Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (59 page)

“Someone should tell Borbos,” said Will, and as if on queue the wind picked up for an instant, howling around them and kicking up a spray of sea water. A moment later Serah landed on the deck with a hollow thud. The wood groaned and creaked beneath her boots, and the fine links of her armor jingled softly as she moved. Jhai and Zizo were, as always, close behind her, and they faded into view from the edges of Will's vision within moments of Serah's arrival. All three looked much as Castor and Katryna did—covered in chaotic splashes of blood, but unharmed.

Serah's first move was to seize Will in a tight embrace. “Borbos told me what happened,” she said, and he patted her gently on the shoulder. “I knew you should have stayed on the surface.”

“Nonsense,” Will chuckled. “If I'd done that, I'm sure something even worse would have happened.”

Serah pulled back and held him at arm's length, and murmured, “I suppose the important thing to take away from this is that you continue to live despite the odds stacked against you, yes?” She let go of Will and turned to Clare. “As do you, my friend. You continue to impress and amaze.”

Clare flashed her a smile. “So does this mean my abilities aren't in question anymore?”

Serah gave a soft laugh. “Dear child,” she said, “they never were.”

“Serah,” Will said, “listen, I hate to cut this short, but—”

“But Spaertos is on the horizon,” the Titan finished.

“Well,” said Clare, “I
think
it is, anyway.”

“And you are correct,” Serah replied. “Spaertos does indeed lie before us, due east and a little north. I have already told the others, and Feothon thinks it a fine idea to make for the city. Undoubtedly the enemy has planned something to hinder our progress, so I have been sent to tell you to stay on your guard.” She gave a breathy laugh. “As if such words needed saying.”

A long, high trumpet sounded from the head of the column, and in unison the armada began to turn ever so slightly northward. Cries echoed across the water as sailors sprang into action; tattered sails flapped as the breeze caught them, and the groan of wood intensified as the renewed pressure of wind and water strained the ships' hulls.

“Feothon also thinks it wise to have the five of you accompany me back to the flagship,” Serah continued.

“Five?” Will asked, looking around. He saw only Clare, Katryna, Castor, and himself. “Who is the fifth?”

“Hook,” Serah answered, and the thin man faded into view at the edge of Will's vision. He gave a gurgling chuckle and clapped Will on the shoulder before turning and seizing Clare in a bear hug which, to Will's surprise, she enthusiastically returned.

“Don't worry, I kept him safe,” Clare said, and Hook winked at her before gesturing at Will and waggling his hand in a gesture of uncertainty. Clare laughed. “True, but I only had to pull him out of trouble a few times. He's getting much better.”

“Him?” Castor asked in disbelief. “Why does Feothon want Hoo—” His last word ended in a cough as Hook jabbed him sharply in the ribs and cackled.

“He has a part to play in this as well,” Serah replied, and Will noted an odd glint in her eye as she gazed upon the skeletal man. “His talents have not gone unappreciated.” Hook, in answer, bent at the
waist and gave a low, sweeping bow before standing up and waggling the stump of his tongue at Castor. Serah laughed. “Shall we, then?”

“Erm...how?” Will wondered aloud, and in answer Serah held out one slender-fingered hand. He took it; her dark skin was smooth, silken despite the time she had obviously spent wielding a sword. The other hand she held out to Clare. Jhai grasped Hook's arm, and Zizo took hold of Castor and Katryna. Serah looked around briefly to make sure everyone was ready, and then jumped.

Will felt his stomach tumble into oblivion as the ground fell rapidly away from his feet, and then he was flying, the wind tearing at his clothes and hair. His fear lasted only momentarily before giving way to pure ecstasy; he was flying—
flying!
Joy leaped through his heart as the sparkling sea raced by far below him, its white-tipped waves broken unevenly by the great wooden ships, and then his stomach raced back up to meet him as he fell toward the largest of the vessels.

They were moving quickly—far too quickly. Serah had misjudged some aspect of their descent, and now they would surely crash into the wood decking that was rising frighteningly fast to meet them. He had only moments to cry out before his body shattered, but the cry stuck in his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut, unable to watch.

And then everything stopped.

It took him a moment to muster enough courage to open his eyes—was he dead?—and when he did he was quite surprised to see that he continued to float in midair, albeit several finger-breadths above the ship's deck. A moment later he, Serah, and Clare sank to the deck and hit the wood with a soft thud. Will immediately fell to his hands and knees; the wood beneath his palms was smooth and worn, and the most beautiful thing he had ever touched. He felt a sudden urge to kiss the ship.

“Never...Never again...” he groaned, and suppressed a shudder.

“I think I'm going to be sick,” Clare replied from behind him, and he heard her dash off to the gunwale. Retching followed soon after.

Several more thumps sounded all around him, and by then he had regained enough of his composure to raise his head. Feothon and Leyra were walking toward them from the back of the ship, Feothon smiling and Leyra grimacing. Castor stumbled over to Will and sat down heavily beside him, his armor clanking in protest.

“That,” he said, turning to look at Will with a somewhat greener face than normal, “was no fun.”

Will craned his head around and saw Katryna standing with her hands on her hips and her head tilted toward the sky. Her back was to them, but Will could see that she was breathing heavily. “Katryna?” he called.

“Not now,” she said in a small voice. “I think—I need a moment.”

Will turned back around, only to be met with the image of Hook's grizzled face peering at him very closely. The skeletal man gave his signature gurgling chuckle—somehow Will was not surprised at the reaction—and tapped Will on the forehead with his finger.

“Away with you,” Castor growled, though it sounded more queasy than dangerous.

“I see you continue to beat Serah's expectations,” Feothon said then, and Will peered over Hook's shoulder to see the Titans come to a halt a few paces away. “Well done, Willyem, well done indeed.” The Forest Lord grinned, the pale skin around the corners of his mouth crinkling like parchment, and he turned to where Clare still stood at the railing. “My dear, are you alright?” he called.

Will turned just in time to see Clare wave the Titan away. Her short hair hung like a dark curtain around her face and hid it from view, and she grasped the gunwale with white-knuckled intensity. Her waving hand snapped back to the rail an instant later as her body convulsed in a dry heave. Will looked away respectfully.

He stood—unsteadily—a moment later. Though the world continued to tilt more than he would have liked, he willed the sensation away. “How are we faring?” he asked, directing the question at Feothon. He took a small measure of pride in the fact that his voice only shook the tiniest bit.

“Quite well,” the Titan answered, “all things considered. Especially since the Behemoth is now
dead.”

“As is the Leviathan,” Will pointed out.

Feothon nodded and sighed. “A sad event each time it occurs. I admit that even I still find it painful, but...life goes on, in no small part because of the Leviathan's sacrifice.”

“We all make sacrifices,” Leyra said, her voice hard, and Will noticed for the first time that her face seemed to be pinched, her cheeks sallow. She looked sick, or pained. “Some make greater sacrifices than others,” she continued. “It is our duty as Titans. 'Mourn not the martyr, for he hath paved the way to glory.' I believe it says that in the Book of Gefan, does it not?”

Will stared at her. “Er...yes, I think it does.” An awkward silence followed.

“Words spoken by a dead prophet in the name of a false god have little meaning for us, Leyra.” Serah finally said, and Will saw a hard look pass between the two. “I say mourn the martyr, lest you forget the sacrifices he has made, no?”

“Someday,” Leyra said in an exasperated voice, “you will accept that Davin is dead and move on.”

“The next attack could come at any moment,” Feothon said quickly, cutting off Serah's angry retort, “so we must be at the ready. This ship is the largest in the fleet, and the sturdiest; 'twas built to Borbos' own specifications. Hence the reason I had Serah bring you here, Will.”

Will looked around. Aside from the fact that it was indeed longer and wider than the ships he had seen before, he could see little of note to hold it above any of the other vessels. “Is it very different from any of the other ships out there?”

“Aside from having a stronger hull, I am told it sports eighty cannons. Hence the size.” Feothon turned and indicated a neighboring ship. “Most have twenty or fewer, and some of the larger ships even have forty. But this one is special. Borbos calls it the
Fury
.”

Clare, apparently having regained control of her insides, came to stand next to Will. Her skin was still paler than normal and her face had a rather strained look, but she seemed otherwise fine. “A simple name,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. “In Dahoto, I saw ships from the Eastlands with names you could barely pronounce, or Southland ships with titles so long they might as well have been a sentence.”

“There is much beauty in simplicity,” Serah said with a half-smile. “
Fury
is so...succinct. One knows what is coming to him when he hears that name.”

“Indeed he does,” Leyra growled, and Will was once again struck by her sullen anger. What had happened? He looked around, realizing suddenly that none of her men were with her. Had one of them—Vulf, perhaps—died? “I grow weary of this talk,” she continued. “I will await the coming storm at the front.” And then she turned and stalked off, her mail jingling and her boots thudding heavily on the wooden decking. Will cast a look at the others and then, after a moment's hesitation, followed Leyra.

She came to a halt at the very tip of the bow, just behind the figurehead—a wooden shark in mid-leap. The detail and care with which it had been carved were so exquisite that it seemed ready to dive into the sea and swim away. Leyra gazed out at the waves with her arms folded across her breastplate. She had somehow attached her axe to her back, though by what means Will could not tell; it was hidden beneath her cloak.

“Don't you ever get hot wearing all that fur?” Will asked, standing next to her and imitating her stance. The effect was made somewhat comical by their difference in height, like a child imitating his mother.

“When you have lived in the frozen north as long as I have,” Leyra replied softly, “the cold never leaves you.”

Will gave her a sidelong glance. “Mind if I ask what ails you?”

“Indeed I do mind.” The reply was so unexpected that it caught Will completely off guard. He had no idea what to say. But in the next breath she continued, “Undoubtedly you have heard of my unique ability.”

“Erm,” Will mumbled, “the whole...rock business?”

Leyra gave a soft laugh. The sound was so beautiful that Will was seized by the sudden urge to
weep; he fought it off. “Not that one,” the Titan said. “I have another power: the power to see into the past, present, and future.”

“Ah, right,” Will said, remembering. “I think Borbos and Feothon mentioned that.”

The wind picked up for a brief moment, tousling Leyra's long, golden locks. When it died down she said softly, “It is less a gift and more a curse. None of you has to bear a burden like this one. It is...taxing.”

Realization suddenly struck Will like a hammer blow, and he turned slowly to face Leyra. He felt a wave of pity rise up within him. “You can see how we all die,” he said softly. “
When
we all die.”

She nodded, and the strained look etched onto her features intensified, set as though by a chisel into stone. “How, when, where...and nothing ever changes. Most things in the future are liquid, uncertain, like water and oil—always shifting, ever changing, never exactly the same way twice. But not our deaths. Not the deaths of the Titans. Those have been...predetermined, I suppose. Perhaps by the Titans themselves, or perhaps unconsciously by our natures. Regardless, it is so. Renne tried to change that fact once. She was killed for it.”

“What happened?”

“The Earthenwall.” Something about the way she said it sent a shiver up Will's spine. He had heard of it, of course—it was the mountain range at the top of
the
Northlands, supposedly so vast that nobody had ever crossed it. “She raised it from the ground in a matter of moments, blocking the enemy from pursuing the Titans to Horoth. They were on the run after being attacked at the Northland capitol of Gleipsongg, and in retrospect it was a foolish gesture; the Fallen themselves were too weak from their battle with Talyn. They were not even there. And the forces chasing them could barely have been called armies. When Davin killed himself he took a great many of the Fallen's minions to the Void with him. Renne did not need to sacrifice herself as she did.”