“We should have never let you land your boats,” Klay said. “The nobles said they’d finish you after you broke against Jethlah’s Walls. No one thought it would be like this.”
“The age of castles is ending.”
“The age of what?”
“Nothing.”
Tyrus gestured for silence. His runes helped him hear the Roshan before they saw them. Klay used hand signals to keep the other rangers back. A bear moaned, and everyone winced. They lurked through the woods until they found a clearing filled with black armor and steel. Among the guardsmen and archers were lumbering hulks. Years in the field told Tyrus there might be a thousand men. He pitied Azmon. The emperor wanted to secure Shinar before he fought the elves and now wasted troops on a poorly planned invasion.
Tyrus noticed a makeshift field hospital where surgeons met a steady stream of wounded men. This was the rally point for the new troops. Given time, they would build a forward base, fortified with earthworks and fallen trees.
“What do we do now?” Klay asked.
“We need to get their leader’s attention. The woman, up there.”
“You said she never flies low.”
“She doesn’t, but she wants me to die. How far do you think the elves are?”
“I have no idea.”
Tyrus studied his men, and a mad idea flashed through his mind. It was less a plan than a stupid way to kill himself, but success might cripple this advance, distract Azmon, and buy Marah time. Still, if he died, who would help Ishma? Was she still alive? Considering all the stone and swords between him and the empress, did it matter? This army would tear him apart, and Azmon or the shedim would kill Ishma.
If he could relive the last week, he would have listened to the dream and ferreted Ishma out of her room. Even weak from childbirth, even risking her health, he would have dragged her from Shinar. She deserved better. He knew it, had known it for a long time, but did nothing to stop Azmon. Why hadn’t he done that? If he had, he might have saved both the mother and daughter.
“Ishma,” he whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Rather than despair, he set his anger free, and rage helped mask his fear. No sane person would walk into that clearing.
“Do you see those two in black robes? If they talk to me, do nothing. If they look at me funny, shoot. You need to drop them before they work their spells.”
“Right. No, wait. What do you mean, ‘talk to you’?”
“Stay here. Watch the big flyer.” Tyrus stood. “Kill her, and the battle is over.”
“What are you doing?”
Tyrus strode into the clearing. Not long after, a bone lord saw him, stumbled backward, pointed, and the shouting began. The soldiers waited on commands, but the black robes spun to each other and bone beasts flexed their claws. One of the lords sent two Wall breakers at Tyrus, but the beasts weren’t running, not yet.
Tyrus shouted, “What is the meaning of this, fools? Call them off. Your real enemy is behind me.”
Tyrus hoped they had control of their beasts. He saw five of them, more than enough to rip him apart. He needed only a moment more, and his voice carried a lifetime of command. He marched forward, angry and insulting as always. The bone lords leashed their monsters, and fate teased Tyrus. His plan might work. He should be dead.
“We have orders to kill you, Lord Marshal.”
“That wasn’t me. An impostor. Elvish sorcery. The elves stole the heir and forced us to kill each other.” Tyrus pointed behind him. “They will attack from the river. Set up a skirmish line here. Spears here. Swordsmen there and archers there. Now.”
“But—what?”
“Question me again, and I’ll flay you. I don’t care how powerful your house is. Who is in command?” Tyrus scowled at the confused Roshan. Murder played across his face, and his infamy went to work. “Who is giving you orders? What fool left your flank wide open?”
VI
Lilith coughed on brown smoke, her greatest advantage, a bird’s eye view, stolen by a forest fire. No point hovering over a battle if she could not see. The elves traded their trees to destroy her beasts. Scouts reported a large army with an organized attack and firetraps for beasts. They found tunnels leading from one part of the forest to another. Since when did elves dig tunnels? Lilith knew one thing. She needed a bigger army.
Tyrus had chased the heir into hardened defenses and veteran warriors. Her men blundered into the trap without thinking.
A glance east told her that more troops were marching into the woods. What was Azmon thinking, sending so few? An entire forest fought her, and the emperor sent light foot and a dozen beasts. At least he did not come in person. She could not return disgraced with no traitors and no heir and hundreds of dead soldiers. She pushed down doubts about her brothers, hostages, and the price of failure. Where had Tyrus taken the child?
Where?
Mount Teles pierced the clouds. She saw the elven city on one side with its white stone spires and glittering gold. If Tyrus found sanctuary in the city, he would be safe for years. The idea twisted her stomach in knots. More likely, he ran away. The elves would hate him more than they hated her, but he could not have engineered a better distraction. She had to admit he could be brilliant, fleeing close enough to the elves to provoke them. The man started a war to cover his tracks.
A scout flew to her. “Milady, the Lord Marshal is taking command of the ground forces.”
Lilith sputtered. “What?”
The scout pointed at a lone figure, standing outside the marshaling area. Lilith couldn’t believe her eyes. Beasts stood near him, guardsmen stood near him, and no one attacked. The bone lords stood there wringing their hands.
“Tell them to attack.”
“Milady, he says it was an elvish trick and they plan to attack. He wants skirmishers to protect the southern flank.”
Lilith hesitated. The elves were clever, and he was Azmon’s favorite. No. His own man had branded him a traitor. And if he was innocent, killing him opened a path of advancement. This was nothing but a stunt. Her handpicked servants had been fooled by a clever bluff, and she had a dozen things to say all at once. Bewilderment and anger warred within her.
“Idiots. Kill him.”
The scout looked unsure. Lilith pulled her flyer’s reins and flew toward Tyrus. She yelled commands. As her flyer dove and picked up speed, the roaring wind pulled the words out of her mouth. Her throat cracked and burned but she didn’t care as she screamed harder.
“Kill him!”
Klay listened as Tyrus gave away their strategy. His mouth dried. Had the Butcher played him for a fool? Tyrus told the Roshan exactly where the elves would strike from. He ordered them to send skirmishers to the riverbed.
What was he doing?
Klay nocked an arrow and aimed at the back of Tyrus’s neck. One thought stilled his shot. The damage had been done. Killing him now would not protect the rangers. He relaxed the bow. And Tyrus never mentioned the rangers. The Roshan seemed confused. They didn’t know what to do with Tyrus. The flyers had taken notice, but they did not come near the clearing.
Klay studied the trees. One was large enough with few branches for climbing but plenty of thick vines. If the flyers would not come to him, then he would go to them. He slunk toward the tree and climbed, hoping his green cloak hid him from the Roshan.
“The elves are coming from the riverbed.” Tyrus repeated himself, growing angrier each time. “We are wasting time. You need to pull in the eastern flank and reinforce the south.”
The lead bone lord stayed back. He exchanged furious whispers with another lord. The two waited on a signal from the sky.
Tyrus fought back a grin. The truth confused them more than any lie could. Why would he tell them where the attack came from? They worried about the other flanks more than the south but waited on the flyers for orders. He understood their situation. What if Lilith had li
ed to them? Would Azmon punish them for hurting the Lord Marshal? And that assumed the Damned could be hurt. With effort, he kept a stern, commanding face. Watching a bluff work made him feel young.
“Lord Marshal, we have orders. Drop your weapon. Surrender, and we’ll sort this out.”
“I don’t negotiate, boy. I am the Lord Marshal of Rosh.” Tyrus acted outraged. “We don’t have time for this nonsense. Orders change.”
Tyrus saw Lilith diving for him. His ears caught her furious cries: “Attack him, kill him, you idiots.” He tried to guess how long it would take before the lords heard. Would she be in range for an archer before they attacked? She charged straight at him. He fell into a fighting stance. The beasts became agitated, and the leader gasped.
Tyrus smiled and lunged.
Lilith raised her dagger, fiery orbs crackling in her hands. Tyrus attacked a beast, severing a knee and dodging a massive set of murderous claws. The lords shouted orders as Lilith’s hellfire exploded on the ground. She struck all around him, consuming men and beasts alike. A beast ran through a plume of fire, and its leathery skin blistered and boiled as it attacked.
The explosion shocked the soldiers as though Tyrus had summoned the fire himself. The beasts did not care, and he focused on avoiding their claws. Dancing with four of the monsters, he was faster, but only just. The men had open mouths. Their hesitation kept him alive as his legend fought beside him.
Klay strained against his bow, guessed at the wind, and waited—and waited some more—for the flyer to drop lower. He knew the wind would be different above the trees, and his odds of hitting something in flight were slim but improved with each passing second as the flyer dove to the ground.
He exhaled, waited for his heart to beat once, and released. The arrow leapt through the air, and Klay held his breath, but at the last moment, the flyer twisted, and his shot punched a hole in the wings.
He cursed himself—drew again—almost fumbled, aimed and released. The arrow darted toward the black wings.
The woman lurched in the saddle. She grabbed her front, and he expected her to fall. Had he hit her in the shoulder or the chest? She pulled on her reins. Black wings snapped open like a thunderclap. The thing had dived so steeply that it struggled to break its fall. Klay watched her skim the clearing, and then he saw Tyrus do the impossible.
Tyrus climbed the back of a beast and jumped. The entire area swarmed around him like angry wasps, and he launched above them all. His body cleared a field of blades. Arrows followed him. He caught the hind legs of the flying beast with one hand, and the other carried the sword.
“Sweet mercy, he jumped.”
Klay grabbed the tree to keep from falling. No one could jump so high. It must have been ten feet. Only big cats, big game, could do that. He steadied himself. Tyrus clung to the flyer’s claws.
Klay cursed himself for wasting time. He drew another arrow, aimed, but only sighted the flyer’s stomach. Any shot might hit Tyrus by mistake. The worry became irrelevant as the flyer climbed out of range.
If he had done his job, if he had landed his shot, she wouldn’t have had the strength to pull on those reins. He had lost the battle. In anger, he drew an arrow and sought black robes. The lords were easy to spot beside the soldiers, and he had picked one when a battle cry from the riverbed surprised him. Elves, a lot of elves, hundreds, stormed the clearing.
Klay saw his brothers and sisters running beside them, bears leading the charge. The bone lords looked stricken, and Klay smiled at their disbelief. The sight of the elves, or maybe knowing the Butcher told them the truth, broke their spirits.
VII
A sea of spears and shields rushed the clearing. Klay had never seen the elven army in full force before. The drilled perfection was unnatural. They maintained a perfect line as they charged. When they shouted a battle cry, in their musical language, they did so as one voice. The effect devastated.
A chorus of screams hit first, like a physical blow. A crash reverberated through the forest as shields and spears collided with beasts and guardsmen. The Roshan army looked crippled, paralyzed by the sound, dazed by the strike. The beasts became enraged. Without them, the fight would have been over. Instead, they bought time for the Roshan to regroup. The elves adjusted, knotting around the beasts to fight them with spears and fire. Klay realized the beasts felt no fear. Elven discipline did not impress them.
The beasts held a line, and Roshan rushed from the north. A series of smaller clashes sounded as guardsmen and sorcerers joined the fight. Hellfire exploded beside the blue flames of the elves. The surge of elves paused, and the front lines teemed with brutality. Warriors hacked and gutted one another.
Klay forced himself to breathe. He sighted a sorcerer’s black robes and released. The arrow jumped through the air and took the man in the face. Klay picked another, but before he released, a beast blocked his shot.
The battle lines shifted. The Roshan pulled back but did not run. They reformed. Klay could not find anything worthy of an arrow. In frustration, he shot a beast in the eye, proud to thread that needle. He saw a sorceress to kill, but she was out of range. A quick glance at the trees, and he spotted a better perch. He scurried over thick branches like a squirrel, leaping from one tree to the next. By the time he was ready to shoot, the sorceress was gone. He couldn’t find her but saw a lord directing three beasts. He sighted, released, and the arrow punched him in the gut.
When the lord fell, his beasts shredded everything near them, Roshan and elves alike. Klay thanked Tyrus for the advice. He drew an arrow and scanned the lines for more sorcerers, but the field shifted again and was filled with elves. The Roshan fled.
Klay climbed down. He fell the last eight feet and found Chobar waiting. He vaulted into the saddle and steered Chobar toward the center of the elven lines.
“Hold, boy.”
A flaming orb crackled overhead. Elves caught the explosion on their shields. Klay stood in his saddle, retracing the stream of smoke with an arrow until he found the owner. He shot, and the bone lord gestured with his staff. Klay’s arrow burst into ash. Klay snarled and set three arrows after the sorcerer. He drew and fired as fast as he could, and the lord burned them all. While the lord concentrated on Klay’s missiles, he didn’t see the elves overwhelming his line. A spear cut his legs, and another pierced his chest.
Klay smiled but caught bright light in his periphery. He had made the same mistake. Another fiery orb streaked toward him.
“Roll. Roll!”
Chobar dropped low and Klay dove. He intended to roll to his feet but crashed shoulder first into a dead swordsman. The man’s heavy armor smacked him like a shield, and he felt ribs crack. He had no luck at all, turned on his side, kept a hand near his face, as elves jumped over him, and realized he had lost his bow. Pain lanced his side; a rib was broken. His chest burned whenever he breathed. Chobar stood over him.
“The black robes. Kill them,” Klay said. “Go. Kill.”
Chobar raised a bushy eyebrow and ignored him. Chobar shouldered elves away from Klay and snarled at the ones that came too close.
“Go. Kill them. Help the elves.”
Chobar snorted. Klay shook his head. He looked for his bow but didn’t see it. He must have flung it when he smashed into the ground. The chaos grew. The Roshan seemed to retreat, but the sounds of battle continued. They tried to use a dense thicket of trees as cover. Klay doubted if they understand how elves thrived in these woods.
“Help me up.”
Chobar dropped down for Klay to get back in the saddle. He drew his sword and leaned low on Chobar’s shoulders.
“Charge.”
The bear peeked over his shoulder.
“Yes, I’m sure. Charge.”
Chobar surged forward. Klay used his cloak to protect his face. He listened to clashing steel, screams of pain, and crackling fire. The world roared as it burned.
VIII
&nb
sp; Tyrus clung to the flyer’s foot as the ground pulled farther and farther away. Wind howled in his ears. His eyes watered. A world of mountains and trees and armies faded away. The blue sky, quiet and cold, became everything—so much blue, an empty space, vast and unwelcoming. The forest below resembled a green stain, massive oaks reduced to bushes.
He resisted an urge to drop his sword and held the flyer with one hand, fearing he might slip, but he needed the sword. He thought of his knife, long gone, and was certain that he only had one blade. Although he wanted to ignore the ground, he looked down again. He had never flown before, hated the beasts, but the view amazed him. Empires were such tiny things. Aside from smoke and fires, he could not see the armies slaughtering each other.
Another stupid death—of all the risks he had taken in a long career, this one felt the most foolish: to drop from the sky like bird shit. Accomplishing what? Killing Lilith delayed the inevitable. Another hunter would replace her; dozens of them hungered to serve Azmon. At best, he bought a delay for Ishma and Marah and Einin, which meant he had turned himself into a worthless distraction.
Tyrus snarled. He was not dead yet. He could force Lilith to land, and maybe if he walked again, he could help the others, but first things first.
The flyer’s claw resembled a giant chicken’s foot, only black and bony. Tyrus tightened his grasp and felt the bones crack. His strength worked against him. He swung his legs up to hook a foot and climb. The beast trumpeted complaints. The other talon scratched at him, cutting his thigh. It tried to rake him again, and he swung his sword. Two claws tumbled through the air. The flyer moaned and shook.
Tyrus reversed his sword as though it were a dagger for stabbing and plunged it into the flyer’s leg. The beast shuddered and kicked, but Tyrus refused to be knocked off. He pulled himself up and stabbed again. His boots found the leg. He scrambled up the flyer’s side.
“Steady.” Lilith cursed. “Take us to the plains.”
TODAY IS TOO LATE Page 23