Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (14 page)

The yaru seized him around the throat and lifted him into the air, bringing him close and peering into his eyes. “I would look at you before you die,” it growled, a wave of stinking breath assaulting his nostrils. “Enigma. That is all I can think of to describe you.” And then it placed the claws of its other hand against Will's chest, just above his heart.

He became aware of something then, a...rustle. Like wind through dead autumn leaves. The yaru horde seemed almost to shiver, and then as one they turned and ran, screaming. Will blinked.
What?

And then he saw it—a cloaked figure, dark and liquid as a shadow, tearing through the yaru horde with careless abandon. Steel flashed in the moonlight as the figure cut the creatures down one by one, leaving in its wake a trail of severed limbs and glistening innards. A second form, black as pitch and with the vague shape of an enormous wolf, leaped into the fray and tackled one of the monsters, crushing its skull in vice-like jaws and shaking it bodily before tossing it aside like a ragdoll. The motion was so fluidly easy that Will felt a shiver go through his body.

Then the massive yaru gave a furious scream and tightened its grip on Will's throat, strangling the air out of him. “No!” it cried. “Not you! Why can I not see you?
Where are you?!
”

Will knew he had only precious moments to spare. His vision was rapidly shrinking into a narrow tunnel, and he could feel his grip on consciousness ebbing away. The anger struggled up within him, fighting to keep him awake.
Now or never,
he thought, and with a shaking hand drew the long knife at his hip. The beast must have felt him move, for it snapped its head around in surprise just as Will swung the blade toward its chest, burying it up to the hilt in yaru flesh. There was a strange flash of light, like a spark from flint and steel, and then he felt himself falling through the air as the yaru unceremoniously
dropped him and backpedaled away.

“
No!
” it screamed, reaching up to seize the hilt of the knife.

What happened next felt to Will more like a dream than reality. Time seemed to slow. The knife began to glow red-hot, and the skin around the blade smoked and sizzled. Will saw the shadowy newcomer and its wolf-thing dart away into the darkness, and he wondered briefly why. Then the knife burst into flame.

The yaru seemed almost to melt in on itself, dissolving into liquid shadow that fled away into the night, and left behind the burning knife. It exploded, erupting into a great ball of light and heat that burned Will's skin and clothes and hit him like an enormous fist, sending him flipping through the air. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the pale bark of a birch tree rushing forward to meet him.

When they had finished their journey across the world, Koutoum and Keth left the mortal plain and ascended back into the heavens, where the Void is ever-present in its dark and twinkling beauty. Koutoum retook his seat upon his golden throne, and Keth bade him farewell.

The young god had seen many things on his travels—many things that made him question the wisdom of an immortal existence. An idea slowly began to take root in his mind, but it was premature yet. He would sit on it, let it simmer and come to a boil on its own time. His gift would come soon, that was certain. All that remained now was to see what form his gift would take.

~

Disjointed images, viewed through a red haze of pain—he remembered opening his eyes, seeing the moon and stars overhead, a horizon of tree tops at the edges of his vision. He heard a crackling fire, a low voice. A woman's. He lost consciousness.

~

The next time he awoke it was sunny. A cloud passed over his head, drifting lazily across the blue sky. He heard birds. He was on his back—something soft beneath him. When he tried to lift his head lances of pain flared through his body, but he did not even have the energy to cry out. Something heavy and wet dragged across his cheek, and he heard a soft whine. And then, oblivion.

~

“Leave him be, Grim.” The woman's voice—low and beautiful. The heavy wet thing on his cheek again. “Grim!” Will groaned and opened his eyes—night had fallen once more. He heard footsteps, felt cool fingers on his forehead. A blurry face entered his vision. “You're safe,” whispered the voice. He felt something hard touch his lips, and cool water trickled into his mouth. He swallowed, choked, and the water skin withdrew. “Go to sleep.” The fingers gently stroked his face. “Go to sleep.”

~

Will's eyes fluttered open. He experienced a moment of disorientation as his vision swam, but slowly the colors and shapes before him solidified into blue sky and white clouds, and without moving he could just make out a ring of birch tops. The sun was just beneath the tree line, though whether it was morning or afternoon Will was unsure. He turned his head to the left and saw grass and, a short distance away, a forest that faded away into darkness. To the right was the same, but this time with signs of human habitation—the last embers of a campfire smoldered cheerfully a few paces from him, and he saw a travel blanket not far from where he lay. For a moment he continued to lie motionless, listening intently for his savior.
Or captor,
said a little voice in his mind. He tried to ignore it.

Eventually, with an extreme effort of will, he raised himself into a sitting position. Pain flared in his abdomen and his head throbbed brutally, but he gritted his teeth and continued to pull himself up, forcing the discomfort into a distant corner of his mind. When he finally made it he slumped forward and sat motionlessly for a long time, panting from the exertion. When at last he was ready to move again, he steeled himself and looked down at his battered body.

To his surprise he found that his right arm was wrapped in heavy bandages, and beneath his breeches he could feel more wrappings around his left thigh. The bandages on his arm were clean and fresh—a sign that they had been changed recently. What was more, the ragged claw marks in his clothes had been stitched closed. It was rough, heavy-handed work, but he could not have cared less; to have
serviceable garments at such a time was a luxury. He thought back to the cloaked warrior and the shadowy beast, and wondered if it was the warrior who had taken care of him. He tried to look for him—
Or her,
he thought, remembering the woman's voice—but decided that the pain in his neck was not worth the effort.

His armor, boots, and weapons had been stripped off and laid by the fire. The leather chest piece still bore the four diagonal tears, testament to the horrors that Will had been half-hoping were only a nightmare. He noticed that his cloak had been laid out like a sleeping mat beneath him—an unnecessary gesture considering the foothills' warm nights and lack of moisture, but one he appreciated nonetheless.
I'm also in a forest,
he realized, feeling rather silly.
Of course there'll be morning dew here.

Having saved the best for last, he pulled his shirt up with a grimace of pain, exposing his torso. The entire right side of his body appeared to be one massive purple and yellow bruise, and he gingerly prodded what felt like a broken rib. Or several. He let his shirt fall and, reaching up tentatively, found that his nose seemed to have been broken as well. He suspected that his face looked much like the rest of his body.

Something nudged his left arm from behind and he jerked reflexively, eliciting an angry flare of pain from his side. He craned his head around and saw, to his alarm, the head of a massive, dark grey animal staring  back at him, a mere hand's breadth away and with its face level with his.
And it's head is lowered,
he realized, his eyes flicking to the creature's broad shoulders that would easily have reached his hip. It appeared to be some kind of wolf, though it was far too large to be any wolf Will had ever seen. Its body was thicker and more muscular than a wolf's, too, and its face, while long and narrow, had something of the blunted look of a hound in it. Overall, the animal was completely terrifying. Will felt a little wriggle of fear twist his gut.

But, to his surprise, it licked the side of his face and wagged its tail.

“Wha—hey!” Will sputtered, and the hound whined, nudging his shoulder. Cautiously, he reached up a hand and scratched its muzzle. It snuffled happily into his palm.

“You're awake,” said a voice to his right. The hound woofed excitedly, and Will turned to see who had spoken. “Grim's been very anxious while you slept.”

Where a moment before there had been only grass and equipment by the fire, there now sat a young woman. She wore tight fitting men's clothing—a faded black tunic and breeches—and sat upon a beaten traveling cloak much like Will's. Her tall boots, unlike his, were meant not for riding but for walking, and like the rest of her raiment they appeared to have seen much use.

It was the woman herself, however, and not her clothing that drew his gaze. She was filthy, as though she had been on the road for weeks without a bath, and Will found it difficult to spot where the smudges of dirt and soot ended and her olive skin began. Her hair was the lush, dark brown of the Southlands, cropped raggedly short just above her shoulders so that it hung in lanky strands across an oval face—a face both frightened and fiercely determined. It was her lips that gave away the fear, for they were pressed together too tightly, and Will suspected that they were normally quite full.

But above all, what captivated him the most about the woman was her eyes—her beautiful emerald eyes that caught the light and sparkled with tiny flecks of gold. He felt he could see every emotion that coursed through her mind in them, and despite the purple bruises of exhaustion beneath her lids they glared at him with perfect clarity, sympathetic and caring for the moment but ever threatening to show the hard, biting edge hidden just below the surface.

She was dirty, ragged, unkempt—and so beautiful that it took Will's breath away. She was nothing like the noblewomen who had thrown themselves at him and his men in Prado, all lacy frills and unnatural colors plastered onto pinched faces that stared at him with the practiced vapidity of grazing cows. No, this woman was different. There was intelligence in her eyes, crystal clear and sharp as a razor, and the face that stared back at him held the beauty of one who is beautiful because she knows she is, and does not care. For a moment he forgot how to speak, and his mouth opened and closed like a fish. She cocked her head and gave him a funny look.

“Thank you,” he said at last, his voice coming out as a harsh croak. He cleared his throat. “I'm guessing I have you to thank for my continued well-being?”

The faintest hint of a smile touched her lips, and he saw that he had been right—they were indeed full, and for the briefest moment he wondered what it would be like to kiss them. “Yes,” she said, “though I am honestly not sure if that was a good idea or a bad one yet.” The wary edge to her eyes hardened for an instant, but now she seemed unafraid. “Your wounds are clean; I put a poultice on them, so they shouldn't get infected. It'd be best to change those bandages once a day at least, though.”

“Oh,” said Will, and he cleared his throat, suddenly on edge himself. If the woman was from a rival mercenary band, the situation could very rapidly become...heated. “Well...thank you.” His memory drifted back to the way the woman and the hound had slain the yaru, and he eyed Grim uneasily. “I hope you decide it was a good idea. I'd hate to get on your bad side.”

She did not respond, and an awkward silence followed. When it had grown uncomfortable, Will asked, “So...where are we, exactly?”

“A clearing deep in the forest,” she replied shortly. “We are safe here, don't worry.” The woman stood and stretched, affording Will his first real look at her body. She was thin and lithe, with a figure that was at once both voluptuous and powerful—Will could see the faint outlines of defined muscle and small, high breasts beneath her clinging clothes. The effect was, to say the least, arousing. She craned her head back with a pop and he found himself admiring the feminine curve of her neck. Suddenly embarrassed, he looked away and shook his head—a mistake, as a bout of dizziness followed the action, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Are you alright?” she asked, the guarded edge strangely absent from her voice, and a moment later Will felt her slender hand rest gently upon his shoulder. She laughed softly. “Of course you're not. Here—lie back down. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“No, no,” Will mumbled. He opened his eyes. “Thanks. I think I'm going to try to stand, though. I need to get back to Prado. Castor will be worried.” A thought suddenly occurred to him. “How long have you been taking care of me?” he asked.

“A week,” she said. “You took quite the beating. The wounds in your arm and leg were very deep, and I'm pretty sure you broke some ribs.” She smiled softly, and her wariness vanished completely. “You hit the tree pretty hard at the end there. I thought you were dead.”

“Take's more than that to kill me,” Will said, and grinned. He winced as the cuts on his face cracked. “Thrice-damned yaru,” he grunted. He realized suddenly that he had not heard the woman's name, so he held out his hand. “I'm Will, by the way. Again, thank you for...well, everything. I can't believe you've stayed with me this long.”

Her grip on his hand was gentle but firm. “Clare. It was nothing. I just happened to be...around.” She pointed behind him. “Like I said before, that's Grim.”

Will looked over his shoulder and the hound whined, wagging its tail. “That's very odd,” said Clare. “He's never been this fond of anyone before. Well, come to think of it...he's never been fond of anyone at all but me.” She chuckled. “Looks like you've made a friend.”

Will scratched under the dog's chin. “What is he, exactly? I've never seen an animal quite like him.”

“He's a warhound, bred for intelligence and power. Part wolf, part wolfhound. We use them often in the northern Westlands.”

“In the Westlands...” Will murmured. “I thought your accent was strange. Where are you from?”

She laughed. “Not as strange as yours. But I'm from a city called  Dahoto.”

“Dahoto? That's over five hundred leagues away!” Will gaped at her. “What on earth are you doing all the way out here by yourself?”

She stood abruptly and moved over to the fire, prodding it with a stick. Her face had taken on a pinched look, as though she might be sick, and Will feared he had insulted her. “I used to be a soldier in Dahoto,” she said, her voice covered by a careful veneer of calm. “The yaru came in one night and wiped everyone out, though.” She poked a log a bit too sharply and  it popped, spitting sparks into the air.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Will said quietly. “Did you have family there?”

Clare nodded but said nothing.

“Then...I am truly sorry.”

“I've been hunting them for eight months,” she murmured. “That one that you were fighting at the end—I think it's the alpha. The leader. I've never actually been able to catch it, though. The smaller ones always find me first, and I end up having to run.” She sighed. “You know,” she said after a moment, turning to meet his gaze, “I'm surprised.”

“About what?”

“About you.” She shook her head slowly. “You really are amazing, you know that? In eight months I've never seen anyone come out of that horde of yaru alive. And you...do you know how many you killed?”

“No...”

“Fifty.” She looked away. “I went back after they were gone. You killed fifty by yourself. And if you'd known what to expect from the big one, I am sure you could have killed it, too. I'm actually surprised you didn't, what with that firesand trick you pulled.”

Will was taken aback. “I...what? Firesand? What do you mean?”

She gave him a funny look. “Well...whatever it was you did to make it explode,” she said slowly. “I just assumed it was firesand. I've never seen anything else make such a big bang.”

Will wracked his brain, but the only memory he could dredge up was one of blinding light and scorching heat. Perhaps...had he, in fact, been carrying firesand? He could not recall, but it was not implausible. Castor had been known to make infrequent deals with the smugglers brave enough to bring firesand into the Southlands. Perhaps Will had been carrying some kind of weapon.