Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (29 page)

Then something seized his hand tightly, and his eyes flew open. Clare had dragged herself over to him, a smeared line of blood trailing out behind her from where she had fallen. Her free hand was pressed into the wound in her stomach; blood trickled over her fingers, staining skin that was now
deathly pale. He saw pain on her face, horrifically intense pain, but her gaze was locked to his.

“Come back!” she screamed, her voice raw. “Will! You have to let go!”

“I can't!” he sobbed. He smelled burning flesh, and realized with horror that the skin of Clare's hand was beginning to smoke. “Let go!” he screamed, trying unsuccessfully to tug away.

“I won't let you die,” Clare gasped through clenched teeth, tears falling from her face and evaporating with a tiny sizzle in midair before they hit the ground. “Come back to me.” Her grip on his hand tightened, and her skin began to darken from the intense heat just as Pestilence's had.

He was hurting her. The knowledge that he was the reason for her pain made him want to vomit—made him want to die. He exerted every bit of willpower he had then and slammed it like a mental blacksmith's hammer into the source of the power, a ball of heat deep inside of him that seemed to pulse and writhe like a living thing.
Stop!
he screamed inwardly.
Stop!
He beat at the power again and again, but he could not dent its surface. Will felt confusion emanate from the power; why would he want to cut its flow?

Clare was sobbing from the pain, her body convulsing with barely controlled agony and fear, but still she held his gaze. Distantly, he wondered how she was still alive—how it was that the fires had not consumed her as they had Pestilence—and he realized that he must at least be controlling that small aspect of himself. The knowledge gave him strength, and he struck at the power's source again.

“Will,” Clare gasped, “please come back.”

For an instant that felt like an eternity he stared deep into her eyes, and he realized that soon she, too, would die, and it would not be Pestilence's fault—it would be his. The knowledge infuriated him, and as fresh pain coursed through his body he clenched his teeth and screamed, as much from rage now as from pain and terror. He struck one last time at the knot of power, all of his energy careening into the Other's core like a massive tidal wave...and the fires instantly went out. He remained on his hands and knees, unbelieving, his body steaming in the night air and the glowing stones beneath him sizzling but, incredibly, not hurting him.

He released Clare's hand and, stumbling like a drunk, picked her up and set her as gently as he could a short distance away from the remains of the inferno. She curled into a ball, crying softly in agony and clutching her ruined hand to her chest. He reached out to her, trying to formulate words, but his throat was raw and no sound would come to him. He felt suddenly weak and pitched forward, landing heavily on the ground. He dragged one hand up, trying desperately to touch Clare one last time, but he never made it.

Her sobs quieted then, and he saw her eyes flutter closed. Her breathing slowed.
No! Nonononono!

“Help!” he half-screamed, half-sobbed, his voice ragged and bloodied and hoarse. “Serah! Castor! Somebody help!”

The last thing he remembered before peaceful blackness swallowed him was the sound of pounding feet, and then he drifted into oblivion.

Where the Titans had created life, the Dark One wished only to leave death in its wake. With Keth as its vessel it left the Void behind and traveled down to the world below, where it rejoiced in the chaos it had created and watched with sickening glee as the monstrosities it had unleashed upon Pallamar carved a path of destruction through the once-peaceful land.

The armies of humanity rallied against the Dark One's hordes, but they were no match for their own nightmares. Mankind fell into despair, and they cried out to the gods for deliverance.

And the small part of Keth that remained saw the destruction he had wrought, and wept.

~

Will awoke to the sounds of clopping hooves, low voices, and the heavy tramp of tired feet. He realized that he was being carried on a litter—he could feel the ground moving beneath him, and every once in awhile he felt a sharp bump in the road jar his otherwise peaceful journey. He opened his eyes and saw the stars and, low in the sky, the sliver of crescent moon. The dim outlines of birch trees framed either side of his vision.
I think I've been here,
he mused, a strange sense of calm settling over him.
I wonder where we're going?

He looked around, careful to move only his eyes—his head ached something fierce—and saw that they were, as he had suspected, in the foothills. More people were beyond, walking or riding horses. They looked rather downtrodden, which he found curious—it was a beautiful night, and he could think of nothing that they should be worried about.
We're going toward that village,
he realized.
I wonder if the bones are still there. Perhaps we're going to a funeral for the villagers, which is why everyone is sad.

His current situation struck him as more than a little odd—for example, why in the name of the Void was he on a litter? He tried for a moment to remember how he had gotten there—he was sure he had done something abominably stupid to have such a headache—but thinking so hard was painful, so he stopped.

“Do you think he's alright?” a man's voice asked from behind him. Castor, he realized.

“He is fine,” said a woman. She had a strange accent, and after a moment the name 'Serah' popped into his head. “What small wounds he had when we found him should be all but healed by now. It is the girl I am concerned for.”

“I hope she's alright...” That was Katryna's voice.

“Me too,” Castor said quietly. “God above, if she doesn't make it...”

“Will is going to be devastated,” Katryna finished.

Who are they talking about?
Will wondered.

“We are almost to the forest,” Serah said. “If Clare can hold out for just awhile longer, Feothon will be able to bring her back.”

Clare.

The name hit him like a bolt of lightning, and he jerked spasmodically out of the litter as everything came rushing back to him. He rolled to the ground and then rose shakily to his hands and knees, ignoring the now excruciating pain in his temples. He saw something swing back and forth in front of his face—Rik's flute, he realized, burnt around the edges and smeared with soot, but otherwise unharmed. How had it survived the fire when everything else had been destroyed? He heard several people shout in surprise, and their cries were accompanied by the pounding of booted feet on soft earth. “Where is she?” he asked, his voice coming out as a hoarse growl that sounded disturbingly akin to Pestilence's. “Where's Clare?”

He felt strong hands on his shoulders then, pulling him back toward the litter, and Castor said, “Will, come on. It's alright. Get back on the—”

Will shrugged away from his hands and got unsteadily to his feet, lurching wildly as his head did a
swooping pirouette. He turned and grabbed Castor's arm somewhat harder than he had intended. “Where's Clare?” he rasped, shaking his friend. “Castor, damn it,
where is she?
”

“I'll show you,” Castor said soothingly, easing his arm out of Will's grip. “But you need to calm down. Are you feeling alright?”

Will nodded and waved his hand dismissively. “I'm fine,” he said with a cough. “Show me Clare.”

Castor nodded, a troubled look on his face, and Will suddenly noticed that Castor was sporting a particularly vicious cut along his jaw. “Are
you
alright?” Will asked, and then truly looked at his surroundings. For as far down the trail as he could see a river of people shuffled, limped, or rode on horseback in a ragged line dotted with intermittent torchlight. They looked bruised and bloodied—beaten and broken. Will was surprised to see civilians among the soldiers. He was also surprised to see that he was once again wearing a clean shirt and breeches.

“I'm fine,” Castor said. “We had a fairly easy time of cleaning up the last of the yaru after you killed Pestilence. They just sort of scattered and ran. A few still tried to attack us—more on accident than because of any real intent, I think. That's how I got this.” He traced one finger down the ragged wound. “Hook put something on it. Stings like a nest of hornets. Here, I'll take you to Clare.”

“Shall I unhook this thing, then?” Katryna asked from atop her horse, indicating the now vacant litter, and Castor nodded and thanked her. “Will?” she asked, giving him a piercing look. “Are you well?”

“Fine,” he rasped, reaching up to give her an awkward pat on the thigh. “Just...just fine. But I need to see Clare.”

“Will.” The word was so soft, so uncharacteristic of Katryna, that he looked up at her once more. She reached down to gently grip his shoulder. “She's going to be alright.”

Will nodded, and then Castor led him a short way up the line to another horse drawing a second ramshackle litter similar to his own. Castor bade the rider stop and the man eased his horse to a standstill, patting its neck and shushing it with a soft whisper. People shuffled past them, glancing disinterestedly at their little group before continuing on their way. Will, in turn, barely noticed them—his attention was focused on the bundle of blood and bandages before him.

That can't be her,
he thought desperately. Clare's torso had been wrapped with obvious haste in linen that had, perhaps, at one point been clean. Now the material had been stained dark red, and it glistened wetly in the flickering light of the rider's lantern. Her left hand was also heavily wrapped, and most of the skin on her forearm was red and blistered as though she had spent too long under the sun. Her neck was covered in dark bruises where Pestilence had strangled her, and what unblemished skin was visible was ghostly pale.
It can't be.
Will fell to his knees on the ground next to her.

“No,” he whispered. “Oh, god, no. I told you to leave. Why did you come back?” He said the last through gritted teeth and blinked furiously in an attempt to clear his suddenly moist eyes. The memory of the sword sliding through Clare's stomach flashed through his mind, and it was followed by the infinitely more painful one of her skin melting in his grasp.

A hand settled lightly on his shoulder and Serah knelt down next to him. “She chose her path,” she said softly, “and that path was to stop you from destroying yourself. Such bravery is to be commended, not condemned. We can still save her
,
but we must go quickly, yes?”

“How?” Will asked in a hushed voice, not taking his eyes away from Clare. He brushed her cheek gently with the tips of his fingers. “How can anyone come back from this?”

“Feothon,” Serah intoned, and the word sent a shiver down Will's spine. The name sounded somehow familiar, though he could not place where he had heard it before. “We are nearing the entrance to the Dark Forest. He will be able to keep her alive.”

“We were this close to his forest the entire time?” Castor asked, looking around expectantly. “That's convenient.”

Serah laughed humorlessly. “It is convenient that we were near
any
forest. The Dark Forest is connected to them all. One must simply walk into the woods and find the deepest, darkest part...and be welcome, of course.”

“What happens if you're not welcome?” Will asked hesitantly, though he thought he knew the answer.

Serah's dark eyes met his own. “Terrible things.” She let the words sink in for effect. “But never fear. He is the Titan of life, and our brother; he will let us in.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Will asked, rising to his feet. “We need to get Clare to him now.”

The rider pulling Clare's litter urged his horse into a walk at Castor's signal. “Are you alright to walk, Will?” Castor asked. “I'm sure we could find another horse here.”

Will waved dismissively and started off, never straying more than a few paces from Clare. “I'm fine,” he said. “In fact...I feel wonderful. Better than I have in a long time. Hey, hold on...” He rolled up his shirtsleeve and saw, to his surprise, that the scar on his arm from his first fight with Pestilence had vanished completely. He realized that his thigh no longer pained him either, and when he touched his fingertips lightly to his face he found that the skin was healed there as well. He looked at Serah in confusion. “How...?”

“Your true self has awakened within you,” she said with a smile. “Now even you cannot deny it: you are the Dragon King. Your soul is Koutoum's; fire is your element. It heals you, just as the wind heals me.” She pulled back her cloak, exposing the ragged hole in her chest armor. But beneath it, rather than the bloody wound Will had seen in Prado, she had fresh, smooth skin. “Fire cannot hurt you now unless it is your own,” she continued, “and even then only if you lose control.”

Will thought back to the pain he had felt after killing Pestilence. “In Prado,” he said slowly, “it hurt. Right before Clare saved me, I felt like I was in a furnace. Like I was...dying. Burning to death.”

Serah nodded. “You do not yet know how to control your power, but I can teach you. You drew too much in the city, and you almost
did
die. It felt...” She trailed off, and Will was surprised to see her shudder. “It felt like
I
was in a furnace as well.”

“Me too,” Castor said softly. “And we were a long way away.”

Will looked down at Clare. “Then how did she...?”

“I do not know how she survived,” Serah answered with an inquisitive look at the comatose woman. “The only reason I can think of is that perhaps you were controlling it more than you realized, no? You may have been unconsciously shielding her from the heat, or...” She shook her head. “This is a question for Feothon. He is old, and wise beyond imagining. He will know the answer. But we must reach him first, yes?”

Will's hand went unconsciously to the flute around his neck, his fingertips catching on the charred edges. It and Clare were the only things to survive his outburst in Prado.
The flute was my guilt,
he realized.
So what was it with Clare? Guilt? Or...love?
His gaze fell back to her bloodied form, and the implications of what he had almost done made his stomach curl in on itself.

“I almost killed her,” he whispered. He felt his heart twist.

“Yes,” Serah said, and her expression was troubled. “And that is why we need the Phoenix Empress. You both have the role of controlling one another. Without her, it is...dangerous, to say the least.” She shook her head. “We should have found her by now. I do not understand.”

“But Clare saved me. Maybe I don't need the Phoenix Empress.”

Serah gave him a hard look, and he wilted. “Indeed,” she said sharply, “and the next time you lose control, perhaps you can finish the job you started in Prado, yes?”

Will was unable to respond; his mouth opened and closed like a fish. A feeling of intense stupidity washed over him, and he lowered his gaze, his face hot with embarrassment.

“I apologize,” Serah murmured a moment later, surprising him. Her face fell, and she looked ashamed. “I should not have said that. I—”

“No,” Will said, his rasping voice choked with guilt. “No, you're right.” He covered his face with one hand and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “What in the name of the Void was I thinking?”

They were quiet for a time, an uncomfortable silence settling over them. The sounds of low conversation and softly-plodding feet permeated the air around them, and the steady clop of horse
hooves provided a beat for the quiet din to follow. The dots of light along the line of people bobbed and weaved like fireflies, providing an entrancing juxtaposition to the stars above. Had their situation not been so dire, it might even have been considered picturesque.

Will barely noticed any of this. He had eyes only for Clare, whose face he searched ceaselessly for any sign of wakefulness. But she slept on, dead to the world around her, lost in the depths of oblivion as injuries no mortal could withstand took their due. Even her eyes did not move beneath their lids. The wound from her sword had drained much of the blood from her body, and her pale skin made her seem a corpse. The fact that her bandages were still wet frightened Will—it meant the wound had yet to clot. He did not imagine there was very much more blood left for her body to lose.

Finally, unable to bear the heart-wrenching pain of watching her any longer, he tore his gaze away. “Where is Grim?” he asked suddenly, realizing that he had not seen the warhound since waking.