance over to see that there was now a shallow gash along the soldier's collarbone. Pestilence seized the sudden lapse in concentration to bring the butt of his halberd up and catch Will in the chin.

  Will heard a distinct pop, and his neck twinged painfully as it jerked back and he was flung like a ragdoll through the air. He landed heavily, the wind rushing from his lungs and his limbs sprawling haphazardly to the sides, and all of his healing wounds cried out in pain. He groaned and, after a moment, slowly picked himself up off the ground.

  Pestilence had not moved from his original position, and was now leaning heavily on his halberd like a sickly old man. “I see your injuries pain you,” he said. “It is only fair, then. Yours pains me still. It makes my bones ache, and my blood boils in my veins.” In a moment of sudden clarity Will realized that despite his veneer of mad amusement, the monstrous man was in fact terrified. But of what? “Cease your struggle,” Pestilence wheezed, “and give yourself to me. Surely the Black Fortress is preferable to death.”

  Will ran at him and feinted to the left, cutting toward his opponent's knees. The Belahan blocked the blow easily, and Will's sword bucked painfully in his hands, sending violent vibrations up his arms. Then the butt of the halberd swept out to catch him behind the ankle, and he tripped and crashed heavily to the ground.

  “Do you know the meaning of fear?” Pestilence asked as though nothing had happened. He stabbed downward and Will rolled to the side just in time. The halberd's blade struck the ground with a clang, shattering the cobblestones where it landed. “I do. I have lived in fear for centuries. An
d when you slew so many of my yaru without suffering a single blow, my fear reached its peak. I wonder if it will drive me mad, if it has not already.” He lashed out with a sweeping, horizontal swipe at Will's midriff. Will managed to block the attack, but the impact jarred his healing arm and made him wince in pain.

  “You talk too much,” Will snarled, sounding for all the world like a wounded animal, and he dodged inside the Belahan's guard. He flicked his sword up, just catching the edge of Pestilence's cowl before his enemy vanished in a thick cloud of black smoke. Will staggered backward, choking on the foul fog and waving his hand in a fruitless attempt to clear the air. His eyes darted everywhere, wary for anything, but when the smoke dissipated moments later Pestilence had vanished along with it.

  Something hissed behind him, and Will whirled around just in time to deflect the overhead strike that he was sure would have torn him in half lengthwise. The blow forced Will to one knee and he rolled clumsily out of the way, the Belahan's follow-up thrust just barely nicking his sleeve. He got to his feet and brought his guard up, ready for the next attack—and was surprised to see Pestilence staring away from him with the butt of his halberd planted firmly against the ground. Will followed his gaze.

  “Perhaps...Agony is wrong,” Pestilence hissed. “He says we did this to rid the world of your influence. To usher in a new golden age. But...strangely, I find this to be far more enjoyable.”

  “No!” Will screamed, a jolt of horror tearing through him as he realized what Pestilence was looking at, but he was too late; the soldier in the air, his eyes open wide, suddenly twitched. The point of his sword slid deep into the side of his neck, and when it withdrew blood jetted and pulsed from the wound. His eyes rolled back into his head as crimson leaped rhythmically from the gaping hole, each spurt slightly weaker than the last. Finally, his head slumped forward and he fell to the ground, his body landing awkwardly with a fleshy thud and a rattle of metal.