TODAY IS TOO LATE (13 page)

Einin held her breath. She didn’t blink.

Tyrus punched a dog in the face hard enough to snap its neck, sidestepped one, and caught the other. He twisted with the animal, and the snarling thing flew through the air and knocked a man over. The last beast circled, he pivoted, and his sword rose and fell as though he were splitting wood. The blade hacked open the black leathery back. The beast howled and clawed at the ground. Tyrus swung wildly, a large circle, and his men jumped back to avoid it.

The beast he had thrown did not stay down; it kicked and flopped until it regained its feet and charged. It leapt, teeth bared for Tyrus’s throat, but his sword knocked it down. He split its skull. Guardsmen charged.

A man howled in pain, and another, and another. Things happened too quickly to watch. None of these men were normal, Einin realized; all of them had runes and were far more powerful than most warriors.

A sword pierced Tyrus’s stomach. He snarled and dropped his weapon. His large hands fell on the guardsman who stabbed him, twisting an arm until it broke, and the man screamed. Then Tyrus wrenched the man’s neck. He shoved the body aside and pulled the sword from his stomach while two guardsmen watched. He gripped the blade, covered in blood, and glared murder.

Einin gasped, her first breath since the beasts attacked.

The survivors backed away. The lord fled. Tyrus held the sword, waiting, blood pouring from his armor, joints leaking red down a shoulder, one hip, and his front. There was so much blood that Einin thought he’d die from his wounds.

Nine of his men down, wounded and dying at his feet, but pain blurred his vision. Yellow afterimages, starbursts, clouded his mind, and his stomach heaved each time he took a step. The pain seared him. One leg, useless, his left arm hanging at his side while two of his men waited. Their mystified faces angered him.
Yes
, he wanted to tell them,
serve the emperor long enough and you will share my fate. He will give you runes you don’t even want
.

He glared his best don’t-even-think-about-it scowl as he fought his own body. Legs threatened to collapse, and mind wanted to pass out, but the wretched runes kept him going. If he stood in one spot, he felt stable, but there was no way to fight two men without footwork.

The men were slick faced, red cheeked, and breathing hard. The most junior and weak, they had a talent for taking runes but lacked experience; Nevid would have charged by now. They might still kill him, Tyrus warned himself, and he had no strength to stop them.

“Why, Lord Marshal?”

“What will we tell the emperor?”

They wanted answers. That gave him a few seconds and each one counted, buying his runes a little more time to work. At least Biral was a weak lord only capable of making small monsters. Had Tyrus brought Lilith with him, she would have burned him to a cinder. The men waited for an explanation, but more than answers, they had to voice their disbelief. After serving in an army filled with monsters, they still found him shocking.

Tyrus squinted, measuring the distance.

The speaker, Rogi, a young guardsman, new to his runes but able to bear more etchings than other men, someone Tyrus had planned to mentor and groom for leadership—a position that Azmon had given to one of his sorcerers—well, Tyrus regretted the knife as he threw it.

The blade took Rogi in the mouth. He clawed at it, choking, as he spiraled to the ground. His screams became sputtering gurgles.

The other man, Tamar, gaped. Tyrus should lecture him, train him further—
if you have to kill a man, just kill him; don’t talk. Words won’t make it easier.
Tamar backed away, angling for a tree as if Tyrus carried more than one knife. And in a moment of inspiration, all the dead men at his feet, he had plenty of knives.

Tyrus lurched forward, intent on stopping Tamar. The longer it took Azmon to learn of the betrayal, the longer he had to run. But his leg buckled. He stumbled. Yellow lights burst in his vision, and his stomach churned as though he were seasick. He cursed, maybe screamed, didn’t care. He fought on, found his feet, blinked away the pain, but Tamar was gone.

Tyrus turned, taking in the scene. Biral had fled with the last guardsman. If he fell down, the survivors might recover before he did. He couldn’t let their runes heal them first. He finished off the wounded with a sword. He had to pull back helms to cut their throats, and a few begged as he did the dark work, their faces filled with outrage. Tyrus understood. Champions enjoyed more certainty than most warriors and often survived wounds that killed lesser men. Their mortality felt a little more secure. Tyrus offered no comfort as he killed them. The work had to be done because he had no interest in fighting them again.

He must run, but struggled to move. He knelt, only a moment, to ease the pressure on his leg, but he crashed onto his side. His armor dug into his stomach, pushing on the wound. With a groan, he rolled onto his back.

A few hours, maybe days, maybe weeks, hard to say, and his body would heal itself. Although the healing would torture him, Etched Men could survive a stomach wound, but most killed themselves to stop the agony. Stomach wounds were always the worst. The pain drove men mad. He could feel the fever growing, but he didn’t pass out. The damned runes wouldn’t let him.

“Are you going to die?”

Tyrus squinted. Einin hovered nearby.

He asked, “The princess?”

“In the cave.”

“Are the beasts dead?”

“I think so. Three of them. I’m not sure, but they stopped moving.”

“Their eyes?”

“Black.”

He had killed them then. He remembered, but the chaos of the fight, the pounding adrenaline, made everything a blur.

“Help me get this armor off.”

“How?”

He showed her straps and described the others. Damaged ring mail tore at his wounds. At least one plate on his arm had dented inward, cutting off circulation. His hand was numb. Runes made his bones hard to break and would heal him, but he needed to help his body as much as possible. He needed water, meat, and rest.

He told Einin what to take from the soldiers’ packs, and ignoring her protests, he ordered her to salvage what armor she could from the dead men who were close to his size. Nevid’s armor should fit him—poor, loyal Nevid.

“They’re too heavy to lift. I can’t get it off.”

“Keep trying. I’ll be better soon.”

“What will we do?”

“I need time to recover and think.”

Einin stripped Nevid’s armor. Her small frame struggled with the bulk and weight. It took too long, but she worked through her revulsion of the corpse and salvaged the pieces he needed. Tyrus listened to her pause and retch a few times. He gave her time to do her work, and told her how to bundle the plates, strap them together, and toss the pack over a horse. She took a break. Tyrus tested his stomach with a sit-up. His shoulders left the ground before the pain pushed him down.

If Rogi or Tamar had mastered his fear, he would be dead. What a blissful thought, to finally be done with these runes. Why had his men hesitated? Watching him kill everyone had broken their resolve, but they should know better. His reputation cheated death for him.

He noticed the clouds, white fluffy things drifting between all the leaves. Lying on the ground, he could pretend the bodies weren’t there although some had already voided their bowels. The smell made them hard to ignore, but the sky seemed peaceful, not something he would normally notice. Strange, how cheating death made him aware of little things like a nice afternoon.

Einin struggled with the realization that she had never seen Tyrus without armor. She knelt before him, nodding as Tyrus explained the plates and the mesh and the way they were buckled together. It couldn’t be right, but the more she tried to recall, the more she realized he was always the man in steel beside the emperor’s white robes.

She hesitated, amazed at the gore on him. The stains were more than blood; hacked pieces of meat—pieces of people, she realized—stuck to him everywhere. She fought off vomiting and was glad for the first time that she hadn’t eaten much since she left the empress.

The neck guard had hooks on the side, as did the chest plate. Leather straps held the shoulder plates to the chest plate. Tyrus had to lift one shoulder to give her access to the buckles, and he groaned and punched the ground. His strength, the way the ground shook, made Einin freeze. His runes gave him such strength that she felt as though she helped a bear in a trap. She feared one of his punches might hit her by mistake.

“Hurry.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

They repeated the work to clear the second shoulder. More blood and gore beneath the layers of plate, it worked its way into everything. The ring mail had torn near Tyrus’s belt. The wound, a dark-red rent in the armor and flesh, looked fatal. That Tyrus had not blacked out amazed her. The shirt had to come over his head, which required him to lift his shoulders a few times. By the end, he looked feverish and clammy and breathed like he had been sprinting.

The last layer, cloth padding, fit like a shirt. She pulled at it, to take it over his head when his hand grabbed her arm.

Einin said, “You’re hurting me.”

“Get a knife.” He let go. “Cut it off.”

Einin looked at the dead men. She hated taking things from them. They looked so broken and pathetic, to take their possessions felt like spitting in their faces. A strange idea—they had no more use for them—but it felt wrong nonetheless. She remembered her own knife, secreted in her robe, and it spared her from seeing more of the dead men, their eyes open, horrified.

The padding came off with ease. What was beneath it made her gasp. He was powerfully built, an ox of a man, but he had so many runes, geometric lines interlocked in crazy patterns, that his flesh looked more black than pink. The color was odd too, a muddy green rather than a true black. Her hand traced one rune without thinking, and Tyrus lifted his head to look.

He asked, “What is wrong?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”

“Is there a wound there? I can’t feel it.”

“No. I just, I mean, you have so many.”

“Scars?”

“Runes.”

“Oh, those.” His head flopped back.

Nobles who could afford the inks had a few, two or three, sometimes four. Most were minor things, vanity runes, for health and looks. The women of the court fell into different groups, some displaying multiple runes as a sign of wealth, usually across the shoulders, chest, and neck, like a pearl necklace, while others took great pains to hide theirs, having etchings on their abdomens, lower backs, and legs. The latter women appeared perfect in their gowns, long milk-white necks and enviable wrinkle-free faces.

Einin had only one rune, which made her taller, like Ishma, etched above her navel, forever covered by silk gowns. If the empress had taken runes on her chest and shoulders, Einin would have as well, but she preferred the purity look.

Einin asked, “How many do you have?”

“I’ve lost count.”

“How is that possible?”

He lay gasping. His eyes squeezed shut and rolled in their sockets, an uncanny resemblance to the empress giving birth. She had so many questions, but fear of angering the Damned kept her silent. He glanced at her as if he was confused by her or her question.

“After a hundred, the novelty wears thin.”

“A hundred?”

“Check on the princess. I’m fine now. Need time to recover.”

At the mention of Marah, she stood. She found the bundle, and the child’s milk-white eyes blinked at her, unfocused and confused, but Einin wanted to believe the child looked at her.

She attempted another feeding and didn’t think much of this wet nurse thing. The empress had assured her she would produce milk, but nothing happened. She lowered the shoulder of her gown, pulled down the underlayers, and the baby found the nipple. Not long after, the child fussed. Still no milk.

“I know, little princess. I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

She tried to soothe the child, to rock it, as she watched the Damned lie on the ground. Over one hundred runes—she had never heard of anyone with more than twenty. His runes were worth more than all of her family’s lands. Rumors in the court said Lael had more than a dozen, scores, but no one had believed them until he fought in the arena, and with all those runes he had still died.

She glanced through the woods, eastward, toward the smoke of Shinar. Were they going to sit here, waiting on runes? Well, what choice did she have? She could abandon him, but they would find her again. Maybe Tyrus would distract them for a bit. The man had taken horrible wounds for her, compelling her to help him, but her first concern was Marah.

She tried to tell herself that a few times, the idea that she served the more noble purpose of defending the princess, but if she were honest, the need to abandon him was far more basic. She feared him. The images of him killing all those men, just like a bone beast raging through enemy lines. No one could stop him, and for too long, he had stood beside the Prince of the Dawn in his black armor, enforcing the laws of the land. The nobles at court whispered dozens of stories about him defeating champions from other kingdoms, armies, and cities. Not good stories, like the heroes of old, but brutal stories of an inhuman warrior breaking lesser men. She watched him resting in a clearing filled with corpses. The sight made her shudder.