Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (64 page)

Strife knelt heavily on the ground, his shadowy skin flickering and shifting erratically as it tried in vain to provide the Fallen One with the protection he so greatly needed. He lifted his horned head up and gazed at Borbos with those terrible flame-pit eyes.
“Wise,”
he growled.
“She would have perished soon. But not I.”
He rose unsteadily to his feet, making the
Fury
shudder with each movement, and then turned to meet Borbos head-on. For a moment he seemed to be sizing up the towering column of water the Titan had become, but then he spoke.

“You are a worthy opponent, Sea God,”
Strife rumbled, and Borbos thought he detected a tone of respect in the nightmarish growl.
“May you die with glory.”

And then, with a savage roar, Strife leaped from the flagship and collided with Borbos, sending a rippling shockwave out across the waves that smashed the ships nearest him asunder and rocked Borbos backward. The Sea Lord recovered instantly, though, and like the tidal wave he had become he smothered the traitor, enveloping Strife in a choking blanket of seawater that hit him with the force of a thousand falling boulders and drew him down to the crushing depths below.

“No,”
Borbos rumbled, his voice quaking the seas.
“May
you
die.”

The Dragon King was dead; the Fallen had won once again, and Borbos felt only a torrential mixture of rage and despair. But he would not let the traitors claim victory without first suffering his wrath, and he relentlessly pounded Strife with the full force of his power. His foe was far more resilient than Despair had been, but it did little to help him; with each blow what little remained of the traitor's shadow-stuff flickered and flailed as though seeking desperately to escape the rage of the sea.

Sharks came from every direction, drawn by their master's fury, and dozens sank their wicked jaws into the Fallen One's flesh, tearing at the shadows that bit back at them with Void-spawned fangs and claws. Strife flailed in Borbos' gargantuan grip, lashing out at his attackers with fists and feet and horns and power, and despite the sharks' ferocity Strife was able to beat them back. Borbos squeezed harder, crushing the Fallen so that an animalistic scream of pain and rage rumbled dully through the dark waters.

Strife tore himself from Borbos' grip then, escaping despite the Sea Lord's strength, and for a moment his body seemed to convulse spasmodically as his ruined flesh pulsed with a sickly, dull-red glow. Borbos had only a split instant to shield himself before a wave of liquid shadow exploded out of Strife's body, engulfing the sharks in bloody blackness and smashing into Borbos. It tore at his godly form, burning away his power and draining the life from him until he knew his time was running perilously short.

It is my time,
said a burbling voice in Borbos' mind, and the kelp within him slithered away toward the Fallen One. The strands of the Sea Spirit's body began to glow bright, sky-blue, and the pulsating light—light that came not from Beros, but from Koutoum—effortlessly burned away the shadows in their path. Borbos saw Strife's head whip around, his smoldering eyes wide with surprise, and then the glowing coils of kelp wrapped around the Fallen One's body like a swarm of serpents. Strife screamed as the light burned into his flesh—his
true
flesh—and though he struggled mightily, his efforts were in vain; the Sea Spirit was as old as the world itself, and though not a god, its power was unfathomable. Sacrifice held great power, and the Sea Spirit had just made the ultimate one.

The kelp pulsed brighter and brighter, turning more and more of the Sea Spirit's life force into a living weapon until, with a final, massive burst, the light went out. What remained was a field of dead, sinking kelp, and a Fallen One now deprive of his protection. No longer encased in his shadow-flesh, Strife—now a charred, grotesquely muscular man—clawed at the sea in sudden terror; with his armor had gone his ability to breath, and his eyes widened in panic as the water began to fill his lungs.

Borbos knew he had precious few moments to finish the traitor once and for all. His energy, fading quickly in the wake of the Sea Spirit's demise, surged weakly to the surface of his consciousness and gathered itself for one, final blow.

“Your compatriots may win,”
Borbos snarled,
“but you will never share in the glory.”

And with a final surge of his nearly-faded strength, he gathered Strife to him and dragged the flailing traitor down to the deepest, darkest depths of the sea. Moments before he died, Borbos felt the Fallen One's breath explode from his lungs as his frail human body was crushed by the pressure of the black waters around him. Borbos smiled, and then his eyes closed for the last time.

~

Clare held Will in a death grip, unwilling to release her hold on his motionless form.

“Clare,” Feothon said gently from her shoulder, “he will be fine.”

“How?” she asked, her voice an unsteady whisper. She did not weep; that would come later. For now, she was simply terrified that the man she held to her chest would, despite all of his godly strength, die. “How can you be sure?”

Feothon lifted her chin with a curled forefinger and caught her eyes with his own. “I am the god of life,” he said with an almost imperceptible smile, and he reached down to unbuckle Will's ruined breastplate. “And I say he lives.” The armor clattered to the deck a moment later, and Clare could just barely see Will's chest shift with the smallest of breaths. Feothon gently placed his hand at the base of Will's throat and closed his eyes.

The sky cleared a moment later, the bloody clouds fading back into oblivion as rapidly as they had come, and soon the sun shone unhindered upon the armada once more. Feothon's body convulsed almost imperceptibly, but Clare did not notice; she looked around at what few ships remained in the fleet and realized that the ever-present boom of the cannons had finally ceased. The new silence was eerie, an empty void where she had grown accustomed to unending din.

She heard metal hiss against metal, the sound ending with a soft click, and she turned her head to see Castor, Katryna, and Hook walking up the short flight of stairs toward her.
No,
she thought,
toward Will.

Castor seemed to have aged visibly over the span of the battle, and the look on his face when he gazed down at his maimed friend was the look of a man far older than he. “Spirits above,” he whispered, and he fell heavily to his knees next to Feothon. He lifted his hand to touch Will, but it hung trembling in the air before finally returning to his side.

Katryna knelt down next to him with tears in her eyes. “My poor old friend,” she whispered, her words unsteady. “What have you gotten yourself into this time?” Unlike Castor, she did touch him, and her fingers gently stroked his arm as though willing him to return to the land of the living.

Clare's eyes met Hook's then, and though the man could not speak, he had no need for words; his ashen face and the absence of his ever-present, impish grin told Clare all she needed to know. He sat down heavily next to Will's feet, and with one skeletal hand gently patted his friend's shin. After a moment he looked away, hiding his face from Clare, and she saw his shoulders spasm almost imperceptibly with a stifled sob.

“There is no need to weep,” Feothon whispered, and so soft were his words that Clare nearly missed them. When she looked back at him his eyes were still closed, his hand still at the base of Will's throat, but his mouth was curved in a gentle, sympathetic smile. “His heart beats more strongly with each passing moment. Look.”

There was a soft, wet squish, and Clare looked down to see Will's ruined face seemingly reknit itself of its own accord. The flesh pushed outward as the bone beneath reformed, churning below the skin like a swarm of insects. The bruises receded rapidly, crawling inexorably inward toward the point of origin before disappearing completely. There was a loud, liquid pop, and Clare started as his shoulder relocated itself, the joint jumping back in place like a frightened animal. More crackling reached her ears, and when she put her hand on his chest she could feel, through the thin material of his bloody shirt, his ribs righting themselves, wriggling beneath the skin as the bones joined once more.

When it was over, Feothon breathed a sigh and withdrew his hand. He opened his eyes and blinked as though returning from a deep sleep and then smiled at Clare. “As I said before,” he murmured, “he will live.”

Will's chest rose with a shuddering breath, and he shifted in his sleep. Clare gently stroked his cheek, and now the tears came; it was a solitary pair, come and gone as quickly as a blink, and they ran down her face and pattered softly against her leg before anyone else had time to notice. “Thank you,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “When will he wake?”

“He has suffered injuries no mortal man could survive,” Feothon answered. “Even his body would have been hard pressed to heal itself in these early stages of his godhood. It will take some time.”

Clare nodded. “And the Fallen? Are they gone?”

Feothon's head slumped forward, and for a moment his red-gold mane fell like a curtain over his face. “Despair is gone, escaped to the spirits know where. Strife is dead.” He looked away, unable to meet  Clare's gaze, and stared out over the shifting sea. “And so is Borbos.”

Clare gaped at him in disbelief. Dead? A Titan was
dead?
It did not seem possible. She had known all along, of course, that they could die—had feared Will would meet such a fate several times—but for it to actually happen...

“I...can't believe...” she whispered.

“We are immortal,” Feothon said quietly, “but not invincible.” He stood, the motion seeming to require far more effort than usual, and turned away. “I must see to Serah now. I would have tended to her first, but...you know how she is with Will.”

His receding footsteps thunked hollowly along the bloody, ruined deck as he made his way toward the bow. Clare's gaze centered on his back, but her eyes did not see him.
Dead. Borbos is dead. The Sea Spirit must be as well.
First the Leviathan, and now the Lord of the Sea. The war with the Fallen was taking its toll, and it had only just begun. How many men and women had already died in the Titans' names, defending their masters to the end?

Castor stood abruptly, his movements stiff and jerky. “I-I think the
Fury
can still sail,” he stammered, not meeting any of their gazes. “I suppose we should...make for shore. Or something. I'll see to it.”

He left, and after giving Clare a stricken look, Katryna stood and trotted after him. Toward the bow, Clare could see Feothon kneeling over Serah's charred form. Clare was too far away to make out a great deal of detail, but she was sure the terrible burns were healing just as Will's wounds had. Leyra stood over them, watching impassively. She was as still as the stone she commanded, and her hand seemed to grip her axe with rather more tenacity than usual.

Clare felt a bony hand clasp hers then, and she turned to give Hook the most convincing smile she could conjure. The skeletal man smiled back at her, but it held as much truth as her own. Then, with a final look at Will, Hook stood and left, his footsteps silent as he moved like a phantom to follow Katryna and Castor. Clare, for her part, simply continued to hold onto Will, listening to his even breathing. She found that without the battle raging about her she was suddenly quite tired, and against her will she soon fell asleep.

~

She awoke abruptly to the low trumpet of a conch shell. The sound brought back memories of Dahoto, and with a start she realized that they must be nearing Spaertos. She eased Will, who continued to slumber, gently down to the deck and stood, stretching her cramped and tingling legs.

Spaertos had long held the reputation of being the Westlands' chief military power; with its easy access to abundant resources coupled with its nigh-impenetrable position atop a short line of tall coastal cliffs, it was little wonder that the city had never fallen while under Westland rule. Clare had been there once long ago—she had been a little girl then, on what she had thought was a grand adventure to deliver a cache of weapons her father and his men had made in preparation for war with Karkash. She could remember little of that time, but one image that had persisted in her mind even after thirty years was of a massive armada, a swarm of merchant vessels darting across the water as they drifted in the shadows of grandiose warships.

And she was not disappointed.

Though not as grand as Borbos' fleet had been, the Spaertan armada was still a force to be reckoned with—Westlanders had long ago made their home on the sea, and their vessels were second to none. Great, towering things of wood and metal, they plowed through the waves with a grace and agility that belied their enormous stature. The sight sent a flood of emotion through Clare—here, finally, they could
be safe from the Fallen. The Spaertan army was undoubtedly assembling at that very moment to meet the strange new ships cruising up to their shores, and Clare remembered the city's ground forces as being just as impressive as its navy.

The warships turned toward the Titans' armada then, cutting a swathe through the waves on their inexorable path toward the battered fleet. Feothon, at the very head of the
Fury
, waved to the nearest of the vessels. Flags of white and blue—the colors of Spaertos—lifted high into the air. Beneath them were smaller red flags—the symbol for what remained of the Titan armada to stand down and unload its cannons.