Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (2 page)

This is unwise,
said a voice in his head, an inhuman voice that sounded like bubbling magma and crackling flame. It had spoken to him only twice before in his life, but he knew without a doubt who it belonged to.

No,
Davin replied,
it is the wisest thing I have ever done.

They will not succeed without you,
the voice rumbled.

Davin smiled.
They will not succeed with me. Talyn is lost.

Perhaps not.

The words gave him pause, but only for a moment.
You are wrong,
Davin replied.
I will see you in Ataavtic Vinouac.
He blocked out Koutoum's response; he could afford no distractions. He had run out of options, and to listen to the god's words would be to invite groundless hope into his heart—hope that would ultimately lead him to stay his hand and doom the rest of the world.

I have no other choice,
he thought, and released the power.

His body burst into flames, and even the midday desert sun seemed to dim in the presence of his light. The Phoenix Empress whipped around, black rage etched across her beautiful features. “No!” she screamed.

Davin moved forward, liquid fire pouring from his body—a body burned by a heat that even it could no longer withstand—and caught Talyn in an embrace. She struggled furiously as her armor began to melt and her skin began to peel away in blackened flakes, but he would not release his grip. Out of sheer reflex Talyn drove Ember through his stomach, the tip of the blade bursting in a flurry of sparks from his back. He seemed not even to notice. “I love you,” he said, and his voice was the crackling, rumbling voice of Koutoum. “We will hold each other again in the Void.”

He smiled then, his charred skin warping and breaking along the lines of his face, and closed his eyes. With a sigh he released the power pent up inside of him, and his world exploded in a burst of light and heat.

There is a story from long ago, one that tells of a man, beset by rage, who lost himself to the darkness in his heart. It is a story of war and love, of betrayal and devotion, and most of all it is a story of redemption. But to understand that man's tale, there is another you must hear.

In the beginning, there were six Titans...

~

Lightning flashed across the rapidly darkening sky, illuminating for a brief moment the grassy knolls and evergreen forests of the Southland countryside. Moments later the world trembled as an ear-splitting peal of thunder roared through the air, shaking the earth with its fury and sending what few creatures remained outside scurrying back to the safety of their burrows. More lightning flashed fitfully, turning the dark clouds steely-white in short staccato bursts.

A great castle stood  atop a rise in the center of a massive plain, its resting place affording it a commanding view of the surrounding countryside and, more importantly, of the Pass—the ancient trade road that led into the heart of the Eastlands. Rain lashed against the castle's high stone walls and gales of wind whipped the flags atop its towers into a frenzy. A massive semi-circle of trees ringed the castle half a league away on three of its five sides—the dark beginnings of the mountain range that acted as a barrier between the Southlands and the rebellious Freelands. At the southern-most edge of the forest a great boulder jutted from among the tall pine trees, its tip pointing directly at the castle. Once, long ago, it had been known as the Titan's Finger. Now the locals called it Gefan's Thumb, and on milder days it was a site for weddings, feasts, and harvest celebrations. But not tonight.

Lightning flashed again, revealing for an instant a lone figure standing at the tip of the boulder, his body leaning into the full force of the storm so that the torrential rain lashed his face and his long, worn traveling cloak whipped frantically out behind him. He looked for all the world like the figurehead of a warship, and it would have been plain to anyone watching that he was indeed a warrior.

Heavily armed and lightly armored, he had chosen his raiment with maximum mobility in mind. Hardened leather greaves, bracers, and a shaped chest guard were all that he wore over black breeches and a red shirt made darker by the rain. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing olive skin tanned by years under the open sun, and tall leather riding boots with blunted spurs at their heels marked him as a cavalry soldier.

Lightning reflected off of the surface of a dented metal skullhelm held in the crook of his arm. Etched upon the faceplate was an image of a raven in flight, its wings outstretched to either side and its claws extended as though to rend and tear the wearer's enemies apart. The crude, grim image stood in stark contrast to the man's grinning face and strong, youthful features. The storm had matted his short, dark hair down against his scalp, and he swiped a hand across his face in a futile attempt to clear away the rain. For a brief moment the lightning illuminated his eyes, adding an otherworldly quality to their already piercing ice-blue depths, and in that instant they were the eyes of a god, both beautiful and terrible at the same time.

“Gentlemen,” he shouted over the howling wind, “I believe the Old God favors us this fine evening!” A chorus of shouts and bawdy laughter tumbled out of the forest around him, and he turned and moved down the boulder with easy, predatory grace. Tall and imposing, his body was all muscle and sinew—a prize won through a lifetime of combat.

He stepped past the tree line and dozens of men materialized out of the darkness around him. They were all garbed similarly, covered in weapons and odd bits of mismatched armor, and each man had somewhere on his person the image of the raven. For most it was embroidered in their clothing or etched into their armor, though some had gone so far as to brand or tattoo it into their flesh.

“You there,” the first man called to one of them at random, and he tossed the skullhelm to him. “I'll
need that later. Hold onto it for me.” The second man nodded.

“Will!” a voice called to the first, and another soldier, shorter and of slighter build, stalked out of the forest. He was garbed more regally than the majority of the others, and a raven was embroidered in gold thread in one massive image on the back of his cloak. He carried a side-sword on his left hip, and a long dirk on his right. In the crook of his left arm he held a war helm in the likeness of a snarling plains lion, a trophy won from some long-forgotten foe with a flair for the dramatic. He was beautiful, and his fine-boned features coupled with his wiry build made him seem almost feminine at first glance; many were the men who had judged him by appearance alone, and many were the men who were dead for it. What fame he had, he had won through blood and sweat and ruthless tenacity. His name was Castor, and he was the leader of the small but formidable Raven Knights mercenary band.

Will, the first man, turned to look at him and Castor beckoned him over. They walked a short way into the woods before stopping beneath a particularly large and heavily-needled pine where the howling winds were quieter and would not drown out the sound of their voices.

“We're ready to move,” Castor said. “The plan stays the same.”

Will nodded. “I take a score of the men and go in from the western side. I remember.”

“And no civilian casualties.”

“Obviously.”

“And don't let them raise an alarm.”

Will cocked an eyebrow and gave Castor a sidelong glance, but said nothing.

Castor grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good,” he replied, and stood up to walk away.

“I want Katryna and Hook,” Will said.

Castor half turned back to him. “Take Hook. He's the best climber. Katryna comes with me.”

Will shook his head. “No, I want both. I have the more dangerous job this time.”

Castor raised an eyebrow. “
I'm
storming the front gate!”

“
I'm
climbing a sheer rock wall in the middle of a lightning storm to
open
the front gate for you.” Will held up a warning finger as Castor opened his mouth to retort. “I want them both, or I'm leaving.”

Castor scoffed. “You're full of it.”

“Am not.”

Castor squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples. “Why do I even keep you around?”

Will laughed. “Because I'm the best.”

Castor laughed too, dropping the ruse of exasperation. “Exactly! There you go—you don't need Katryna. Take Hook.”

Will gave Castor his best smile. “My friend,” he said, “Katryna can take care of herself. You need to stop trying to protect her. Death is, after all, an occupational hazard.”

“And one I would very much like to avoid inflicting upon her,” Castor retorted. “How can you say that about your friend?”

“If anybody can survive this,” Will said with a grin, “it's her. Trust me.”

“Take Hook,” Castor said, and turned away. “That is my final word.”

“Katryna and Hook it is,” said Will as though he hadn't heard him. Then he raised his voice and shouted, “Katryna! Hook! You're with me on the wall!” Castor threw his hands up in defeat and shook his head, not even bothering to look back.

~

The easiest part was approaching the castle; masked by the storm, the entire force of mercenaries was able to simply walk out in the open. The wide expanse of grassy fields allowed the castle's guards to command a complete, unbroken view of the surrounding area, and it was normally their greatest strength. But against the veil of darkness and torrential rain, such an advantage was rendered useless.

The castle itself had become the stuff of legend over the years. Known as Brightstone to its people
and Hardstone to its enemies, it was one of two fortresses erected to shield the Southlands from their eastern neighbors. It had halted the advances of over a dozen Eastland incursions since its construction and had, appropriately, acquired a reputation for being impenetrable. But that was, Will knew, superstitious nonsense. Nothing was impenetrable, and everything had a weakness that could be exploited. His small team of twenty soldiers was setting out to do just that as they split away from the main group.

The plan was a simple one, spawned when the rapidly worsening weather had begun to turn the day before. Will would scale the western wall—the side taking the full brunt of the storm's wrath—and make his way toward the front gate, where he would let Castor in. The rest of Castor's small army would then storm through the fortress, killing the guards that got in their way until they found the balorn of the castle, an apparently unpopular noble who somebody wanted out of the picture. After that, all they had to do was wait for their employers to arrive and take the man away. Castor never mentioned the ultimate goals of those who bought his army's services, so Will neither knew nor cared why somebody wanted the balorn. His job was simply to get the man and get paid.

At the moment, however, Will was concerned more than anything with staying warm. He hated being cold, and the driving rain had joined forces with the ceaseless wind to chill him to the bone. He wrapped his cloak more tightly around his frame but succeeded only in soaking his clothing even further. With an angry growl he resigned himself to his fate and tried not to let his teeth chatter.

Katryna, a tall and wiry woman with short-cropped hair and a dozen blades ranging in size from pocket knife to shortsword on her person, looked very much the same. She stood a few paces away from Will, shooting narrow-eyed glares at him every few moments. Her face, normally pretty in a glacial sort of way, was at the moment twisted into a grimace of discomfort.

“What?” Will finally asked.

“I can't believe you picked me for this,” Katryna groused. “I could be waiting with Castor right now, but no—I have to climb a castle. In a rainstorm.”

“If you were with Castor,” Will countered, “you'd still be in a rainstorm. You'd also be colder, waiting for me to open the gate, and you'd get bored. I saved you from that.”

She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. “Sometimes,” she growled, “I wish I'd never met you. Why do you always choose me for the difficult bits?”

“Because you're good at killing people.” Will punched her in the shoulder, barely feeling the blow with his cold-numbed hand. “And I'm going to need you to work your feminine wiles on some of the guards. Besides, you shouldn't be asking why I always choose you—you should be asking why Castor lets me take you.”

Katryna stuck her tongue out at him. “Careful, boy. Play with fire and you're likely to get burned.” She winked at him and then turned her gaze back up to the wall. “Great Black, what's taking that man so long?”

An instant later, as if in answer to her question, a mailed body in green and black livery hit the ground at their feet with a wet thud. Blood pulsed rhythmically from a gaping wound in his throat, mingling with the rain to form a diluted mixture that quickly disappeared into the mud. The man's dead eyes stared glassily into the night sky, surprise forever frozen in their depths.

“That answer your question?” Will asked as two ropes tumbled down the face of the wall. He smiled. “Ropes!” he called over the howling wind, and two of his men brought several more coils which Will and Katryna draped over their shoulders. “Ready?” he asked, and in answer Katryna grasped the leftmost line dangling down the side of the wall and began to climb. Will grasped the other. He flexed his body for a moment, readying himself, and then he began before his mind could formulate any second thoughts.

~

It was a long climb—at least it felt like it to Will. Where Hook had made it seem simple, scaling the slippery stone using nothing but the natural crevices in the rock, Will was making a fool of himself. The gusts of wind made him sway sickeningly from side to side and the rain lashed his face so fiercely that he had to squint his eyes, rendering him nearly blind. In the end all he could do was grit his teeth and pull himself steadily up the thick, sodden rope one numb hand after the other, feeling his way as best he could. At one point a particularly strong wind pushed him forward, smacking his head against the wall and dazing him momentarily. Twice one of his boots slipped out of a foothold in the rock and he almost lost his grip, sliding a short way down the rope before he could halt his descent. He never saw Katryna, never even knew if she had fallen or if she was still climbing.

After what seemed an eternity the rope began stiffen, swaying less and less as he drew nearer to the top. His knuckles began to scrape against the stones, rubbing the skin away and leaving behind raw flesh that leaked little blurry crimson trails along his hands. He barely felt the wounds.

And then, finally, he felt the space between the rope and the wall narrow and tighten on his fingers, and he knew he was near the edge. A moment later a strong, skeletal hand gripped his wrist and hauled him over the lip, where he sprawled unceremoniously on the ground, panting and shivering. His longsword dug into his back and the spiked end of his war hammer was pricking his kidney, but he barely even felt them. After what seemed an eternity he opened his eyes and stood, shaking himself and rubbing his cramped muscles in an attempt to restore circulation. He winced as he flexed his hands and what little feeling he had left in them sent lances of pain shivering up his arms.