“We should secure the Reborn,” Klay said. “Make sure she reaches Dura. You know how elves keep time. She could spend a year in Telessar.”
Elves outlived humans by centuries and had dozens of strange terms for time. The wrong translation of urgent meant the difference between months or minutes. Amidst general agreement, a few rangers suggested the elves could have saved Shinar, and a new argument started.
Lord Broin called for silence. “Two should be enough to see the child to Dura. Who shall go?”
People looked to Klay, but he did not want to leave Paltiel. Two hands raised.
“Agreed?” Broin asked.
Twelve voices agreed.
“Any disagree?”
Silence.
“Now, do we ride with the elves or wait for help from Ironwall?”
This prompted more debate about the slow response time of the priests in Ironwall. The knights would perform ceremonies, make oaths, and pray for guidance. It might be days before they marched, bureaucrats as incompetent as the farsighted elves, and the comparison between Gadaran nobility and the elves made Klay cringe. The rangers agreed that half of Paltiel would burn before the knights engaged.
“We need one volunteer to ride to Ironwall.”
“Why not send the message with the lady’s escorts?”
“Who knows how long they’ll be in Telessar?”
Dacie raised her hand, and the group agreed it was the right thing to do. They asked her to try and hurry the knights. Klay wished a man had volunteered but kept the thought to himself. The knights had little respect for rangers in general and less for female rangers.
“What can ten of us do?” Jorn asked.
Klay said, “Harass supplies. Kill their sorcerers.”
“We need the knights and the royal guard,” someone said.
“And the priests,” said another, “especially against those abominations.”
“The high priests can stay in Ironwall,” Broin said. “We have no need of sacraments, but the war priests could use runes against those abominations.”
“There is no time.”
“And there are too many beasts. We need an edge.”
Klay said, “If we wait on war priests or sorcerers, the fight will be over. Do we let the elves repel the invasion alone?” Klay let the question hang in the air, knowing no one liked that option. “We must act now with Lord Nemuel.”
Everyone looked at one another.
“Do any disagree?” Broin waited. “Then we ride.”
II
Tyrus gripped his elven spear and dagger as he jogged between tree trunks. Above him, one of the bone lords flew over the canopy. He heard men fighting to his right. Clashes of metal and screams of pain filled the woods. Tyrus paused, hefted the spear, and waited for the flyer to pass through a gap in the branches. The thing banked. No shot.
Tyrus cursed and gave chase.
He had wasted hours on this game. None of the flyers flew close enough to strike, and he lacked the speed to run them down. He reminded himself it wasn’t a lack of speed but uneven terrain. Running through Paltiel—dense brush, fallen trees, slippery moss, hills, boulders, and giant tree roots—was more difficult than he expected.
He found another spot and waited for the flyer to circle. But it never did. The flyers veered east. Tyrus spun, searching for high ground, and saw a small hill. From the hill, he saw the flyers cluster together. The Roshan advance maybe? He had circled the woods for so long that he wasn’t sure of his location anymore. In the distance, he heard more fighting and fresh fires. Smoke filled the woods, ghosting through the treetops. He realized the fighting closer to him had calmed. The elves vanished into the trees again and must have hit another group.
Tyrus sensed the Roshan search net collapsing. They would want a stronger formation, and the elves picked off stragglers. He needed to find the Roshan center but had misjudged their deployment and cursed the trees. Finding the enemy was simpler on an open battlefield.
The flyers traveled miles away. Impossible to catch on foot, but they held the key to the battle. He dropped the weapons to twist and stretch and unbuckle his plate armor. He ditched half of it, relying on the thin layer of mail underneath. Lighter, more flexible, he took up the spear and dagger and jogged at a pace he could maintain. The balance between using his runes without overtaxing them was difficult to maintain. In theory, he might run all day. In practice, he never did. Frustrations forced mistakes, and inefficiencies wore him down.
The flyers fanned out over Paltiel again. A glimpse of one, through the canopy, and he changed course again. Something darted out of his periphery, and years of fighting saved his life. Instincts threw him down without a thought.
A massive set of claws, white bone, mangled a tree. The bone beast followed, snarling, clawing the ground and stomping after him. This beast was different. Not as big. No battle cries. Tyrus dodged another claw and lost his temper. Tired of running. Time to kill. He jumped toward its head—maw open, drooling—and speared an eye socket. His feet crashed into its chest, and he kicked the beast backward.
Both of them toppled.
The beast raged. Claws tore the spear free. Tyrus darted behind, jumped, and clung to its back. He stabbed with the knife, dozens of jabs, hitting hard enough to bruise his hand. Black ooze sprayed from the wounds. He tried to sever the spine. The thing flopped, and Tyrus clenched his teeth, waiting for the pain. There was a moment of vertigo before he smashed into the ground. The beast landed on top, and bones dug into his body, all along one side, from his knee to his shoulder.
No leverage, no way to push it off, a smothering feeling, claustrophobia, suffocation—he screamed and writhed and tried to force the beast off. It rolled away only to turn to bite. Tyrus buried his knife in the other eye. He grabbed at horns on its jaw and wrenched the head, hearing a snap. The head wobbled on its neck. The beast collapsed.
Tyrus lay in a patch of long grass. He rolled to his side and his hands and knees, testing his joints for pain. Bruises, pressure, but nothing broken. A sound pulled him out of his worry. Leathery wings cut the air. He turned to a bone lord, riding a flyer, watching him. The man startled as he recognized the Damned and pulled his mount into a climb. Tyrus scurried to the beast, tore his dagger out of the eye, turned, and threw. The blade flew through the air, an impossible shot even with runes, but the bone lord grasped at his back.
Tyrus grinned. “Got you.”
The lord pulled the reins too hard, and the flyer stalled in the middle of a climb. Wings struggled for purchase as it tilted to one side and then crashed into a tree with an explosion of snapping branches, groaning wood, and tearing leather.
Tyrus needed a weapon. His spear was shredded by the beast, and there was nothing nearby, no rocks or heavy branches he could use as a club. He stalked the crash. The beast thrashed against a tree, pinned to broken branches above the ground. A honking sound, high pitched, as it cried for help. Caught in the reins, upside down, hung its master. The lord twirled in a lazy circle as the reins wrapped around him, spun him, and unwound him.
Tyrus waited for the man’s sorcery, but he looked too hurt. His face purpled. Tyrus stepped forward.
“Traitor.”
“Who is your leader?”
“I am the leader.”
Tyrus grabbed the man’s head and swung him into a nearby branch. He cried out. Tyrus caught him.
“The big flyer that you report to, who rides it?”
“Lady Lilith.”
“How many beasts do you have?”
“Burn in hell.”
Tyrus swung him again. A sickening crunch followed by quiet. When Tyrus caught him, he had passed out.
The tree shuddered. Bark, leaves, and broken branches snowed down. Tyrus prepared to bolt, watching the flyer above him, clawing the air and shaking the tree. The cries of pain became gasps. A tense moment passed as Tyrus waited fo
r it to fall or the tree to break, but nothing changed.
He searched the lord and found his dagger. They usually wore swords. The nobles loved elegant blades to display their wealth, but the scabbard was empty. A few minutes later Tyrus found the blade. A fool’s weapon, all show and no function, poorly weighted, gold flourishes, but strong steel and a decent edge. He tested it with a few swings. Only someone who knew nothing about swords would wear the thing. But beggars made do.
Blade in hand, he studied the skies. Three flyers circled too high to reach. Tyrus found cover, hoping they had not seen him, and listened to the woods. Crashing sounds, breaking branches, distant but growing louder. The flyers sent beasts, so Tyrus bolted north, searching for good ground. He found no cover, only grass and tall oaks. His only chance would be a dense thicket of younger trees that might slow the beasts. Maybe he could single them out. Grunts and snorts, like bulls, closed on him.
Tyrus found a few trees with interlocking branches and climbed. Too big for a beast to knock over, but given enough time, the monsters could shred the trunks. He hoped the elves were more important and knew sorcery was the real danger. Hellfire would torch him.
Vines covered the trunk, prickly but good for climbing. He had made a dozen feet when the tree shook. A beast’s shoulder rammed the trunk, and the tree shed leaves and small branches while birds took flight. A second beast joined, but the tree held. The curled roots along the base were thicker than their legs.
Tyrus glanced up: a hundred footer, maybe more. He balanced on a branch, teetering, walking toward a neighboring tree. The tree shook again, forcing him to jump. He crashed into branches before a large one smashed him in the chest, but he grabbed on.
Two flyers had left, but with branches blocking his view, he couldn’t find them. The third one wheeled around the area. The beasts had taken to attacking multiple trees. He had fooled them but not their master.
The lord raised his staff, and orbs of hellfire shot out, exploding in the trees. He set several ablaze and banked away. Above Tyrus, a plume of fire gushed. The blaze consumed the tree. Smoldering ashes, leaves mostly, fell on his shoulders, and he fought the urge to curse and had no choice but to climb down as low as he dared.
III
Klay stalked the woods, arrow nocked, with Chobar a few paces ahead of him. On his flanks, other rangers did the same. They made little noise, a rustling of dead leaves and jingling of the bears’ barding. The ten of them spread in a thin line, probing the woods for elves or invaders. Klay saw only four of his friends. They stayed far apart to avoid losing the group to an ambush.
His home had become a battleground. The tall oaks, covered in twisting vines, and dense undergrowth concealed horrible monsters. The woods moaned with battles. Ahead of them, monsters roared, and fires raged, and steel clashed. Distant sounds carried on the breeze. Klay waited for armed men or monsters to charge through the brush.
The rangers approached a blaze. The flyers had ignited trees with sorcery. Klay looked at patches of sky through the canopy, hoping for a lucky shot at one of the bone lords. Smoke drifted over them, and the brown haze scratched his eyes, leaving him hearing more than he saw.
Chobar stood and sniffed the air. Klay tracked his aim with the bear’s shifting nose. Chobar snorted, scratched at his nose, and smelled again.
“What is it?”
The bear snorted and sniffed. He swayed on his back paws. A breeze cleared the smoke, a brief sensation of fresh air and plants before more smoke hit. Chobar ran.
“Stop.”
The bear ignored him, running past Jorn. Klay chased after, waving to his friends and pointing at Chobar. The rangers whistled to one another. Chobar stopped at a massive tree, one of the oldest ones in Paltiel, a twenty-foot base with roots like a giant’s toes. Chobar leaned against the trunk. He snarled and pushed as though he could topple a mountain of bark.
“What is it?” Klay asked.
Klay saw the top had been burned, still smoking, and ashes had fallen all over the ground. He saw open sky and distant clouds, peaceful. There were no flyers, no targets.
“Chobar, come here.”
“What is it?” Broin asked. “What did he find?”
Klay said, “I don’t know.”
Chobar moaned as if it was obvious. Klay scanned his surroundings. The bear knew something was wrong, and Klay felt gooseflesh spreading across his neck. What was he missing? A calm settled over his hands. He could shoot in a blink and craved a target. What had the bear found? The other rangers took positions around the tree, but whatever had bothered Chobar did not disturb the other bears.
“There.” A ranger pointed, and ten bows aimed at the tree’s branches. “Black boots.”
Klay found him then. The Butcher, squatting on a branch like a cat. He had less armor and was covered in soot.
Tyrus raised empty hands. “Friends of yours?”
Klay asked, “What are you doing?”
“Watching the battle.”
Klay forced himself to relax. He waved to the other rangers, and they stopped aiming. Tyrus climbed down. Klay admired his ability to scurry down the thick branches in mail. Only someone with runes would have the strength to do that. Tyrus stopped about ten feet from the ground, locked in a staring contest with Chobar.
Klay said, “Easy, Chobar.”
“He doesn’t like me.”
“Probably wants a rematch.”
“Maybe later.”
Chobar growled at Tyrus. Klay called him off, provoking a snort. Chobar sulked to Klay’s side, and Tyrus jumped down.
“Is this all of you?” Tyrus asked.
“For now, yes.”
“Until when?”
“Could be hours. Could be days.”
Tyrus accepted that with a sigh.
“How goes the battle?” Klay asked.
“Three beasts headed northeast, following a flyer. More fighting, sounds like a new attack by the elves.”
Tyrus described the three monsters that treed him. He had a general’s eye for detail and analyzed the tactics of the elves. While he talked, the rangers gathered in smaller groups of two or three and whispered. A few did not conceal their hatred for Tyrus. Klay noticed that while Tyrus talked, his casual glances missed little. This could turn murderous.
“I’ll vouch for him,” Klay said.
“You’ll what?” Jorn asked.
“He fights the Roshan. I’m not sure why, but he does. And he had a chance to kill me and Chobar but didn’t. I’ll vouch for him until the battle is over.”
Klay regretted the condition as soon as he said it. He owed Tyrus more, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand beside the Butcher of Rosh, a poor attempt to save face.
Someone said, “He sacked Shinar.”
Others agreed.
Broin said, “We vote.”
Klay glanced at Tyrus. What would he do if they voted against him? He seemed puzzled.
“Can the condemned argue his case?” Tyrus asked.
Cold faces turned.
“I built their army. And I know their leaders. I can show you how to destroy them.”
“Why help us?”
“They want to kill a baby, and I won’t let them.”
“So the Butcher now kneels to the seraphim?” Jorn asked. “It’s a good story, saving a baby, I’ll grant you that, but I don’t like stories.”
“I don’t serve the seraphim.”
Tyrus seemed relaxed, but Klay remembered him like this right before he caught an arrow. No way he could dodge ten arrows, but he might kill a couple of Klay’s friends before he died.
“The seraphim want to save the child,” Tyrus said. “So do I. The Roshan would kill her. It is that simple.”
Accusations followed: the Butcher had killed Edan and King Lael and sacked Shinar. A few said he might be useful, but most thought he couldn’t be trusted. Klay knew the
rangers who spoke, even-tempered men and women who made good points. They should execute the Butcher. The world would be a better place. Everyone deferred to Broin, the senior ranger with rank to command, but he asked questions until the talking stilled.
Broin said, “We vote.”
Klay cleared his throat. “I ask you to trust me. We have common cause if nothing else.”
“Who wants to execute him?”
Five hands rose. Broin started to raise his hand, but Klay pleaded with him to wait, a silent moment between the two of them, eyes locked, and Broin did not vote.
“The rest want to save him?”
The few mutters of agreement were punctuated with hesitant “for now” and “we might all die anyway.”
“Well, that’s a tie,” Broin said. “I side with Klay, for now. If he survives, Dura can decide his fate. Any disagree?”
No one challenged Broin. Klay saw unhappy faces, but they stayed silent.
“This is how you make decisions?” Tyrus asked. “Voting?”
Klay said, “It is our way.”
“How do you get anything done?”
Broin said, “We are not an army. In teams of three or four, the best ideas save lives.”
“You wish to help the elves?” Tyrus asked, and everyone did, so he said, “The elves are wrong. They seek to destroy beasts. We need to leave the beasts alone and kill the masters. The beasts will rampage.”
Klay asked, “You want them to rampage?”
“They’ll kill Roshan.”
“How many can one lord control?”
“Two to three; depends on their size and the lord's skill. Lilith and Azmon can control dozens of them.”
“I thought the flyers controlled them?”
“No. Those are scouts. They might control one or two, but they must control their mounts too. The sorcerers on the ground are getting orders from the air. Kill their eyes and kill their masters, and the beasts will turn on the guardsmen.”
TODAY IS TOO LATE Page 21