TODAY IS TOO LATE

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “He can take a dozen guards with him. Convince him to leave you behind, Tyrus, please.”

  Why did she bother to talk like this? He had no choice, and his impotence unnerved him. He wanted to please her, give her what she wanted, but she asked for impossible things. True, he was close to Azmon and might bend his ear, but Azmon did not negotiate. He commanded.

  “I cannot refuse him.”

  “Rosh will fall,” Ishma said, and he tried to talk, but she waved him off. “Arrange duels against their champions, one by one. No one can stand against you.”

  “That’s why no one will fight me. Not alone.”

  Ishma wrung her hands and muttered under her breath. He understood the frustration. The old customs about champions settling wars with duels had fallen out of practice. The Roshan Engravers, Azmon especially, put the Five Nations to shame. Tyrus doubted if any of their champions came close to twenty runes, while he had more than a hundred, but what was the point of being the greatest champion if no one would fight him? His enemies would use numbers and sorcery against him instead.

  “Where are you two going? What weapon is he seeking?”

  “You know I cannot say.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Empress, these are questions for Azmon.”

  “I’m sorry. I am. I stay awake at night, trying to find a solution. He leaves me trapped in a box.” She sighed. “What will I do?”

  “Keep the quartermasters honest, enforce the rations, especially for the nobles, and let Lilith and House Hadoram worry about sorcery. You must be the rock. Do not cave to the nobles or let them change our plans, and Rosh will hold.”

  “But for how long?”

  “Long enough.” Tyrus meant to assure, but his words sounded weak. “Azmon will return with his new weapon, and their armies will run away.”

  A fatigue replaced Ishma’s anger. She seemed resolved to her fate, or sad, he couldn’t tell. She stood a head shorter, but it felt as if she looked down on him.

  “Keep him safe,” she said. “Everything depends on him.”

  “Of course, empress.” Tyrus offered a smile. “I am his guardian. No one will touch him.”

  “Guard yourself too, Tyrus.”

  He bowed at the nice thought, but oaths kept him from guarding himself. The old songs filled his head, verses about heroes marked for glory, marked for death. Should Azmon fall, Tyrus would die avenging him—better than returning home without his ward.

  They said their goodbyes at the gates before dawn. They hoped no one would notice, and for the most part, they were right. A few guards gathered, and the audience grew, but nothing as large as a formal goodbye. Tyrus warned his men that they went for help and would be gone for as long as a year. Azmon wanted secrecy, but Tyrus knew the siege would wear down morale. Better to share strategy than give the impression of abandoning Rosh.

  Azmon wore red robes, as did Lilith and her brothers. They discussed the rituals to protect the walls, one last time, talk of sorcery and runes and the kinds of attacks to expect. Azmon seemed uneasy about leaving his city with Lilith.

  Tyrus and Ishma waited. Ishma wore a flowing green gown, fluttering in the breeze, and he kept watching the fabric fold around her form. Her beauty made him feel uglier. The grace of her figure contrasted too much with his large and bulky frame, made more imposing by his armor. He loomed beside her.

  Azmon turned to Ishma. “Have I forgotten anything?”

  “Will you please stay?”

  “I mean to win, not starve to death.”

  “Azmon—”

  “You must have faith.” Azmon embraced her. “The siege will be hard, but Rosh will not fall.”

  They whispered goodbyes. With his runes, Tyrus heard everything but pretended not to out of respect. Ishma pleaded with her eyes. Azmon mounted his black charger. Tyrus mounted another. They left Rosh with no trumpets or crowds or guards. Two horses sounded faint, small. Years had passed since they had ridden anywhere without an escort. Tyrus thought the last time might have been before Azmon inherited the crown.

  As they left, the sun rose over the mountains. Long shadows stretched over the road. A strange day, Tyrus did not like leaving before a battle, and Ishma dominated his thoughts. When the siege became insufferable and the rations dwindled, the Five Nations would offer terms, and Ishma would face the greatest challenge: controlling rebellious nobles. The longer the siege, the more likely they would sacrifice her to appease the invaders.

  “Doesn’t it feel good to be out in the air?” Azmon sounded carefree. “When was the last time we went on a hunt? I am sick of ambassadors and demands and negotiations.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Enjoy the fresh air while you can.”

  “Why?”

  “We go to see King Targar Thadius Tubal.”

  “Sounds like a dwarf name.”

  “He rules Dun Drunarak, deep within the Underworld.”

  “You seek a dwarven weapon?”

  “No. I want passage to the Bottom of the World.”

  Tyrus did not like the sound of that. Memories of the maps and scrolls in Azmon’s tower bothered him. His friend’s eyes gleamed with a hint of madness. No one went to the Bottom of the World.

  “Maybe the dwarves can help us?” Tyrus asked. “If their armies marched to Rosh, it might be enough to scatter the Five Nations.”

  “They have little interest in the surface other than to guard it.”

  Tyrus had never heard that before. The creatures seldom traveled to Rosh. They stood four to five feet tall and were as wide, arms as thick as a man’s thighs. Tyrus had never thought of them as guardians.

  “What are they guarding the surface from?”

  “The horrors of the deep.”

  Two weeks later, they entered another mountain range, far to the north, the wastelands of ancient Kassir. The peaks were more violent than the ones around Rosh, harsh edges of stone jutting out of the ground. Azmon led them to a cave large enough for a giant and overgrown with weeds. Pillars of marble framed the entrance, but they were cracked and broken. Pieces of statues and walls littered the ground. Years ago, something had shattered what looked like a door. Moss grew on the broken stone.

  “The ruins of Falrin,” Azmon said.

  Tyrus had heard of them but never seen them before. Fools ventured into the depths seeking treasure. Few returned. He studied the barren landscape. No settlements. People stayed away from this place, which meant something unpleasant lived in the ground.

  “Is there another way?”

  “Not close enough. The few clans who trade with the surface are in Holoni lands.”

  Holon was one of the Five Nations marching on Rosh. Tyrus considered the risks. If they rode through Holoni lands, they at least knew what they would face. The dark cave could contain anything, including whatever drove away the dwarves.

  Azmon unsaddled his horse. “A waste to leave them, but no need for horses anymore.”

  Tyrus also unsaddled his horse, and they left the chargers to roam the mountains. A small chance they would wander back to Rosh. More likely a farmer or a traveler would happen across them. The thoroughbreds were a windfall of gold. As they walked to the cave, Tyrus caught a smell, pungent like rotting meat.

  “What is down there?”

  Azmon said, “The Demon Tribes.”

  Tyrus muttered to himself. The animal men, servants of the shedim with green and gray flesh, stayed underground to avoid the sun. A host of fiends composed the Demon Tribes: orcs and goblins and trolls were the most notorious. Tyrus repositioned his saddlebags so they were easier to drop if he needed his sword.

  They stood at the door without speaking. Neither of them liked what they saw. The darkness had texture, a presence that spoke to his instincts, whispering to Tyrus to stay away. He fought down a fear of the unknown. Azmon shifted his packs and rested
a hand on his dagger.

  “You know the way?” Tyrus asked.

  “I’ve memorized Rordal’s journals. There is a passage linking old Falrin to the Deep Ward, which connects with Dun Drunarak.”

  “How far?”

  “Over twenty leagues down, another hundred to the east.”

  Tyrus attempted the sums. Sounded like weeks underground with the Demon Tribes.

  “How do you measure a league without the sun?”

  “I had not considered that.” Azmon’s chuckles defied the darkness and broke the tension. “I guess we count steps. Maybe King Tubal has a better method.”

  Tyrus shuddered at the old memories; days without sunlight became weeks and months. His nose never adjusted to the smell. The air felt heavy in his lungs as though the stench suffocated him. The tribes tested them many times. Tyrus and Azmon relied on their runes to see in the darkness. The creatures hungered for their flesh and tried to creep toward them and slit their throats. After a few battles, steel and sorcery against fangs and claws, the tribes respected them. They might drool, but they had the intelligence to avoid a sorcerer and his guardian.

  Tyrus had imagined Dun Drunarak as a city with walls and towers, but what they found was a heavy gate. Vaulted ceilings and a cobblestone street led to massive steel doors. The air was dense with impressions of metal, soot, and oil. For the first time, the smell of food made Tyrus hungry. Someone baked bread. Six guards stood outside the gate, impressive and not dwarf-like at all. He had heard stories of the dwarven Wardens, but never seen any in person. They stood five feet tall and as broad across the shoulder. Plate armor covered their boxy frames, plates so thick Tyrus wondered if a hammer could dent it. They carried shields as big as steel doors and vicious short swords. The only hint of flesh came from the beards pouring out from under their helms.

  Tyrus admired the weapons, a heavy kind of long knife perfect for close quarters. His own sword was too large, useless in tight tunnels.

  Their arrival caused confusion. The guards did not speak any of the languages of the surface, and a runner was sent. A smaller door opened within the larger one. A new dwarf joined them, much smaller than the guards and far more dwarf-like. He spoke broken Kasdin. Tyrus did not follow everything, but Azmon presented himself as an agent of Dura Galamor and the Red Tower of Sorcery. Towers did not impress dwarves, and Tyrus grinned at the confusion.

  “We seek audience with King Targar Thadius Tubal.”

  “No trade with surface. Go.”

  “No trade.”

  “Yes.”

  “No. We do not want to trade. We no trade.”

  “No trade. Go. Go.”

  Azmon struggled for the words. He looked to Tyrus for help, but Tyrus could only shrug. Azmon said, “Skogul,” and mimed a pair of legs walking.

  The dwarves bristled. They spoke in their language, and a few laughed. Their voices rumbled like avalanches. Tyrus tried to remember the name. He had heard it before, an old story or legend. Why did it sound familiar? The word recalled dusty things.

  The talker treated Azmon like a child. “No Gimirr. Not a dwarf. No Blood Quest for you.”

  “Yes. Blood Quest. To Skogul.”

  The talker jabbed a finger at Azmon’s chest. “You. No. Gimirr.”

  The group shook their heads at him, and Azmon cursed. Tyrus hoped he had no plans to attack these things. The few guards filled the tunnel, such wide shoulders and stocky frames. His height would work against him, and their armor offered no easy targets. Instead, Azmon dropped his packs and loosened his robes. He bared his chest, his birth rune, and the dwarves gasped.

  Tyrus knew Azmon kept his chest and stomach free of other runes so that his one true rune was not besmirched. Azmon had been etched with several runes, and kept the exact number a secret, even from Tyrus. They were on his back and legs.

  One dwarf lit a torch. The sudden brilliance after weeks underground blinded Tyrus. When his eyes adjusted, the gray world teemed with color, and he noted the dwarves used dyes in their armor, blues and purples that shimmered like runes. Silver runes, razor thin, gleamed in the flame. The guards clustered around Azmon and made appreciative sounds. One of them traced the white ridges of the birth rune with one finger.

  “Are you okay?” Tyrus asked.

  “Yes. I think they understand.”

  Azmon held out an open hand. The air chilled, and a flame burst into existence in his palm. The guards raised shields and swords, but the talker gestured for calm. They did not like sorcery. Tyrus saw glares and bared teeth under the massive helms.

  “Apologies, Reborn. Forgive?”

  “May we see King Targar Thadius Tubal?”

  “King, yes.”

  The steel gate creaked open. Deep within the rock, metal clanked. Clacking chains rattled over gears before the heavy doors swung open. The city within glowed gold. Warmth radiated out. Smells, seemingly strong before, now overpowered. Tyrus sniffed water in the air, like dew before dawn, and a freshness. The city had clean air compared to the dank tunnels. More guards waited on the other side, but Tyrus caught his first glimpse of dwarves without armor, built like badgers, all shoulders, forearms, and knuckles. So much hair, fur on skin, and beards hanging below belts.

  “Come. To king.”

  The city followed a geometric pattern that Tyrus struggled to understand until he realized it was three dimensional, a diamond shape carved into the rock. They followed their guide up a pathway on the edge of the town that turned on sharp angles as it climbed toward the top of the diamond. Occasional gaps in structures, sometimes alleys, sometimes steep drops, showed a sprawling city with numerous causeways.

  The sudden change from tunnels to such a large space made Tyrus more aware of the mountain of rock suspended above their heads. He never feared the tunnels caving in. They looked solid, but flimsy columns and arches supported the ceiling over Dun Drunarak. Tyrus hoped they used no sorcery in their construction. A sorcerer could destroy the city.

  More guards at the top, and a stone room echoing the Royal Court of Rosh, a throne on a dais, tapestries, and the serious faces of people struggling for power and influence. They wore robes embellished with gold and silver runes, something Tyrus had never seen before: runes as decoration. A strange thought: ambition on a dwarf looked no different than ambition on a man.

  King Targar Thadius Tubal wore white and brown furs that blended with his white beard and long hair. His crown was a simple band of gold, and his eyes rested deep within wells of wrinkles. Their guide pointed at the floor and approached the dais.

  “What is this nonsense, two men on a Blood Quest?”

  Azmon sighed. “You speak Kasdin.”

  “And you, apparently, do not speak Gimirr. Why visit us when you speak none of our tongues?”

  Azmon bowed. “My apologies, your majesty. I read a little but had no way to practice.”

  “You seek Skogul?”

  “We travel to the Bottom of the World, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “A new weapon, runes, to be tested against the adversary.”

  “The adversary?” King Tubal’s nose wrinkled. “You cannot mean the shedim?”

  Azmon launched into a long story, one Tyrus had never heard before. Azmon spent years studying the Sarbor and claimed to have discovered a weakness. He detailed scrolls found on the surface and his belief that he had new runes to use against the shedim. The order of the Red Tower knew of his work and protected his research, but he traveled to the Deep Ward to test theories.

  Tyrus realized Azmon lied. The story entertained until he remembered the things Azmon had let slip over the years. He wanted to be closer to the shedim, not fight them. He wanted their runes. The convincing lie shamed Tyrus. By standing as his guardian, Tyrus helped deceive the dwarves.

  “It is time to take the battle to them,” Azmon said. “How much longer can the Deep Ward hold? You lose groun
d below and above. Their spawn multiply. The Demon Tribes have invaded the surface. The Marsh Fen Orcs build cities that threaten human settlements. They make war during the day.”

  Tubal’s hands closed into enormous fists. “You blame us for losing control of the Deep?”

  “That is not what I said.”

  “Where is the help? Why must we guard the Deep alone? What happened to the ancient Kassiri who sent their warriors to test the tribes in the tunnels? You come here and blame me for losing ground?”

  “Majesty, I did not say that.”

  “Grayskins are on the surface because you give them space to breed. What happened to your crusades? Much has changed since the death of Jethlah. You forget the past, and your nations will fall like Ancient Kassir.”

  “Your majesty, please, I have come to fight.”

  Tubal huffed and his white mustache fluttered. “You know not what you do.”

  “I wish to learn.”

  Tubal cast his attention to the gathered nobles. They spoke in their language, harsh and guttural words. The mood shifted from inquiry to agreement and then silence.

  Tubal said, “To learn, you must first survive. Return to the surface. Test these runes on your own demons.”

  Azmon waited. Tyrus stood behind him and could not tell how he handled the rebuke. A downward tilt of Azmon’s head was the only hint at disappointment.

  “Majesty, I have vowed to confront them. My task is no different than your Blood Quests. I cannot turn back.”

  “A matter of blood?”

  “It is my destiny.” Azmon bowed.

  “It costs nothing to open our gates to the Deep. But my warriors will not join you. You travel alone.” Tubal studied Azmon. “The surface offers pleasant deaths. It is a soft world for weak, spindly things. You travel to a hard place. We have an old saying, ‘Nothing dies well in the deep.’”

  Tyrus grimaced. That sounded unpleasant. The idea of dying so far from the surface made Tyrus feel small. He imagined rocks smashing him the way a boot might crush a bug.

  Azmon said, “I understand.”