TODAY IS TOO LATE

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “I understand, but I’m not the Lord Marshal anymore.”

  Einin asked, “What will you do?”

  “I’m pledged to Dura and Marah now.”

  Tyrus realized he had nothing to do. As Lord Marshal, he had spent his days working with Elmar to manage the army. Now, he had no orders to write, no egos to massage, no errands to do, and he lacked champions to mentor and train. Had Elmar survived Tyrus’s treason? Who would replace him and Lilith, and how would his officers and clerks fare? He would never know and felt obliged to mourn his men.

  “They will want you to fight for them,” Einin said, “against the emperor. Can you fight him?”

  “I can.”

  For as long as he could remember, men asked him to fight other men because he had a talent for killing. Dura seemed less ambitious than Azmon, but he noted the way she listened to him without leering. She had plans. He knew her kind and sensed the sorceress planting seeds.

  Dura wasted no time. Tyrus spent hours sitting on a stool, half dressed, while she sketched his runes and asked questions. He knew little about etching but described what runes he had acquired last and how they had changed his fighting abilities. Dura filled parchment with drawings and notes until her hands cramped. When she took a break for tea, Tyrus walked outside for fresh air.

  After his stay in the dungeon, he enjoyed the howling wind, but it sparked memories of falling through the air. He remembered his face striking a tree branch. Heights bothered him now and never had before—too many bad memories. Approaching the ramparts and looking down took effort, but he forced himself to confront the fear. His nose caught the smells of the mountains, clean water, and greenness, and his ears burned from the wind. The top of the world was a lonely place.

  The tower door opened and closed. Klay walked to him, and Tyrus smelled Chobar’s hair on his green cloak. They said little. Tyrus wondered what else had happened while he was delirious with fevers. Einin and Klay seemed to have bonded.

  “The two of you have grown close.”

  “The Gadarans will never accept her. I understand being an outsider. I’d wager you do as well.”

  Tyrus lost himself in thought. He had begun his career as a famous champion and fallen out of favor with the court over time. Only Azmon, who turned him into the Damned, had been comfortable in his presence. Everyone else became more fearful with each new rune or conquest. Einin would have the opposite experience in Ironwall, beginning as an untouchable and trying to earn her place. Tyrus realized they had that much in common. At that moment, he was more hated than she.

  “How much do you remember from when you were hurt?”

  “Not much,” Tyrus said. “Pain is hard to remember.”

  “I understand why they call you the Damned,” Klay said. “The wounds you had would drive a man insane. I couldn’t do it.”

  Klay touched his shoulder. Not a comforting pat, but a probe as if he didn’t believe his own eyes. Tyrus hated this part. Once again, he became less than a man, and nothing he said would make it better. Tyrus closed his eyes, listening to the wind. It brought back nightmares of falling from the sky, images he struggled to ignore.

  “You truly met the Father of Lies? That wasn’t a fever dream?”

  “On this world, I was his third in command.”

  Klay looked stricken. “But why serve him?”

  “Azmon kept it secret for many years. By the time I learned of it, we needed his protection. The Five Nations threatened to destroy Rosh. He taught Azmon the secrets of the bone beasts, and we survived.”

  “I think I’d rather die.”

  “That’s because you haven’t thought it through.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where do you think you go when you die? If you serve him in this life, you don’t end up in the Seven Heavens.”

  “But to choose them?”

  “When Azmon learns their secrets, he will fight back. He kept saying it would be soon, another year, another city, another library. An ancient scroll or relic would help him unlock more power. He’s been planning it for decades.” Tyrus tried to remember how long Azmon had been making that promise. At least fifteen years. “No one wants to serve the shedim.”

  “You believed him?”

  “He believes it. That was enough for me.”

  They were silent for a time. Tyrus grew more comfortable with the great height, but the idea of falling from the tower, of surviving after all his bones smashed on the rocks, made him shudder. He couldn’t do it again. Like other Etched Men, that would be the thing to drive him mad.

  “They won’t let Marah go, will they?” Klay asked.

  “They’re coming. Ironwall will burn.”

  “You said they want Teles.”

  “They do. Whether Ironwall burns first or after doesn’t matter. They will come.”

  Tyrus dwelled on all the other people Azmon fooled, an entire continent conquered and handed over to the shedim. His greatest regret was delivering Ishma to Rosh. If he could do that over, convince Azmon not to marry her, then most of this could have been avoided. No need to kill his own men and guard her daughter. He would have had time to plan a better escape, and maybe they might have run away together. The daydream had numerous holes. The marriage wouldn’t have stopped the Five Nations from rising against Rosh, nor would it have stopped Mulciber from promising Azmon immortality. But he preferred to imagine Ishma unmarried.

  He had failed as a guardian. Saving Marah had been no small feat, but Tyrus could not enjoy Dura’s hospitality while Ishma suffered in Rosh. He wished he could find out if she was alive. The thought of her chained in a cell infuriated him.

  Klay asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “I need to go back to Shinar, for Ishma.”

  “We have women here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You need to get yourself a girl,” Klay said. “Doesn’t have to be pretty, and I know a few that might ignore the whole ‘Butcher of Rosh’ thing.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Just a joke.” Klay looked east. “Is she worth it?”

  “She is my ward. I’m meant to die first.”

  “Rescuing the child was no small thing,” Klay said. “Rosh has killed so many of the Reborn. Haven’t you done enough? Do the seraphim want you to protect the empress too?”

  Tyrus thought on it. All of this began with a blue star and a dream. The seraphim wanted to save Marah from Rosh, and he had done that, but they never mentioned Azmon or Ishma or the elves. His task accomplished, Marah safe in Dura’s care, Tyrus thought of the thousands of Roshan warriors slaughtered in the woods. He had betrayed a lifetime of service, helped kill his own countrymen, all so the seraphim could protect a cripple. What was he supposed to do now?

  “They never mentioned Ishma.”

  “I think that’s your answer,” Klay said. “The daughter is more important to them. Maybe you are meant to guard her.”

  “It’s not right. Ishma gave up everything for Marah.”

  They grew quiet, watching the horizon.

  “Going back into shedim lands,” Klay said, “against all those beasts, and Emperor Azmon, some might call it a death wish, an old warrior who can’t put down the sword.”

  “I don’t age anymore.”

  “You know what I mean. You can start a new life here.”

  Tyrus considered it. With her poor eyes, Marah would need more help than a normal child. He could stay at her side, let Dura study his runes, and maybe train the new Etched Men of Ironwall. It was a safe life, made safer by the protection of the seraphim. The cozy idea felt too good to be true. Azmon had only begun to conquer this continent.

  “Maybe you are right,” Tyrus said.

  He kept his doubts to himself. Klay leaned against the ramparts, but Tyrus stayed back, unable to look over them again. In the distance, across the plains, Moun
t Teles peeked out of the clouds, and Tyrus knew somewhere near its apex stood the White Gate. Azmon would march on it, the elves would defend, and a new war would begin. Maybe his place was at Marah’s side, as Klay suggested. Maybe his destiny was to protect a child while others fought another war. Old oaths dogged him, though, and he worried about Ishma.

  He imagined her wrapped in a green robe, locked in a tower, awaiting the axman. She suffered alone, forgotten. Azmon would be cautious, keeping her hidden away lest her death be used as an excuse for the Narborans to rebel. A bitter irony: her people hated her, but to fight Azmon, they would turn Ishma into a martyr. Her execution could spark another civil war, and the ambitious royal Houses might feed that fire to unseat Azmon.

  Tyrus said nothing. The shedim might have already punished Ishma or ordered Azmon to, and the idea of rescuing her was absurd, impossible, a task for another day, but Tyrus had to know if she lived. Even if he angered the seraphim, he had to go back.

  III

  Emperor Azmon wore black robes and marched beside himself. One of Lilith’s brothers, Tochen, wore the white robes of the emperor and acted as a decoy. A handful of bone lords flanked the false emperor as they marched into Paltiel. Beasts and champions scouted ahead. The woods had been ravaged. Broken branches, piles of leaves, random scorch marks, and smoldering husks of trees: all of it gave off an odor Azmon failed to place. Something smelled like burnt excrement. Maybe it was the elven oil. He had to learn the secret of that stuff because his beasts burned too easily.

  “How much farther to the forward position?” Tochen asked.

  “Not far.” A soldier pointed. “We held a clearing over there for most of the day until they flanked us and our lines broke, Your Excellency.”

  Azmon’s decoy flinched at branches blowing in the wind. He dripped sweat and would not stop fiddling with his hands. An elven archer would take a shot soon. Everyone waited. Azmon felt naked without Tyrus, having spent most of his life in the shadow of the giant, his greatest creation, the undying warrior who had been loyal to him even though he loved the empress. Why had his daughter changed everything? The champions beside him now might be Etched Men, but compared to Tyrus, they moved like pig farmers.

  They found the clearing, nothing but black ground and piles of bodies. No elves. They must have already taken their dead. The Roshan bodies had not been stripped of their armor or weapons, and that insulted Azmon. This was some of the best equipment ever fashioned, most of it forged with Kaldoan Steel from the Burning Isles at lavish expense, but not good enough for the elves. So be it, he decided. The salvage would be put to good use.

  “There.” He pointed at a crashed flyer. “Another one.”

  The group made for the wreckage. Beasts fanned out, and soldiers surrounded the site. The sorcerers picked through the remains. They had found two other crashed flyers, but the elves had burned them. This one had been burned as well but was much larger, and bits of it remained.

  He saw it first, a bluish arm. He called to the champions, and after some digging, they freed what remained of Lilith’s corpse. The upper body was mostly intact, but the lower portion had been burned with the mount. Tochen whimpered at the sight, and Azmon squeezed his arm. The fool had watering eyes and a quivering jaw.

  “We should return to the plains, Your Excellency,” Azmon said.

  “Yes, we should. Bring her.”

  Soldiers wrapped the body in white sheets, and a bone beast carried it on one shoulder. They retreated from the woods, each step feeling closer to safety. Azmon didn’t think his gambit fooled the elves, but it offered a much more attractive target. He hoped they would attack the decoy first.

  They didn’t let Azmon down.

  When they neared the plains an arrow hit Tochen at the base of his skull. He pitched forward. The beasts reacted with bellows and pointless attacks at neighboring trees. The soldiers rushed shields to Azmon and the other bone lords. Before they reached them, another lord took an arrow in the chest. A third arrow flew for Azmon, but he knew where they came from now and used his sorcery to knock it aside.

  He waited. The attack seemed like the work of one archer. No hail of arrows answered. No war cry from thousands of elves. No great battle. Azmon exhaled. At his feet, his decoy was already dead. He grinned at the blood staining his white robes. The thrill of cheating death had been worth the effort to retrieve Lilith’s body. Perhaps this was the secret to eternity—disease and old age would never kill him, but taunting disaster made him feel young.

  The army worked to fortify a new base built on the fields outside Paltiel. Timber palisades surrounded the camp, the wooden spikes still bright white and new, and a pit had been dug, like a moat around the wall, filled with stakes. There were two gates, facing Paltiel and away, also made of wood. Azmon led his soldiers over the ramps.

  The camp buzzed with activity. He had split the army in two, using half of it to secure Shinar and the other half to prepare an invasion of Paltiel. Messengers waited by his tent, and Azmon ignored them.

  “Bring the body.”

  Two soldiers took the wrapped body from the beast and brought it into the tent. Azmon gestured at a table, and the body was gently placed. The clerks had all knelt before him. Azmon gestured for them to rise and cast about the tent for their leader.

  “Where is Elmar?”

  “Seeing to the stores, Your Excellency.”

  “Summon him.”

  Azmon allowed the men to change his soiled robes and boots. He was dressed in the royal white again. In the center of the tent, he sat on his throne, a smaller chair than the one in Shinar and much more comfortable. Someone gave him a cup of wine, and he sipped it as he waited for Elmar. The bald clerk entered the tent and bowed. Azmon gestured for him to rise. He was tired of the bowing and titles. They had a war to fight.

  “Report.”

  “The camp is ready, Excellency. The last of the troops report as we speak. We have two weeks of stores, and the last of the smiths have arrived.”

  “The elves left our dead fully armed. I want to salvage the equipment, but the teams will need guards.”

  “As you wish, Your Excellency.”

  “How many beasts have the bone lords raised?”

  “Thirty new beasts, Your Excellency.”

  “How many wall breakers?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “We need more. Many more.”

  “Of course, Your Excellency.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Word from Sornum and Rosh.”

  Azmon listened to reports of unrest. Narbor neglected their taxes, and the Marshfen Orcs had raided again. He cursed the filthy orcs. They bred like rabbits, reached full size in less than nine years, and were almost impossible to exterminate. He felt most of the problems with the orcs came down to their youthful aggression. Elmar listed settlements that had been attacked or lost and the lords who begged for help.

  “What do we have in Rosh?”

  “Two thousand lancers and a thousand archers.”

  “And how long has it been since the message was sent?”

  “Over two months, Your Excellency.”

  The larger his empire became, the more difficult it was to govern. A simple message could arrive weeks after an event, and many rebellions were left in his wake. He pressed too far too soon, overextended himself. Tyrus had argued against it all the way, predicting the problems. Azmon clenched his teeth. He needed his Lord Marshal. Dura and the elves would execute him as an abomination, but there was a small consolation. He was certain torture would not work on Tyrus, and his secrets would die with him. The man had enough talent to avoid the enemy, but the odds of surviving Paltiel were slim.

  “I want five of the largest flyers provisioned for a flight over the ocean. I’ll select their riders later.”

  “As you wish, Your Excellency.”

  “Bring me an offering.”

 
Elmar paled. He gathered his clerks and shuffled them out of the tent. He returned a few moments later with a bleating goat.

  Azmon dismissed him and moved to the table. He unwrapped Lilith’s corpse and cleared a space on the floor. He drew the Runes of Dusk and Dawn around the body, careful of the matrix and adjusting for the age of the body. Azmon pulled the goat to him, drew his knife, and started the ritual. As he spoke the language of God, a sense of dread crawled up his neck. To use the divine words as he did was one of the blackest blasphemies, and after all these years, it still disturbed him. The goat did not like the ritual either, trembling until Azmon’s knife, which could split a hair, cut the goat’s neck in one smooth motion.

  Blood poured over the runes.

  “Mulciber, hear my call.”

  A sixth sense filled his vision, a place of shadows and flame and drifting ghosts. He found Lilith, a tendril of her connected to her body still. He reached out with his mind and pulled on the thread, dragged her unwilling soul from Pandemonium back into the world of mortals. The body twitched. Reddish light crept into her black eyes, and a silent scream of horror twisted her features.

  “You failed, Lilith.” He raised a finger to her blue lips. “Shush, the pain is only temporary. Pandemonium does not give up its prizes easily.”

  “No.” She rasped the word, turning it into a wail. “No.”

  “Hush. The pain will pass.”

  Azmon smiled at his success. This talent for communing with the dead had begun everything. His talent had drawn the attention of the other worlds, and while he regretted pledging to serve the demons, they taught him things no mortal had ever known. First he spoke to the dead, then he raised them, and finally he sculpted them into weapons of war. No other sorcerer, not even Dura, had achieved such mastery over life and death.

  “Where is Tyrus?”

  Lilith shared her last moments, and like most of the recent dead, she fixated on them. He pressed for more details, but all she described was Tyrus cutting her throat. Her last act was one of hatred, destroying her mount to kill them both. That Tyrus had bothered to cut her throat had offended her.