TODAY IS TOO LATE

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  The looming mountain, snowcapped, belittled Lilith. Azmon meant to assault that thing? She saw glitters of metal from the Forbidden City, Telessar. The Ashen Elves could defend those passes for years, and that assumed the Roshan survived the forest. She heard stories of the trees swallowing trespassers. Yet the Imperial Guard marched through the woods with a few beasts. Lilith led from the sky, far away from arrows, using her dagger to direct flyers that signaled the men on the ground.

  One of the flyers flew to her with news. They had found the cave. She dove lower: so many trees and branches, an archer could hide anywhere. Below, guardsmen and beasts set up a large perimeter around the dead men. Biral spoke true. Tyrus killed his own men. The site had taken too long to find, but now they could track him.

  She spotted a place to land and proceeded on foot. On both sides of her lumbered enormous beasts, but she felt exposed. Arrows could strike from anywhere. Too many trees, too many branches, and she disliked the quiet because the elves planned something, but if she stole one of their arrows, faking the heir’s death became simple.

  Rimmon doubted her, but she would free her brothers in a matter of days and rid the empire of a needless heir. She stepped over the bodies and knew most of them, champions all. They looked grotesque, swollen faces, waxy eyes, purpling flesh.

  “Tyrus didn’t give them a proper burial.” She spoke to herself. “They must have hurt him badly.”

  A guardsman said, “Milady, I think this is a bear track.”

  “Wild animals stumbled upon them, so what?”

  “Well, it didn’t try to eat any of them.”

  “Bears eat fish.”

  “I think they scavenge too, milady.”

  “Then it wasn’t hungry. Why should I care? Be quiet.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  Lilith sneered until he lowered his head. Wasting her time on animals with such fine materials at hand. He did not see the treasure on the ground.

  “It is so rare to find such specimens, strong, willful, well trained,” Lilith said, “when wretches fill the world.”

  Tyrus protected his champions, fought for proper burials befitting nobles, and argued about the morale of the army. Azmon placated him, but when Lilith wore the crown, things would change. She would never sacrifice an advantage to please slaves.

  With a few orders, she oversaw the bodies stripped and laid out in two groups of three and one group of four. Their heads touched, face down, so that she could work on their backs. She pulled a silk pouch of sand from her belt and calculated each matrix. Inhaling, clearing her head, she circled and drew the Runes of Dusk and Dawn.

  Lilith smiled at the artistry of her work. Her talent had grown. One day she would replace Azmon as the Bone Queen of Rosh. A little more time to learn his secrets, a little more power, and the empire was hers.

  She expanded her mind, touched the Nine Hells, felt the tug at her soul, and fought for her life. A heartbeat later, her blood chilled and her vision narrowed but power infused her body. She felt crippled and gigantic all at once, as though she might push over one of the great oaks.

  She chanted the rites. Flesh stripped from bones with a terrible tearing sound, and the bodies lifted off the ground, joined at the head as a putrid aroma filled the air. They shed their fluids and entrails as the bones spun and wove together. Later, the flesh on the ground would wrap the bones together. In a few days, it would age into blackish leather.

  The ritual took an hour, and by the end, exhaustion stooped her shoulders. Creating three beasts taxed her, an act of pride. Releasing her hold on sorcery left her with a hangover. She thirsted and felt the first stabs of a migraine. An awful itching crawled up her back. She wanted to return to Shinar and find a comfortable bed. Instead, she pushed past the pain to admire her creations. No one but the emperor created such beasts. Not as large as the wall breakers, but close to ten feet tall. Massive claws and fangs gave them an imposing presence. Red eyes watched her.

  “Your souls are still in there,” Lilith said. “I can hear them screaming. You remember the one who hurt you?”

  The beasts snorted like bulls.

  “You will revenge.”

  The word—revenge—echoed in their throats. She had a link to them that allowed her to control them, but they could not speak, not really; Lilith only imagined it. The drool and roars were real, though, because the beasts craved blood.

  V

  Tyrus stood guard all night, certain that flyers would descend on them. He paced around the camp to stay awake, pausing to listen for beasts breaking branches or flyers’ swooping wings. His stomach throbbed worse than broken ribs. When the sun broke the new day, he studied the bluish skies with confusion. Azmon sent no one after them? The peace betrayed him, and he wanted to fight, not spend another day running. Someone dared hunt Ishma’s child, inspiring a dreadful need to lash out, and he wanted to make the lords hurt. A silly thought but easier than the truth. His stomach tortured him, and he wanted to share his misery with the bone lords.

  Klay walked down the path, stretching and yawning. “Sleep any?”

  “We need to move.”

  “You sure they’re following you? Maybe they left you to the elves.”

  “They’re coming.”

  “Who is chasing you?”

  “Bone lords, Roshan nobles.”

  “Einin will want to feed her baby again.”

  Tyrus grimaced. Another fire, hours spent boiling bread into mush because they didn’t understand the game. This calm lulled them into complacency. The best time to avoid the beasts was long before they caught your scent. If they got too close, they had no options but to fight. He braced himself to explain why not feeding the baby was the best thing, when Marah screamed, a faint cry of frustration with Einin mumbling apologies.

  “Something is wrong.”

  They found Einin cleaning Marah. The broth had made her sick. The child had puked and soiled herself. Tyrus stood in shock, no clue what to do. But Klay drew a knife and cut a blanket into strips.

  Einin said, “I’m sorry, princess. I’m sorry.”

  Klay froze. So much for secrets. “She’s a princess? A Roshan princess?”

  Einin didn’t notice, busying herself stripping and wiping Marah, whose little white face twisted into furious knots. The child cried with all her strength, veins bulging in her temple and neck and eyes scrunched shut. Tyrus wanted to help. The screams accused him of wasting his life with swords and knives. He should know how to make a baby happy, but he knew more about sick soldiers.

  “Whose daughter is that?” Klay asked.

  Einin said, “Emperor Azmon’s.”

  “Einin!” Tyrus moved between Klay and the heir. “What are you thinking?”

  “He should know what is chasing us.”

  “You brought Azmon’s daughter to the Ashen Elves?” Klay glared at him. “Are you insane?”

  Tyrus said, “It’s a long story.”

  “We need to move,” Klay said. “Right now.”

  “Agreed.”

  Tyrus kept his thoughts to himself. Marah would never survive Paltiel. He tried to find options, alternatives, and found none. Marah needed the elves, and elves killed the Roshan.

  Not long after they rode, Klay appeared more intent on covering ground. Tyrus thought he heard armored men. He paused and listened, but it was only the bear ghosting them again.

  “Can you lead us to higher ground?” Tyrus asked.

  “I can, but it isn’t on the way to Ironwall.”

  “Do it.”

  An hour later, they neared the top of a ridge. Mid-morning, Paltiel stretched before them. If the circumstances were different, it might pass as a beautiful sight, enormous trees reaching for the sky on a clear and sunny day. Farther west, the mountains became larger and Mount Teles dominated everything. The tallest trees grew near the peak, hulking oaks that made castles look like piles of
rubble. Tyrus studied the ancient mountain. Impossible terrain at their front and bone beasts at their back while eastward the horizon still smoked. They could not see Shinar, but the city burned. Then he spotted them, tiny specks of black cruising above the tree line.

  “There they are. Not as far along as they should be.”

  “I don’t see it,” Klay said.

  “Those dots on the horizon. Those aren’t birds.”

  “You have strong eyes,” Klay said. “But at that distance they would be huge.”

  “They are. The trees will give us some cover, make it harder for them to land. But once they spot us, they’ll guide the ground forces to our trail.”

  “How fast do they fly?”

  “Faster than horses.”

  “So they’ll catch us before Ironwall.” Klay turned on his heel, studying the woods. “Not many options. How big will the ground force be?”

  “No way to know.”

  “We have a good lead on the walkers.”

  “Until the flyers land ahead of us. They’ll slow us for their friends.”

  “Well, that complicates things,” Klay said. “Suggestions?”

  Tyrus studied Klay, a young man, but he looked honest. Delegation was the hardest part of being Lord Marshal. Could he trust this ranger with Ishma’s baby? She starved anyway, and what choice did he have?

  “Take us toward the elves.”

  “A Reborn is one thing. Azmon’s child is another. She might be safer outside Telessar.”

  “The seraphim sent us this way.”

  “Angels?” Klay did not hide his shock. “That’s the long story?”

  “Most of it.”

  “Buzzard’s guts, man.”

  Tyrus risked too much on dreams and circumstance. He could have done things a dozen different ways and been in a position of strength, but they kept reacting to events instead of planning. Klay seemed tense. The rangers must have their own secrets.

  Tyrus said, “Take us to their city, not their army.”

  “Who said anything about an army?”

  “Are you saying those beasts will face no challenge? The elves will let them invade?” Tyrus grew impatient. “They will strike today. I don’t care. Take us to their city.”

  “One does not simply walk into Telessar.”

  “Get us close. I’ll figure out the rest on the way.”

  A few miles later, they found a pile of dead men. They smelled them long before, the putrid odor of decaying meat cooking in the midday heat. Dead swordsmen and archers, and unlike most battlefields littered with bodies, these had their weapons and armor. Tyrus recognized the black plate from Rosh. The faces had blackened and squirmed, covered in insects.

  “What happened?” Einin asked.

  “My men,” Tyrus said. “Scouts, small forces sent into the woods while we sieged Shinar. They didn’t come this far, though.” Tyrus turned to Klay. “What does this mean?”

  “This is the older part of Paltiel.” Klay pointed up. “Notice the size of the oaks. They say some of these trees are older than Shinar. Farther in is sacred ground. The Ashen Elves do not let anyone approach the mountain.”

  The trees were enormous, as wide as a house, but Tyrus had never heard of the elves doing something so barbaric. Had he done this? Had the Roshan Empire angered them so much that they would leave his men out in the sun like garbage? He studied the pile, trying to identify the faces, trying to remember their names. He didn’t know any of them.

  “We should burn them,” he said.

  Klay coughed. “I would not start a fire in these woods. Not during the summer and definitely not this close to Telessar.”

  “They deserve better.”

  “The elves seldom march to war, but when they do, they mean to win. You’ll receive no mercy from them.” Klay nudged his mount forward. “This is the boundary. Do you really want to go to Telessar?”

  “Can you plead our case?”

  Klay grimaced. “Shinar still burns. What can I say to make that right?”

  Tyrus understood. No sense arguing the politics of the Roshan court. The infamous Lord Marshal could not deny his crimes. He glanced at Marah, fussy and crying in Einin’s arms. The heir should not be punished for his sins.

  “Can you plead Marah’s case?”

  “The seraphim truly protect the child?”

  Einin said, “That is what Ishma said.”

  “I doubt they’ll kill a woman and child.”

  Tyrus asked, “Are you sure?”

  “A week ago I was sure Shinar would hold while we gathered our forces. Everyone was sure Jethlah’s Walls would repell Azmon’s beasts. If Lael had stayed within the walls, it might have. Now, it’s hard to be sure of anything. Strange days.”

  Tyrus understood the unspoken terms. He endangered Marah more than anything, which meant he had to trust Ishma’s child with an unknown man and a bunch of elves who hated his people. The alternative was watching her starve.

  “It will be easier without me.”

  Klay nodded.

  Einin watched, and it said much when she didn’t protest. He killed his own men for her, but she didn’t want to be near him. He understood. He had a black name, and had probably killed a few of her family’s friends during the civil war. The list of people he had killed had grown ponderous. She looked wary, the way everyone did when they discovered what a hundred runes did to a man. She would call him the Damned behind his back, like everyone else.

  “Take Einin and Marah to Telessar.”

  Klay said, “I will speak for her. I will make her case.”

  “Make it good.”

  “Where will you go?”

  Tyrus turned east. Klay followed his gaze and then looked at him like he was mad, but Tyrus knew the flyers hunted him as much as they hunted Marah. The woods gave him options, cover; he could strike and fade like the elves did and maybe slow the bone lords. His capture would slow them more.

  Klay said, “You can’t be serious.”

  “Speak for the child,” Tyrus said. “Make it good. I’ll lead the beasts away. Take them south if I can.”

  Tyrus hesitated. Einin and Klay watched him, but none of them knew each other well enough for a formal goodbye. This felt wrong. They were more than strangers but less than friends. He should know the people he protected better than this.

  “Einin, find the elves. Get supplies. Rest a while; let Marah gain some strength and head to Ironwall. Tell the elves that the seraphim want the child delivered to Dura Galamor. I’ll find you when I can.”

  “I will.”

  The silence became awkward.

  “Well then,” Tyrus said. “Good luck.”

  VI

  Klay didn’t know what to think: the Butcher of Rosh had defeated King Lael in single combat, killed the Reborn hero Edan, and sacked Shinar. And he had caught an arrow. Only in the old songs could champions defy death like that. Klay had awoken three times during the night—impossible to sleep with the Butcher nearby—and found him pacing in front of the camp like a guard dog. The hulking brute resembled a mangy old hound, scarred from too much fighting.

  Hard to accept him guarding a mother and child. Didn’t make sense. Everyone knew the Butcher was second in command of the armies of the Nine Hells and a childhood friend of Emperor Azmon. No reason for a crony to betray his master, and for what? Einin rode behind Klay. She looked weary with grief. The baby was too sick to last the day, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her. The girl feared Tyrus. No courtly romance there.

  Klay said, “Your friend is a bit odd.”

  “We are not friends.”

  “He risks much for you.”

  “For Marah. Not me.”

  “Is it true? He has scores of runes?”

  “More than a hundred.”

  “But that’s impossible.” Klay tried to imagine so many runes on one
body. None of the master engravers in Ironwall had that kind of talent. A hundred would need to be woven together or made smaller. Who engraved the Butcher’s runes? “Wait, more than a hundred? How many more?”

  “He said he’s lost count.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “It’s true,” Einin said. “I’ve seen them.”

  One did not forget an etching. Klay shuddered at the memory of his two runes: tied down with leather straps, a hot needle scoring his flesh, the boiling tar. He had screamed and whimpered and cried. He pushed the memories down. He wanted a third rune to one day become a ranger lord, but he feared the needle too much to dare another etching.

  A hundred runes would explain the fight. Tyrus fought with unnatural strength and speed. Klay remembered impossible feats: catching an arrow, fighting a bear with his hands, kicking Chobar over as if he weighed nothing. Klay thought he might be a Rune Blade. Sorcery was the only explanation, but Tyrus never chanted or gestured. He fought like an Etched Man, not a warrior sorcerer, his only sorcery the spells carved into his flesh.

  Klay heard Chobar a few yards downwind, complaining with peevish grunts. Klay whistled at him to keep his distance. The bear trampled underbrush as it moved away. Klay watched the horses. They had wide eyes, flaring nostrils, twitchy ears. They knew a predator stalked them and waited to bolt. Klay could not help admiring the animals, tall, powerful, and well trained—chargers fit for kings, the pinnacle of horse breeding.

  He had not ridden a horse in years. Bears had shorter front legs, and Klay found himself leaning back in the saddle. A level saddle felt odd. Guilt bothered him as if he cheated on Chobar. Based on his moans, Chobar did not like being replaced.

  The trail they followed faded away. Klay searched for another. He dismounted, drew his short sword, and cut a path through brambles and ferns and dark green vines with stickers that grabbed at his leggings and cloak. The brush gave way to another path, and Klay could tell it was no game trail. The elves used this one. He scanned the trees for shapes or movement, not sure why he looked. He never spotted them when they didn’t want to be seen. The sentinels of Paltiel would intercept them soon.