Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (65 page)

No calls were made, no shouts of greeting, and when the Spaertan ships reached them they circled around and led them back toward the shore. Clare wondered at the lack of any exchange; clearly the Titans were not an attacking force, as evidenced by the disrepair their fleet was in, and yet the Spaertans refused to exchange words even when Feothon called out a greeting to them.
Well, they are a military city, after all,
Clare thought.
I suppose...I suppose this is normal...

And yet a sense of unease began to mount in the back of her mind, growing when they neared the docks that would take them up the Cliffwalks to the city proper. A force of soldiers had gathered there, waiting for the new arrivals. They were in full battle dress, and on a hunch Clare looked up to the tops of the cliffs. Sure enough, though they were very far away and nearly imperceptible at such a distance, she could make out the glint of metal.
Archers,
she thought,
and shoulder-throwers, as well.

When at last they reached the dock, the Spaertans quickly lifted a ramp up to the
Fury's
deck and marched aboard with blades drawn. The other ships met a similar fate, and the Titans' captains raised their hands in confusion as soldiers relieved them of their weapons. These were no Pradian guards—these were Spaertan regulars, and their reputation for cold tenacity and ruthless efficiency had spread far and wide.

“We come in peace,” Feothon called, and he walked slowly down the steps from the bow to the deck below with his hands held out, palms up. “But I bring tidings of those who do not.”

“The Patro said you would say that,” called a man in somewhat more ornate armor than his fellows, and he stepped out toward Feothon. He was tall and muscular, standing perhaps half a head higher than the Forest Lord, and yet the Titan still seemed to look down on him.

“Who is this Patro?” Feothon asked, his voice suddenly cold and wary.

“A holy servant of Gefan, the body of the Old God,” the soldier replied. “A man who brings ill tidings as well—tidings of an armada of strange ships coming from the west. Undoubtedly, were I to hazard a guess, from Karkash.”

Clare gaped.
No, no,
she thought frantically,
this is all wrong.

“Karkash?” Leyra scoffed, and she stepped up next to Feothon with a glower of rage. “Are you daft, man? Do we look like Karkashians? Are we speaking Karkashian? I suppose we might be from the Aerik Plains and Ainos, as well?”

“A Northwoman,” the man said, looking Leyra up and down. “Have the Northlands joined with our enemies as well, then? I see an Eastlander, too. Perhaps you thought to wipe out the Faithful and divide the spoils, hmm?”

Serah stood unsteadily then and limped over to them. “Do not be a fool,” she said, her voice hoarse, and she winced as she came to a halt. “If we wanted to destroy the Westlands we would not have brought the sinking remnants of an armada to Spaertos' front door.”

“I have fought your kind before,” the man snarled, and he glared at Serah. “You desert people all speak with a silvered tongue. Still it, or I'll have it cut out.”

Jhai and Zizo seemed to materialize in front of their mistress then, and they drew their swords with a ring of metal. “Unwise words,” Jhai hissed. “You would do well to mind your own tongue, fool, lest my blade acquires a sudden thirst for Soréllian blood.” Serah put a hand on each of her guards' shoulders and drew them back; they moved away, but the hateful glares Jhai and Zizo directed at the soldiers lost none of their venom.

“My name,” the man said, ignoring Jhai's threat, “is Captain Tomlos Strongshield of the Spaertan army.” He cast a look of contempt over the battered crew of the
Fury
before continuing. “You have been branded agents of the Harbinger and enemies of the Faithful, and I hereby place you under arrest for summary execution.”

The docks had been silent until then, but at his words an explosion of noise erupted from the Titans' forces. Those men and women who still held their weapons drew them, and the Spaertans, with all the provocation they needed, charged.

“Find the others! Bring help!” Serah screamed, and Jhai and Zizo, hesitating for only a moment, nodded and sheathed their swords. They leaped into the air, their bodies evaporating into flurries of sand, and then they were gone, lost to the wind.

Clare looked back at Will's still-sleeping form, panic mounting within her, and drew her sword. A group of men rushed her and she fought them like a wild animal, but the battles over the last two days had taken their toll; it was not long before she faltered, and her sword was sent spinning from her grasp. She dodged a soldier's blade only to have her jaw collide with another man's fist.
How did he get behind me?
she wondered, and then something hard and heavy crashed into the back of her skull. Her eyes found Will as she fell, and his peaceful face was the last thing she saw before the world faded into dreamless black.

He called it Kotaros: the Great Chain. Impenetrable, inescapable, and indestructible, it would bind the Dark One forever. And as Koutoum fashioned it from the fabric of the Void, he wept.

The first level was a prison of the body: it would keep Keth from ever again entering the material world.

The second was called Pandor, and it was a prison of the mind: it would force Keth into unending sleep so that his waking mind could not darken the hearts of men.

And the third and final level was called Byss, and it shackled his soul. Into it Koutoum poured all of his wrath and malice, all of his hate, all of his sorrow. It would bind Keth to that place in the Void for all eternity; should the Dark One somehow manage to escape Kotaros and Pandor, Byss would be the final guardian against another onslaught. It would never fail, never wane, never die. And it would never, ever release its hold on its victims.

~

Will awoke to the sound of deep voices. His eyes opened slowly, groggily, and he winced as a lance of pain tore through his skull, leaving a dull throb in its wake. Something small and far away moved in front of him, but his vision was blurry and he was unable to make out what it was. The voices came again, unintelligible and far too deep to be normal. He shook his head to clear the fog from his mind but succeeded only in making the pain intensify. He relaxed then, and tried to remember what had happened to him.
That big monster was there,
he thought,
and...I think he hit me...am I dead? Spirits above, my whole body hurts. Should it be doing that? I thought it wasn't supposed to hurt if you were dead.

It was then that he noticed a peculiar numbness in his arms. He tried to move them, and thousands of tiny needles prickled across his skin. His arms, he realized, were stretched high above his head—and there was something cold and unyielding clamped tightly around his wrists.

Metal.

Manacles.

By sheer force of will he was able to open his eyes, and he blinked sluggishly to clear his blurred vision. His memories were returning to him now, and the knowledge of his situation leaped to the forefront of his mind. An instant later, all thoughts were banished in the face of another:
Clare.

Now his vision cleared in a flash, and he shook his head again, ignoring the pain. His arms were hanging, he saw, from a chain suspended high above him from the ceiling; he was kneeling on hard stone, and with an awkward jerk he got unsteadily to his feet, looking around to find his friends—and Clare most of all.

She was only a few paces to his left, kneeling just as he had been. She seemed to be unconscious. The hair on the back of her head was matted and sticky, and a thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth, drawing a red trail down her chin.

“Clare,” he hissed, and her body twitched in response. She groaned softly. “Clare!”

Her eyes fluttered open, and with obvious effort she turned her head in his direction. Her hair hung across her face, and he realized that it was matted on the
left
side of her head as well.
How many times did they hit her?
he wondered, rage blooming inside of him and twisting his gut.

“Will?” she asked, her voice hoarse and her speech slurred. “Will? Is that you? Oh, you're alright? That's good. Am I dreaming? Tired...”

“Stay awake, Clare. It's me.” He licked his lips nervously and looked around. He saw Castor and Katryna to his right, and farther down the way the surviving Titans were bound as well. They, however, were also wreathed in twisting, crackling ropes of black and red energy. There was no sign of the rest of their army. He tried desperately to remember what had happened but was unsuccessful, and turned back to Clare.

“I'm tired, Will,” she murmured, and her eyes drooped.

“Hey!” he hissed, and she jerked awake. “Stay awake. You can't go to sleep. You've been hit in the head. Get
up
, Clare,
now!
”

She stumbled to her feet, wincing as the feeling returned to her arms. “Where are we?” she asked in a hushed voice, blinking slowly and seeing the room for the first time. “Where are the others?”

“Castor, Katryna, and the Titans are here,” he said, “but...I don't know about the others.” He jerked his head to the right. “I think the Fallen did something to the Titans. I'm guessing they can't break free. Spirits above...Clare, what happened?”

“We were going to Spaertos,” she said slowly, her words slurred, and she squeezed her eyes shut in concentration. “I think...I think they betrayed us to the Fallen...”

“Wait,” Will said suddenly, turning back to the Titans, “where's Borbos? Did he escape?”

He turned slowly back to Clare when she did not answer. Her head was hanging, her eyes squeezed shut. “Dead,” she whispered. “He killed Strife. Saved us.” She shook her head, and he saw glistening tears drip to the floor. “Dead,” she whispered again.

Will's mouth fell open in stunned silence.
Dead?
he thought.
But...what? How? Leyra was right...

But a moment later he shook himself and forced the thoughts from his mind.
Now is not the time,
he thought, gritting his teeth.
Have to get out of here. Have to get Clare out of here.
“Listen,” he said, “I think I can get my hands out of these manacles—I've done it before. I just need to—”

“Well, well, well,” said a low, masculine voice, and Will turned slowly back to the front, a cold pit of dread forming in his stomach. At the opposite end of the room, sitting in a high-backed chair, was the Fallen One Despair. His grinning mask stared sickeningly and impassively back at Will, the eyes dead as before, but the silver features were dented now, twisted into an unnerving scowl. There was something else next to him, too, an inky specter that seemed to be comprised entirely of smoke. Somehow, despite its apparently sightless visage, Will thought he could feel its attention center on him. A moment later it evaporated, dissipating into thin air.

“I see you have awakened,” Despair continued. “How nice.”

He stood and began to walk toward them, his cloak trailing behind him and his boots thunking ominously along the stone floor. He now walked, Will noticed, with a pronounced limp. When Despair came to a halt in front of him, the Fallen One did not speak; he simply stared with his hands clasped behind his back. The faint sounds of breathing emanated softly from behind his mask.

Will, for his part, met the stare with one of his own. He was too angry to be frightened anymore—angry that someone had hit him over the head, angry that his friends were bound, angry that one of them was
dead,
and most of all, angry that someone had harmed Clare. “I just want you to know,” he said evenly, his voice a dangerous growl, “that the moment I get out of these shackles, I'm coming after you. Pestilence died relatively quickly.” He leaned in close, his face a mere hand's breadth away from the Fallen One's mask. “But you won't. You, I'm going to kill slowly. I think I'll start with your legs and work my way up from there. What do you think?”

His answer was an explosion of pain in the side of his face as Despair's armored fist collided with his jaw, whipping Will's head to the side and sending a tiny spray of blood from his mouth. Will rolled his head back—and spat a mouthful of blood and spittle onto the traitor's shining mask.

“I haven't made you angry, have I?” Will sneered. Despair hit him again, this time on the other side. As his head snapped around, Will caught a fleeting glimpse of Clare's terrified face.

“Stop it!” she cried, and started to struggle against her bonds. The chains clanked mockingly overhead. “Leave him alone!”

Despair ignored her. “What are you?” he whispered, his voice so soft that only Will could hear him. The question caught Will off guard, and he could only stare at the silver mask in confusion as it leered at him, seeming somehow both mocking and...something else. Confused, perhaps? “What are you?” Despair hissed again, and one gauntleted hand came up to gently touch Will's bloodied face. “You are so like him, and yet...so different. This anger...” His hand went to his chest, and the mask appeared almost
to twist in surprise. “It makes my heart pound in my chest. My blood is rushing like it has not in five hundred years. Your soul is
burning
with rage. Your eyes...I see my old master in them, and I feel...

“Guards,” Despair called, whirling abruptly so that the silver mask was hidden from Will's view. His voice was carefully controlled, imperious and condescending, and yet, as with the mask, Will detected a faint trace of something else. What was it?

The door at the far end of the room opened and two armed and armored men stepped in. They marched up to a point several paces from the Fallen
One
and stood at attention, their hands resting none-too-subtly on the hilts of their swords.

“Yes, your holiness?” one asked. Will was something of a stranger to Westland customs, but he guessed that the silver chain hanging from the man's pauldron was an indication of rank. A white scar ran down his pale temple, giving him a permanent glower, and he looked as though he had seen more than his fair share of violence.

“These people are traitors,” Despair intoned. “Agents of the Harbinger, come to damn us all.”

The guards stared at Will with revulsion. “Beast,” the scarless one whispered.

“Indeed,” said Despair.

“We're not the bad ones here,” Clare cried, “he is! Can't you see he's evil? What kind of holy man dresses like that?”

“Silence!” the guard with the scar roared, and to Will's horror he darted over to Clare and swung his fist into her stomach. She coughed and choked, and her eyes bulged. “You will
not
say such things of a Clergyman of Gefan!” His fist collided with the side of her face with a sickening smack, and her head lolled drunkenly to the side.

“I'll kill you!” Will screamed, and he strained against his chains. To his surprise, he actually heard the groan of warping metal. He pulled harder. “Touch her again and I'll rip your heart out of your throat!”

The guards laughed at him. Despair, however, did not. Will saw the Fallen One's gaze move from him to Clare, and then back again. “Ah...” Despair whispered, the word so soft that Will barely heard it.

“What shall we do with them, your holiness?” the scarred guard asked. He lifted Clare's chin and leaned close to her. “This one is awfully pretty. My men could use some...reprieve from all of their labors.”

“Indeed,” Despair murmured. “Do what you will.” Will gave a wordless scream of rage.

“And what about the others?” the second guard asked. “I see three more fine women here. Well, make that two.”

“You may take her as well,” Despair answered, pointing at Katryna. “But leave the desert woman. She is a special case.”

The guards bowed low, and without another word, Despair turned on his heel and left.

“You've made a foolish mistake attacking our city,” the scarred man chuckled, seizing Clare's hair in his fist and pulling her head back. He laughed and let her head drop, and then motioned for the other man to unlock her manacles.

“No!” Will roared, and he strained against the chains again. A thin trickle of dust drifted down from where they were bolted into the ceiling, and the metal screeched in protest.

“Shut it, traitor,” The scarred guard spat, and then he, too, punched Will in the face. This time his nose broke, and hot blood flowed across his mouth and dripped from his chin. “Do you know what we do to traitors and heretics here?” the guard snarled. “We burn them. But not before we teach them why it's a fool's errand to walk in the shadow of the Harbinger.”

Will heard Clare's restraints open with a clank, and she fell to the floor in a heap. “Get up, bitch,” her guard snarled, and he aimed a kick at her ribs.

It had been a ruse, though. His foot sailed through the air, and before it had a chance to connect Clare rolled to the side. The kick missed, and the guard was momentarily caught off balance. With a look of pure hatred in her eyes, Clare swung her fist into the man's groin—once, twice, three times—and then, when he bent at the waist, gagging, she stood and kicked him in the chin, putting every last bit of
her weight into the blow. He fell to his knees, and she stepped almost casually up to him and seized either side of his head. For an instant her muscles tensed, and then she twisted with all her might, spinning his head sharply to the side with a sickening wet crack. The man stopped gagging abruptly and tumbled over, landing so that he was sprawled awkwardly across the stones with his head bent at an impossible angle.

Right then, Will could have kissed her. His happiness was short lived, however.

“Guards!” the scarred man cried, and instantly four more armed men dashed through the door with swords drawn. “Move and you're dead!” he cried.

“You can try,” Clare snarled, and she bent and drew the dead man's sword from its scabbard.

“Fine,” said the other man, and he turned and kicked Katryna, who was nearest him, in the stomach. Jerked painfully awake, she cried out in pain, and then her eyes widened in shock as the point of the guard's sword came to rest on her collarbone. “Drop it,” he said, “or
she
dies.”