“You’re not serious?” Tochen said. “Let me go. This is madness. She can’t stop Tyrus without us. He’s killed a dozen sorcerers. Are you listening to me? The man is a freak. He beat a Rune Blade to death with his hands. Am I the only one in this family with any sense? We must return to Sornum.”
“We can’t. She made her play. Trying to change the terms now would only destroy the rest of our house.”
“You’re wrong—”
“There would be no home to return to. We’d find nothing but beasts and ashes. We must do this. Lilith made sure of that.”
Rimmon spoke with the herald, who ushered him into the throne room. Tochen scowled back at her. The doors closed with a heavy thud. The sound robbed her of victory. Thoughts of coronations would wait. She must kill Tyrus to see her brothers again.
An hour later, she led a dozen bone lords and ladies through the marshaling grounds to the flyers. She trusted these servants above the rest of House Hadoram. They knew their stations depended on hers and would fight all the harder to protect her. She would become the new Lord Marshal—a masculine title that didn’t suit her, she would invent something more satisfying, perhaps the Bone Queen—and she promised her servants similar promotions. These twelve would lead her new army, the future generals of Rosh. The titles worked their magic, and each noble hungered for action.
She considered taking more but enjoyed the symmetry of twelve lords. Twelve sorcerers did what twelve champions could not. Besides, if she took half the army, she would receive no credit. History would remember this fight: Lady Lilith defeated Tyrus, not the bone lords or the Imperial Guard.
The marshaling ground stayed outside Shinar’s walls. The flat plains made it easier to land. A wooden fort defended them, timber palisades surrounded by deep trenches filled with stakes. Lilith walked across a wood drawbridge. The flyers resembled giant bats but with the long necks and tails of dragons. They hunched over, using the thumbs in the middle of their wings to hook the ground. Like all beasts, black leather stretched over their bony frames, and fire burned in empty eye sockets.
She loved them like a mother because she had created them. Of all of Azmon’s many students, only she managed to model a beast on a flying animal. They proved useful in many campaigns, scouting for miles or wreaking havoc on a city’s defenses. Azmon rewarded her with rank above the other lords. In an empire dominated by noblemen, she became a queen.
The lords despised the flyers. True, mishandling the beasts made them crash. It took skill to make them bank or dive without stalling, but that did not bother her. An idiot could cut off his own foot with a sword. The wind bothered her more. They flew fast enough to water her eyes, a problem she had not yet fixed. She strode to the largest of them and ran her hand along its leathery neck.
“Today we make history,” she said to herself. Lilith grinned and tapped a wing. The beast lowered it, the hook at the tip lifting her into the makeshift lancer’s saddle. She strapped herself down. “For Rosh.”
The others echoed her. Lilith felt the thrill of vertigo as her flyer reared up on its hind legs and beat its wings. The beast climbed, stalled, and rose again. She heard others following.
A dozen dark shapes rose into the air.
This was the most dangerous part, flying black creatures into a night sky. They should wait until morning, especially since Biral said the heir fled through the Paltiel Woods, but Lilith feared falling behind. At night, they closed the distance. At dawn they would search for the dead champions and track their prey.
She climbed high and turned westward, mountains or trees before her—hard to see detail in the shadows. The light of the blue star offered little help. She pulled the flyer into a climb. If she kept it high enough, they should avoid treetops.
The wind ripped at her face, and the cold invaded her bones. Her cheeks tightened. Her eyes watered. She hunched over the saddle, seeking shelter from the wind, and found none. The wind was always the worst part. A glance behind her, and she saw the silhouettes of other flyers in a wide V formation. They were black shapes blotting out the stars, but if she squinted, she saw the red eyes. Below them, and it always amazed her how small the world looked, a few windows in Shinar glowed gold.
Tyrus had sent the archers to a fallback position. She sought their campfires first. Along the way, she saw beasts on the ground, traveling with bone lords by torchlight, the Wall breakers she had ordered as reinforcements. The massive monsters moved too slowly for a chase but would help drive off elves. By dawn, it would look like the Roshan Empire invaded the Paltiel Woods.
FLIGHT
I
Tyrus found the stream, wide across, a few spans, but not deep, water bubbling over a bed of rocks, a fallen tree, and a few larger stones. Stringy moss drifted in the current like seaweed. The trickle sounded muted as though the woods stifled the noise. The darkness of the woods swallowed what little light came from the moon and stars, but the reflections in the water were enough to make out the distant shore. Tyrus had runes for his eyes, and they revealed a gray world that appeared unnaturally still. He watched the trees for movement, darting shadows, but found nothing. Maybe the Ashen Elves had other problems.
Tyrus secured the horses while Einin found a large flat stone to sit on near the water. She cut a piece of fabric from her dress, dipped it in the stream, and teased Marah’s mouth. The child suckled the fabric. Her pale little hands wavered in the air, and her head pivoted, but she seemed content.
“She’s drinking,” Einin said. “If we had a cow or a goat, I could feed her.”
Tyrus accepted the challenge. Where would he find a cow in the woods? Paltiel must have a hunting outpost or a lumber camp with a goat or a cow. If he climbed a tree, he might spot smoke or lights from a little village.
He stretched to complaints from his stomach. The wound festered, but the bleeding had stopped. He no longer vomited blood or swore each time he bent over; however, he knew climbing a tree would make it worse. A warmth radiated out of his core, as though his stomach had a fever, and he wanted to walk into the stream and lie down for a bit. Let the cool water seep into his armor, fill his armor, and soothe the burning.
“It’s getting cold,” Einin said. “Can we start a fire?”
“The flyers will see it from miles away.”
“We have to keep the princess warm.”
“We have blankets.”
Plenty of supplies for dead soldiers but no milk—a full stomach pained him with guilt. He had hardtack for at least a week while Marah starved.
Tyrus heard something, a jingle of armor, distant, behind them. He unslung his two-handed sword. Frozen in place, he strained his ears, trying to hear it again.
Einin asked, “What is it?”
“The elves are out there.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe the seraphim are protecting us.”
“Maybe.”
Tyrus doubted it. If the seraphim helped, why did the elves hunt them? He scanned the trees. All he saw were the large trunks of oaks, but something stalked them. His anger grew, replacing his paranoia. Not the bone lords—he was certain they would charge with their beasts.
Another scrape of metal, much closer but faint. Tyrus fell into a fighting stance. The horses twitched their ears, pranced, and snorted. The breeze had changed. A large man stepped around a tree, standing ten feet tall. No, he was mounted. Tyrus’s eyes widened.
The man rode a large grizzly bear, and the thing had armor, pieces of plate, on its shoulders, neck, and head: a war bear. Intelligent eyes watched Tyrus as the bear lifted its head. The black nose, wet and quivering, sniffed the air. The horses complained with shrill cries. A ranger from Ironwall; Tyrus doubted they had traveled that far west yet. To run into one this close to Shinar meant the Gadarans monitored Shinar more closely than they thought.
The ranger wore a green cloak, which hooded his fa
ce, and held a recurve bow, arrow nocked and aimed at Tyrus. He saw, in the dark, an Etched Man. Tyrus tried to gauge the strength of the bow, but he had no idea how many runes the man had. At this range, the arrow would probably pierce his armor.
“You are a long way from home.” He spoke Kasdin.
Tyrus answered in Nuna. “I expected elves.”
The ranger shrugged. “Your Nuna is better than my Kasdin.”
Einin said, “I don’t speak Nuna. What did he say?”
“You should learn the language,” he said in Kasdin. “Makes it easier to peddle your clemency.”
Einin said, “We run from the bone lords.”
The bear snorted.
“Don’t worry, Chobar, I don’t believe them either. You think we don’t know the armor or those saddles? You are bone lords—and you came into Paltiel? You must want to die.”
Tyrus asked, “Then why not shoot?”
“I’ve no problems shooting you. It’s the mother and child that confuse me. What possessed you to bring them here? Do you know what the elves will do to them?”
Einin knelt before the ranger, which made his eyebrows jump. She raised Marah with both hands. “Please, we seek asylum, if not for us then for the child. She bears a birth rune, and the bone lords would kill her. Do what you want to us but spare the child.”
Not the terms Tyrus would have negotiated. What was Einin thinking? It looked like she offered to feed Marah to the bear.
“I found some dead men.” The ranger ignored Einin. “Looked like one man killed ten, but that’s impossible, even for an Etched Man.”
Tyrus waited. The ranger was building up his courage to attack. He was a talker, annoying, but it was better than a surprise attack. Tyrus had to focus all of his speed into avoiding the arrow. If he survived the first shot, then the bear would charge. First things first.
Tyrus said, “Einin, best clear out of the way.”
“Wait, please, look at the child.”
The ranger said, “Not right now.”
The bow twanged. Tyrus twisted and caught the arrow. The exertion made him gasp. Fresh blood shed from his stomach as he reopened the wound. The ranger whistled. He had another arrow nocked.
“Wasn’t sure until I saw that. You are the Butcher of Rosh. And no monsters to protect you? Chobar, kill.”
The bear lumbered forward, and the ranger rolled backward out of his saddle. Tyrus missed where he went—too much angry bear to deal with. Einin ducked down, the bear rushed around her, and Tyrus bolted right to draw it away from Marah.
The bear took a lazy swipe at Tyrus’s shoulder as though it wanted to spoon him into its jaws. Tyrus’s forearm caught the massive paw, claws like daggers scratching his armor while his free hand pushed the snout back. The bear snorted, shook him off, and lunged again, and Tyrus struggled to keep the massive teeth away from his face. The bear muscled forward, driving Tyrus back, whipping its head around to either bite off Tyrus’s hand or reach past for his throat. The slapboxing felt like a dance, as Tyrus found his sword too big to be of use and the bear’s bulk, hundreds of pounds of muscle, too heavy to control.
The bear snarled frustration before standing, and nine feet of angry teeth and muscle towered over Tyrus. A furious roar echoed across the stream followed by a surreal moment—the animal glared at him as if offended by his runes. Tyrus could gut the thing with one slash, but hesitated because he swore he saw real intelligence in those big brown eyes, and in that moment the bear lashed out faster than before, caught him on the shoulder, threw its weight behind the blow, and Tyrus cartwheeled into the ground.
He tried to roll to his feet, but the bear pounced. Too much bulk, too much weight on his stomach, too many teeth trying to find his throat—Tyrus dropped the sword, useless in a wrestling match. He held the bear’s throat, pushed the teeth away, and the bear jerked away and back, trying to bite his face. Tyrus used his free hand to punch its flank, infuriating the beast more. Weight crushed his legs and chest. The bear tried to smother him first and maul him second. If Tyrus lost his leverage, he would die.
He punched it in the jaw, hard enough to break a tooth. The animal pulled back and roared. A small opening, but he took it and lifted his knees to his chin, as far as his armor would allow, got his feet under the bear’s chest, and kicked. It took most of what he had and hurt his stomach enough to blur his vision, but the bear flew backward. He rolled to one knee, dizzy from the pain. Where was the ranger? He squinted and found him.
The man stood slack-jawed. “Impossible.”
Tyrus shook his head, trying to clear his vision. He sensed the bear doing the same when he glimpsed the ranger moving.
Tyrus raised his hand and pulled his face back. The arrow pierced his gauntlet, punched a hole into his hand, and went straight through before it lodged in his chest plate. Tyrus screamed an old curse. The same hand Lael had pierced two days ago. The arrow left him with numbed and useless fingers. Tyrus ripped the arrow out with a snarl and flung it at the ranger. The man ducked, giving Tyrus a moment to find his feet and charge when the bear crashed into him again.
He had the animal’s measure now, knew its strength, and guessed at its tactics. It tried to run him over, muscle through him, slash and bite as it went. The bear attacked his knees. Tyrus’s footwork kept him standing. He slapped away claws. They danced like this, and Tyrus backed into the stream. The water didn’t faze the bear, but Tyrus slipped on smooth rocks. He worked twice as hard to keep his footing. They splashed. The bear roared, moving too fast, and Tyrus realized this was its natural element about the same time as it knocked him down. He swore the bear smiled as it rose up to pounce. Claws and teeth hovered above Tyrus.
The chill of the stream filled his armor, weighing him down. Water rushed over his face, and he sputtered, splashed, and kicked as he pushed away from the bear. Slipping, Tyrus grasped a few stones, clutching for the largest rock he could find, and found one bigger than his fist. He had to time it right. The giant brown head dove for his throat, and he swung the rock.
The crack echoed through the woods. The bear slipped and fell, shook its head, groaned. It rolled over Tyrus, and the weight of its bulk crunched him into the streambed. The bear moaned, tried to walk, fell. Tyrus kicked free but kept the bulk of the thing between him and the shore. He peeked out, saw the ranger, ducked, and heard an arrow hit water.
“I don’t want to kill you.” The ranger was Tyrus’s best bet at finding milk for Marah. “Let me explain.”
“I’ve heard of your clemency. No thanks. Chobar, come here.”
The drunken bear lumbered to the ranger. Tyrus stayed close, using it as a shield. What could he say to end this fight without more bloodshed? Tyrus did not need rangers and bone lords hunting the heir, but if the man refused to help, he had to die.
Einin remembered Tyrus could see in the dark, and she wondered if the strange man had similar runes. Her eyes weren’t nearly as strong. The sun had set and a little moonlight shone on the water, but the trees cast impenetrable shadows. Einin heard more than she saw, shapes dancing in the dark. She recognized the twang of a bow, the grunts of a large animal, and something heavy clashing against steel. She searched for a place to hide, a hint of trees and horses, and no telling if the archer was alone.
Blue light rippled across the stream. Tyrus fought an animal near it. Something rose up before her and snarled, a bear, she realized, and stumbled backward. The bow twanged again. She held a newborn. Did a baby mean nothing to these idiots?
She tripped over a root. Her nightmare became real—falling with Marah in her arms—and she threw a shoulder into the ground, taking the fall on her back and head, protecting Marah as much as possible. A root struck her head, leaving her dazed, and Marah screamed.
The horses whinnied and stamped and tried to run from the bear. Amidst black shapes jumping and colliding, Einin found herself on the ground among horse legs. Heavy hooves tram
pled the ground. She pushed a leg aside and tried to crawl as the fabric of her dress caught under her knees.
A horse stepped on her. An impossible weight crushed her calf. An iron horseshoe tore the skin, and she cried out.
The pain stopped. The animal moved off and away, and Einin curled around the screaming princess. Einin shielded her as much as possible, wrapping her body around the baby, resolved to let the horses step on her instead. The hooves might break her bones, but they would kill a baby.
She heard splashing and dared sit up. Too dark to see, but Tyrus cursed, and the bear snarled, and something large waded through the stream. A bow twanged near her.
Einin listened for horses, but they had grouped away from her. She tried to stand, and pain lanced through her leg. She could not tell if it was broken, could not see anything in the dark.
“Stop. Please.” She called to the archer. “There is a baby.”
“I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” The bow twanged again. “Your kind doesn’t belong here.”
“We need help.”
“Too bad.”
Einin had no words, working her jaw, trying to find a way to reason with the man. Marah screamed in her arms and no one cared. She turned in a panicked circle, trying to find a way to help Tyrus or hide Marah, but there was nothing for her to do. The woods mocked her, so dark, all the trees had become a wall of shadows. She listened to the fight, her second of the day, and hoped the Damned prevailed again.
II
Tyrus kept the wobbly bear between him and the ranger. The man had an arrow drawn and stalked Tyrus. The odd little stalemate depended on the moaning and shuffling bear, which Tyrus pushed toward the man and hid behind. Tyrus kept his head low. The bear shook its head, rattling its armor, and blood had begun to mat the hair around its helm.
“Easy, Chobar. I need you to lie down.” The ranger peered around Chobar’s flank. “Lie down, Chobar. Lie down.”
TODAY IS TOO LATE Page 14