TODAY IS TOO LATE (18 page)

“Easy, Chobar. I need you to lie down.” The ranger peered around Chobar’s flank. “Lie down, Chobar. Lie down.”

Tyrus pulled his knife, tossed it, caught it by the blade. He wanted the ranger to see it, to understand. The ranger reacted with a shot, missed, and drew another arrow.

“Do you hear the baby?” Tyrus asked.

“I hear it.”

“We need milk. You can help us or you can die.”

“I won’t be tricked by your lies.”

“Those cries are real. The child bears a birth rune, and I’m too tired for any more nonsense. We fight again, you die. Simple as that.”

“You have no army here, Butcher. No monsters to protect you this time.”

“I don’t need them, and you know it. I spared the bear twice. There won’t be a third.”

The ranger backed away. The bear sat down and snorted, and Tyrus stepped away from it. The ranger eased the tension on his draw.

“Drop the knife.”

“Drop the bow.”

“You want help, so you go first. I won’t disarm for the Butcher of Rosh.”

Tyrus wondered if he had the reserves to dodge another arrow. The bear had exhausted him, and his stomach bled. His hand burned as if it were blistered. He needed sleep and a shoulder of beef. Time and food and he could recover, but no one let him rest. The ranger held his hands close together, arrow nocked. Tyrus imagined another stupid death, unarmed, arrow to the face, but he dropped the knife anyway.

“All right,” the ranger said. “What is going on?”

Tyrus did not like talking. He would not waste a moment to catch his breath. He hesitated, buying as much time as possible, and knew he was too weak to dodge another arrow.

“We need to find the child a home, away from Rosh.”

“It really has a birth rune?”

Tyrus nodded.

“But you kill the Reborn.”

“The bone lords do, yes. We run from them.”

“The Butcher is playing wet nurse? Whose child is it?”

“That is not important.”

“I want to know.”

“She is a child of one of the nobles, an old friend of mine.”

“Bastard, huh? Guess your kind don’t take too well to them?”

Einin sounded offended. “This child is no bastard.”

“Let me see the rune.”

The ranger kept his bow pointed at Tyrus as he angled over to Einin. She opened the wrappings.

“A birth rune, but look at her eyes.” The ranger whistled. “Never heard of a crippled Reborn before.”

“We don’t have much time,” Tyrus said. “They’ll send the flyers after us.”

“Not a lot of good in Paltiel. We’ve dealt with your scouts before.”

“These will be more than scouts. They will be the emperor’s best sorcerers.”

“The child is that important?”

Tyrus nodded. The less he shared, the better. The moon shone over the stream, a thin sliver of white in a cloudy sky dominated by the blue star. He wished the star would fade away. The extra light exposed them.

“You can’t feed your baby?”

“I cannot,” Einin said. “No.”

The ranger relaxed a little. He was close to putting away his bow but reluctant. “Finding milk is going to be a problem. How long since it last ate?”

“Almost two days.”

“Will broth work?”

Tyrus studied the treetops. “We shouldn’t risk a fire. It will draw the flyers.”

Einin said, “She must eat. What choice do we have?”

The ranger pulled back his hood. Younger than he sounded, brown hair, brown eyes, and a week’s worth of stubble. A crooked nose gave the ranger’s face a slanted appearance. He and Einin appeared like kids compared to Tyrus and all his scars.

“I am Klay of Ironwall. You’ve met Chobar. What may I call you?”

“I’m Einin Gamul of Narbor, and this is Marah… of Narbor. You’ve met Tyrus.”

“Yes.” Klay smiled. “Strange days. Shall I call you Lord Marshal?”

“Tyrus will do.” Tyrus spotted his sword in the grass and wondered if he should risk their truce. “How far to help? An outpost or a village or a lumber camp?”

“You’re not halfway through Paltiel. The elves don’t let us clear the woods for settlements. Weeks of hard riding, at the very least, maybe more; the terrain is more difficult than the distance. Normally, I’d say the elves were your best option but—” He let the thought hang in the air with an indifferent shrug.

Tyrus asked, “What are the odds we’ll make it through Paltiel?”

Klay laughed. “I’m surprised you made it this far. The Seven Heavens must pity you.”

At that, Einin began to talk, and Tyrus shushed her. Klay noticed but said nothing as Tyrus pulled Einin toward the horses. She tried to talk again, but he squeezed her shoulder. Who knew what runes Klay had? He might hear better than Tyrus. He hoped Einin understood, and thankfully she stayed quiet, rocking Marah.

Four of the horses had broken free. The rest wanted to bolt but were tied down. Tyrus regretted the small fortune in horseflesh running through the woods: prized chargers, the pinnacle of Roshan breeding, and no time to track them. He calmed the ones that remained, which wanted nothing to do with a bear. Amidst snorts and nervous whinnies, terrified eyes and ears, Tyrus patted their necks and retied their reins. Klay inspected Chobar’s head and sent him downwind. The horses relaxed a little.

Klay said, “We should camp here. Wait for more light.”

“Too exposed. The flyers will spot us near the stream.”

“I know a better place, not far. Shouldn’t cross the stream in the dark, though.”

“We must risk it.”

They crossed at a snail’s pace. At no point did the dark water rise above Einin’s hips, but Tyrus feared the blackness would swallow her and the heir. He stayed by her side, holding her shoulders, waiting to save her from the stream. Klay led the horses. Upstream, the bear crossed much faster.

Einin asked, “Your Chobar can be left unattended?”

“His name is Chobar, and he knows his job. He’ll try not to spook your mounts.”

“I’m so cold.”

“We can make a fire when we get there. Help you dry off.”

On the other side, they mounted. Klay led, and Tyrus stayed between him and Einin. Tyrus heard the bear, a rustle of armor, distant, shadowing them. The horses relaxed, until the breeze shifted and they scented the bear again. Tyrus watched Einin, fearful of a startled horse throwing little Marah to the ground, but Einin held her close, focused on her saddle.

“Where are the elves?” Tyrus asked.

Klay laughed. “Letting you live and sharing secrets are not the same thing.”

“They march on Shinar?”

“We’re not talking about this.”

“Why would they give up the woods? It is their greatest advantage.”

“I’m not an elf. Ask them.”

“The elves cannot stop Rosh,” Tyrus said. “Shinar was the last with any real power.”

“We are not all conquered. Not yet.”

They followed Klay to an outcrop of rock. A ridge knifed out of the ground, like a section of stone splitting the forest in two. Vines, moss and small ferns covered the rockface. Tall trees flanked the fissure, and Klay led them up a small path into an old campsite, a fire pit beneath an overhang of rock with a soot-stained ceiling.

Einin trembled in her wet gown. Tyrus went to the horses for blankets and food while Klay started a fire. The night deepened, and cold crept into Tyrus’s bones. His stomach burned, but he felt the chill in his ears, fingers, and toes. He missed the weather of his homeland, sensible seasons that did not blister and freeze a person in the same day.

Tyrus tied the horses under a large tree, hoping the branches would keep them hidden. The orange light glowing under the overhang of rocks was not as bad as he feared but visible from the air. He walked east, and the light was not as bad. If the flyers circled this spot, they would see it, but from a distance, they might stay hidden. He returned with a pile of supplies. Einin and Klay whispered about the cold. Einin did not want to shed her wet clothes but became more willing with the soldiers’ blankets.

Tyrus left again.

He picked his ground. The rocks protected them a little from the air, and Tyrus found the best landing spots. He could take a few sorcerers if he ambushed them as they landed. Troubled by variables, too much unknown, he had no idea what chased them.

His eyelids drooped, and he feared drifting asleep. His runes might lull him into a deep slumber, and the bone lords would catch him unaware. His broken body craved rest. The weariness pulled his chin to his chest and slumped his shoulders. No sleep. Food must suffice. He gnawed on dried meat. His runes healed better with fresh food, but the salted beef helped. He ate until the salt dried out his mouth. The insides of his cheeks felt like scales, and he muscled down more.

Azmon must know by now. Tyrus imagined the poor bastard who had told him. His temper had grown worse the longer they served the shedim. Whom had he sent after them? Not many options, and House Hadoram craved his title. Lilith or her brothers, maybe all of them together. Azmon must make an example. Any sign of weakness invited rebellion from the nobles.

Tyrus assumed the worst: an army with dozens of bone lords. A small boon—a large force would make noise, and Tyrus listened to the darkness, reached out with his senses for his opponents. He hated waiting. He had wasted much of his life in moments like these, killing time before he killed people.

Einin huddled in three blankets. What remained of her shredded dress hung from a bit of rock to dry. She refused to remove her soaked chemise. The fire looked too small but gave off a surprising heat. The warmth invited sleep, but Marah squealed in her arms.

Einin no longer cared because she had spent two days without sleep and nothing worked. Marah cried no matter what she did. She daydreamed of abandoning the child and finding passage back to Narbor, but the petty thoughts shamed her. She must find strength. The heir of the Roshan and Narboran crowns needed her, and she could not let the ranger or the Damned care for a child.

Tyrus left saddlebags with the blankets. Einin picked through them—bread as hard as stone and salted meats—meager supplies for such large men. They had not packed much, and she realized they thought catching her might take only one or two meals. They acted like she was a fox, game for a day of hunting. No one respected her. The Gadaran with the bear had pity in his eyes, if not for her, then for Marah.

Einin understood. No one enjoyed listening to a baby die. A small pack from the kitchens, and Marah might be asleep with a full stomach. She had focused solely on the birth and the escape. She never dreamed Ishma had real visions, and Einin never planned a real escape, assuming the child would be born normal, and Ishma’s paranoia would go away. They had never discussed their first meal outside Shinar. A bad habit from the court: servants provided food.

Einin rocked Marah. She took each cry personally. Marah cried about Einin’s incompetence. Marah blamed her, rightly so, and offered no forgiveness.

“I’m sorry I have no spare clothes,” Klay said.

“Can you make a broth?”

“First, we’ll cut a wineskin to make a feeder of sorts.”

“A feeder?”

“Usually it’s a ceramic kind of pot; looks like a lamp with a little spout for the baby’s mouth. You have seen one before?”

“No.”

“I know a man whose wife died in childbirth. They used a feeder until they found a wet nurse.”

How could Einin and the empress not know of such a thing? The answer, simple but no less shameful, was the nobles hired women to caretake their children. She never saw babies at court. They were kept far from the adults, as were all the child-rearing tricks. Milk and a feeder—Einin should know better. The palace servants would have found them if she had planned better. Now she had nothing in the middle of nowhere.

“Can a newborn eat broth?” she asked.

“We can only try.”

Klay gave her a sad look as if she should know better. Did this commoner pity her? Less exhaustion, and she’d put him in his place. He wandered off and returned with tin cookware and a skin of water. Marah quieted, but Einin feared it was exhaustion. She watched Klay boil water and realized she knew little about cooking either. Klay snapped bread and ground it in his hands until crumbs drifted into the water. He tore at the dried meat and added it as well. The mixture smelled like salt and dirt.

Einin would not complain, but she had not realized what swordsmen ate. This meal was an insult to the idea of food, let alone the multiple-course feasts the empress enjoyed. Food, for Einin, was like poetry, paintings and songs. Artisans prepared a luxury for the senses, and nobles spent as much time discussing it as they did eating.

She tried a sip of Klay’s broth as they waited for it to cool, and it took everything she had not to spit it out. Nothing but salt, and the mushy bread had an aftertaste like soil. She did her best to appear thankful, smiling at Klay for his work.

“Thank you.”

“Not your usual fare?”

“It will do.”

As the mush cooled, Klay used a hunting knife to alter one of the wineskins. He drained it, cut it in half, and whittled a tiny hole in one side. He folded it up around the hole, so it resembled a wineskin again but with a spout little Marah might be able to suckle on. Einin held it, stoppered it with a thumb, as Klay poured in the mush. It held a mouthful for an adult, but Einin imagined it might fill a newborn’s stomach.

They tried several times to feed Marah, hours of tedious work, before they emptied the mush and used the runnier water at the top of the tin. Marah drank a little, but not much.

“A lot of work,” Klay said, “for her to eat so little.”

Einin blinked away moist eyes. Feeding the child felt like a small victory. “Something is better than nothing. Thank you, so much.”

“I hope it doesn’t make her sick.”

“We need milk, or a wet nurse. Anything.”

“Well,” Klay said, “you have a fortune in horseflesh. Any one of those chargers would buy six cows. You could sell the lot and set yourself up as a minor lord in any city. Problem is, no one in these woods to trade with.”

“Except elves.”

“Elves don’t trade. Not often and not for horses. There are things on the other side of the forest that hunt horses.”