Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (58 page)

The sounds of scattered cannon fire were much louder now, nearly deafening despite the blanket of smoke, and Clare tightened her grip on her sword; the rest of the fleet had to be close—she could see great dark shadows drifting all around her—and that meant that the tamyat would be near as well. She gritted her teeth and willed her pounding heart to calm itself.

It didn't.

~

Fang had not drawn blood in a long, long time—Castor was not sure how he knew this, but somehow he did. Where his hand gripped the longsword's hilt, it felt almost...excited. As though the blade had a mind of its own, and he was less its wielder and more a host for its wrath. He found himself wondering if the weapon was, in fact, somehow alive.
Void-forged. Isn't that what Borost said?
he wondered idly. Fang hissed through the air like a viper and caught a tamyat at the base of its neck, cleaving it wide open almost to the other side of its torso. Blood poured and spurted from the wound, leaving the body so quickly and in such volume that soon what little remained was reduced to trickling into the rapidly spreading pool across the wood decking.

But by then Castor had long since turned his attention elsewhere, and he lashed out and impaled another monster through its chest with a wet, sickening squelch. It screamed, its eyeless head craning back in pain, and he pulled Fang away only to sweep it in an arc that sent the creature's gaping maw tumbling from its shoulders in a spray of gore.

That was another thing—the blade was remarkably light. It felt more like an extension of his arm than anything Castor had ever used before despite its size, which he had worried at first would render it much heavier than his familiar side-sword. He had, however, been pleasantly surprised. And there was, of course, the matter of him not actually wielding it; it felt more like he was simply being pulled along behind it, a parasite attached to a much stronger host. Castor was a renowned swordsman in both the Southlands and the Westlands, and he had even met Eastlanders other than Serah who had heard his name—but now, suddenly, this jeweled sword was making him do things he had never done before.

He whirled, his tattered cloak flaring out behind him, and Fang blocked a demon's talons with a metallic clang. The creature loosed a piercing, ululating screech and snapped at Castor, spattering his face with its hot, stinking saliva. With a roar of fury Castor shoved against the tamyat and kicked it in the chest. It had no legs, so it could not stagger, but it rocked back for an instant as it tried to regain its balance. Castor never gave it the chance; he leaped and raised Fang high above his head, and then brought it scything down on the demon's head. It shuddered convulsively and fell limp.

The blood along Fang's edge glistened in the dim, smoky light, glittering like liquid ruby, and Castor felt a thrill of jubilation jolt through him—though whether it had come from him or from the sword he was unsure. He looked around for something else to kill and was disappointed to find only his fellow soldiers.
Disappointed?
he thought, slightly unnerved, and an icy chill shivered up his spine.
I wonder if this sword is healthy to keep around...
He felt a flutter of anger run through him, and knew it was not his own; the sword did not wish to be cast aside, especially not after lying dormant for so many centuries.

“Alright, alright, calm yourself,” he muttered aloud, and he felt the sword's consciou
snes
s give the mental equivalent of a grumble before receding back into the blade. The sensation of it leaving his mind was...unpleasant—as though his veins had suddenly been filled with ice water only to have it drain slowly out of him. And what was that strange voice whispering? He shivered.

“Castor,” Katryna called from behind him, and he turned to her. She was spattered with blood, something he found rather revolting considering the manner of creature they were fighting, but she seemed not to mind. He reasoned that if she cared, she would use something other than shortswords to fight with. He had never actually asked her, but on several occasions he'd had the distinct impression that she enjoyed it.

“That really is foul,” he said, indicating the sticky ichor.

“Oh, dear,” Katryna said in mock fear, “have I displeased m'lord? Will my filthy mannerisms keep me from his bed hereafter?”

“Not likely, woman,” he answered with a grin, and walked over to her, his feet thumping loudly along the wooden decking. “I take it we're clear for the moment?”

Katryna reached up and swiped her finger across his cheek. It came away red—though it had scarcely been white before. “Blood,” she said, shaking her head. “Disgusting. I'm afraid I have to leave
you.”

Castor shrugged. “Suit yourself. I've a dozen suitors waiting for you to run off on your own.”

Katryna threw her head back and laughed. “Castor, Hook is not exactly an ideal mate. I would suggest finding an alternative, especially considering Will is now taken.” She grinned and nudged his chin lightly with her fist. Then she leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. “You can't win against me, darling,” she purred as she drew away. “No matter how hard you try. And yes, the ship is ours.”

“Vixen,” Castor muttered, but he grinned and smacked her on the rear as she turned away.

“Save it for later, my love,” she called over her shoulder. “You're far too messy right now, and I shan't be seen with such a filthy urchin.”

A shadow ghosted silently up to his shoulder then, and he turned to see Hook staring after the receding Katryna, whose hips were swaying voluptuously. He grinned and gave a gurgling chuckle, nudging Castor in the ribs with his elbow. Castor arched an eyebrow, but the thin man only laughed.

Hook, too, was covered in blood, though Castor found it a sight more fitting than with Katryna. “What news, wretch?” he asked, and in response Hook made a lewd gesture before turning with a flourish, bowing low, and pointing with one outstretched arm. Castor followed his indication out to the sea, where the waves rolled in gentle mockery of the battle around them. For a moment he saw nothing, and then a dark shape appeared from out of the haze and made for the ships with frightening speed.

No, not a dark shape—countless dark shapes. There were so many of them that it could only be another horde of monstrosities from the deep. He raised Fang and felt it meld with his mind again—and then recede just as quickly. Confusion blazed through him for an instant until he recognized the shapes in the front of the swarm; they were not demons.

They were people.

Will and Clare.

Castor gave an elated shout and dashed to the side of the ship. “Will!” he called, waving frantically and laughing like a madman. “Death and damnation, man, what took you so long?” The relief on Will's face was so strong that Castor fancied he could feel it as a tangible energy. His friend breathed a sigh of relief, and Castor laughed. “What,” he called, “did you think we couldn't handle ourselves?”

“Are Katryna and Hook still alive?” Will called back.

“Would I be smiling if they were dead?”

Will grinned. “A fair point.”

By then the group on the water had reached the bottom of the ship, and Castor threw a rope ladder over the side. Clare came first, followed shortly by Will. “Lord Borbos,” Castor called to the Titan, who remained perched atop an enormous fish the likes of which Castor had never seen, “will you not join us?”

“Nay, lad,” Borbos replied. “My place be here, on the waves. I'll be of no use to you on a ship, I promise.” He inclined his head to Will and Clare then, his dark mane briefly hiding his features. “Stay safe, you two,” he said, and then with a shrill whistle he urged his mount forward. It dove beneath the waves, followed closely by the rest of the Titan's strange entourage.

What Castor had at first thought was simply a patch of floating weeds suddenly, and much to his surprise, rose from the sea and slithered aboard the ship. It took the rough shape of a human, and the strands of its body slowly twisted and writhed like a patch of snakes.

“Willyem,” it said in an inhuman voice that reminded Castor all too much of Pestilence. It inclined its head, and two yellow orbs flashed for an instant where its face should have been. “Father. It has been a great honor.”

“The honor was mine,” Will replied. “Um...what should I call you? I can't just call you 'Sea Spirit' all the time. That's a mouthful.”

Castor's eyes widened. So this thing was the Sea Spirit they had been sent to collect? He had been expecting something more...impressive.

“I have many names,” it replied. “To Borbos, I am Son. To the creatures of the sea, I am Master. But you...it would please me if you would call me Yalkahn.”

Will cocked an eyebrow. “Yalkahn? Is that your name?”

“It is not my name, but it is
a
name. It is a word from a language long forgotten, used by a race of men that all but disappeared from the annals of history a very long time ago. The word means 'place of water.' It was their name for the sea.”

Clare looked at the Sea Spirit thoughtfully. “Asper told me that Feothon called the Dark Forest Yalkul. Is that from the same language?”

“Indeed,” the Spirit said. “It was called Felothel, and it was Feothon's long ago. I doubt he remembers very much of it now; what few remain of the Faellan certainly do not. Yalkul means 'place of trees.'”

Clare laughed. “So he calls the Dark Forest 'Forest?'”

“Yes,” the Spirit answered, and Castor could have sworn its face twisted into its own version of a kelpy grin. “But I must return to Borbos. The battle is still underway.” It inclined its head first to Will, and then to Clare. “Thank you both for rescuing me. May you stay safe, and should death come to claim you, may you find peace in the Void.” And then it left, its body unraveling and pouring over the side of the ship to the water below. Soon it, too, was gone.

“'Father'?” Castor asked, giving Will his best bemused look.

“A long story,” Will said.

Castor shrugged. “I'd like to hear it all the same.”

~

By the time Will finished telling Castor of their adventure to the bottom of the sea, their warship had caught up to the rest of the fleet. A steady wind was picking up, and though the air was still hazy the main body of cannon smoke had begun to dissipate and was drifting slowly off into the distance. Will guessed Serah had something to do with that. Now they were able to just barely see the thin, black line of the horizon far away, and the rest of the armada all around them.

They were, Will had to admit, much better off than he had been expecting. The bloody water had kindled his fear to new heights, but the fleet of ships was in surprisingly good shape. What remained—he estimated a good three-quarters of the original number—had been bloodied but not beaten. And as Borbos passed among them with his column of sea creatures, the surviving sailors raised a stirring cry that echoed far across the waves.

“What happened to the other tamyat?” Will asked, leaning his forearms on the ship's railing and peering down into the frothing waves below—waves that were once again pristine and blue. The wind tousled his hair, bringing with it the salt scent of the sea. He smiled despite himself; it was turning out to be a beautiful day once more, and he began to fancy that perhaps, for once, luck was on their side.

“I don't know,” Castor said. “Maybe...maybe they retreated?” He sounded unconvinced, though, and Will was inclined to feel the same. The Fallen's minions would not give up so easily. If they had pulled back, it was for a reason—with the Behemoth dead, however, what that reason might be eluded Will. Was something even bigger on the way? The thought made him shudder.

“You don't think the Fallen are coming, do you?” Clare asked from behind them, and Will turned to see her standing with Katryna. There was a lightness to the eyes of both women that had not been there before. Perhaps they had bonded more strongly than he had realized.

Will shrugged helplessly. “I certainly hope not, but...I wouldn't put it past them.” He sighed. “I don't know if we're ready to fight all of them at once. Great Black, I don't know if we're ready to fight even one.”

“You did already kill one by yourself,” Katryna pointed out.

“Exactly,” said Clare. “And now all the Titans are here with you.”

“Well...yes, I guess you're right.” But for some reason, Will could not shake the uneasy feeling that the next fight with the traitors would not be over so quickly. And hadn't Feothon said that with
Pestilence's death, the remaining five would become even stronger?
Stronger than Pestilence?
he thought with a shiver, and memories of Prado came unbidden into his mind.
Spirits above, I couldn't even move. What if I die this time? What if...what if Clare dies this time?

The group was silent for some time, each of them lost deep in thought. “You know,” Clare said suddenly, “I think I recognize that coastline. I took ship with Father a few times as a child...yes, I think that's it. We should be close to Spaertos.”

“The military might of the Westlands,” Will said as realization struck him, and Clare nodded with a grin.

“Exactly,” she said. “If we can make it there, we'll stand a much better chance against whatever the Fallen are going to throw at us. Nothing can stand up to Spaertos. Not even them.”