TODAY IS TOO LATE (21 page)

Einin noticed Klay kneeling and jerked herself into motion. She imitated him and wondered what etiquette demanded in this situation. She knew she was outranked, but she had no idea by what degree. In the old stories about the Second War of Creation, it was the elves, the nephalem, who controlled the people, or the Avani. Einin suspected that the elves would find any Avani rank inferior to their own. How did one talk to elves?

“He protected us, milord,” Einin said. “The seraphim asked him to guard this child. And he did.”

“The seraphim do many strange things, child. Do you trust him?”

Einin said nothing.

Lord Nemuel seemed amused. “Neither do I. But orders are orders.” He gestured, and two of his sentinels stepped forward to take Marah.

Einin pulled back, reaching for her knife. The elves raised empty hands.

“We can help,” Nemuel said. “Do you know how close she is to death? She needs food and smells terrible.”

That sounded wrong, and then it struck her. “How did you know she was a girl?”

“This is our home. You cannot stroll through here unnoticed. We have been tasked with keeping her safe.”

“But how—”

“We are the true servants of the seraphim.” Nemuel reached for Marah. “Your neglect is shameful. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Our medicine and food and protection? Is that not what Tyrus told you to do?”

“You’ve been watching?”

“At first, I thought he might hold the child hostage. And then he left. He does not flee his own kind but rushes toward them. It will be interesting to see what he does.”

“He will fight them.”

“Are you so sure? They send his own men after him.”

“It’s not his army anymore.”

“No matter. They will all be dead before morning.”

“Even Tyrus?”

Nemuel wanted to say something, she could see it, but bit back the words. She realized he detested Tyrus but had been told to wait. That was the only explanation.

“The child needs us.” He gestured for her bundle. “Let us see her.”

Einin wanted to do anything but what she did. She handed Marah to him. The elves moved without sound, no rattle of armor or weapons, no crunch of leaves or branches. They placed Marah on a patch of long grass and unwrapped, undressed, and examined her. Einin stood near as three of the elves worked with agile fingers to place a balm on her rashes, discard the improvised diapers, and check her eyes, nose, and mouth.

Einin had not realized how important Marah was to her. Watching foreign hands with ashen skin touch her child made her tremble. Her heart raced. She found herself reaching to take Marah away and then pulling back. When Marah cried, Einin wanted to defend her.

They fed her with something that resembled an ivory lamp. The device had a long spout for Marah and a second hole in the middle for air. Marah’s little hands found the spout, and her pale cheeks furiously sucked away. Einin’s eyes watered at the sight. Marah was so hungry.

“Easy, little one,” an elf said. “Not so fast.”

“What are you feeding her?”

“A kind of milk. We had to send runners for it or we would have approached sooner. It will make her stronger, help fight off the infection.”

“Her coloring?” Einin glanced at Marah’s stark-white hair and skin, but nothing had changed.

“That is who she is. The redness in her ears and throat is a sickness.”

“Will she be all right?”

“She is weak. Only time will tell.”

“Thank you.” Einin felt the two words left too much unsaid. She tried to find some way to articulate what she felt, to put the entirety of her being into the words, because the elves had given her and Marah a chance at living again, but she could only repeat the words over and over. She wiped away tears. “Thank you.”

Klay left Einin in the care of the elves. She was oblivious to everything but Marah, and he had his own child to look after. Chobar hid from him, no surprise there. The bear hated it when Klay sent him away, but he had little talent for hiding. Klay found tracks, the broken branches of the bear’s passing, and then saw him hunkered down beside a tree, a paw over his face.

“I can see you, you big idiot.”

Chobar snorted.

“I won’t apologize. Bears and babies don’t mix.”

Chobar moved his paw. A bushy eyebrow rose in question. The bear sulked. His massive shoulders and giant maw, playacting sadness, gave Klay the chuckles. He knelt and reached out to pat his head. Chobar snarled.

“Please. I know you better than that.”

Klay waited. Other than the growl, there were no signs that the bear would strike. Chobar let out a whine and rested his head on the ground. Klay scratched his ears. The bear rolled its eyes and grunted.

“I don’t blame you. I can’t stand people either.”

“One day that animal will take your hand,” Nemuel said.

Klay did not jump and was proud of that. After all these years, the elves still snuck up on him. The sentinels moved like the breeze. Klay had spent years trying to learn that trick.

“He wouldn’t do it to hurt me. Well, not in a mean-spirited way.”

Chobar rolled onto his side, and Klay scratched his stomach. The leather straps that held the animal’s barding in place rubbed the hair away, and the easiest way to become his friend was to scratch those rough patches of skin. Chobar closed his eyes and grinned, jowls pulled back into a toothy smile. If people knew war bears acted more like dogs, the beasts would lose their mystique. Hard to be terrified of an animal that loves belly rubs.

Nemuel asked, “Did the seraphim visit you as well?”

“No divine plan here, I’m afraid. I stumbled upon the dead bodies. Was more than a little surprised to find the Butcher in Paltiel alone with a baby. I always figured he’d lead thousands of men into the woods.”

“What kind of a man is he?”

“Quiet. There’s a sadness to him that surprised me. Fights like nothing I’ve ever seen, though. Lael, on his best day, couldn’t take him. The stories are true.”

Nemuel said nothing. The elf seemed disheartened by the news. Trying to read their gray faces was a fool’s errand, but Klay knew Nemuel wanted to avenge his student. Dura had sent Edan to Nemuel for training. The elf lord was one of the best Rune Blades in Argoria. No one had mastered steel and sorcery like Nemuel, but no one had expected Edan to die at the hands of an Etched Man, either.

“I was surprised an arrow didn’t take him in the eye,” Klay said. “Kept expecting it.”

“It would be the simplest way, but they want us to wait. He’s linked to this child.”

“She is Azmon’s daughter?”

“Yes. The seraphim want Dura to teach her.”

Klay stood and slapped dirt off his hands. Chobar wanted more and swiped his paw at Klay’s legs. Klay stepped away, trying to understand what he had heard. The story was true. Azmon’s daughter was a Reborn, and the seraphim protected the child. The Butcher had not lied to him.

“What will you do?”

Nemuel said, “Defend Teles, as always. If King Lael had listened to us, the task would be simpler. His pride threatens us all. Azmon wants the gate, and he’ll use Shinar as a staging ground. We will send the Reborn to Dura when she has regained her strength.”

“Even after what happened to Edan?”

Nemuel said nothing.

Klay said, “The shedim will come for her.”

“But they come to us. Fight us on our ground. That is a battle I welcome.”

“Does that mean—is it the end of days?”

“The Sarbor have fought for thousands of years. Most of their fights take place in Pandemonium, but once in a generation it spills over into the Middle World. The shedim will send the Demon Tribes after us, and we will answer in kind. This is another battle in a long war unless Azmon takes the White Gate. Then the stalemate would end.”

A plan formed as Tyrus rode toward the bone lords. He could kill whoever hunted him, ride past the rest to Shinar, and rescue Ishma. Wishful thinking—he should focus on staying alive. Wounded and charging what looked like five flyers, he assumed spearmen followed, reinforced with beasts. Fight a small army? Sure, no problem. And then he could storm a city filled with beasts and thousands of swordsmen to steal the wife of the greatest sorcerer of the age—only a hundred problems with his plan.

Better to ignore Ishma. Marah’s safety came first.

If he killed a few of the flyers and caused enough confusion, he might buy Marah time. That counted for something. If Ishma lived, she would hear of his sacrifice. Not the best death, but a worthy sacrifice of a guardian.

A tedious ride, miles to cover, and he had nothing to do but dwell on the impossible odds. He carried a saddlebag in his lap and ate as much as he could, muscling down the dried foods. Salt angered him. His last meal should have flavor, fresh fruits, juicy meats, maybe chilled wine. Instead, he choked on hardtack. No grand battle for him. No glory. The Roshan army would rip him apart and build a monster from his corpse. Providence punished him for his sins.

Dark thoughts, and they awoke old memories of another impossible battle. A fitting death if a bone beast tore him apart because, without his help, they wouldn’t exist. Azmon would have never discovered the runes to make the monsters.

Tyrus remembered old Rosh, before beasts and empire swallowed the entire continent of Sornum. They had conquered the Hurrians, and the Five Nations had banded together for revenge. The odds were impossible, an entire continent waging war on Rosh, five kingdoms sending five armies to their gate. Azmon planned to leave before the battle. He sought help. Tyrus would guard him.

Before they left, Ishma summoned him to her apartments. He enjoyed the old memories of her when she was in her twenties, a fiery young Ishma. Her anger filled the room. She did not hide her fury, but Tyrus loved the show because despite the scowling and cursing, she was beautiful. He could not think of anyone else who made a snarl attractive. The trick, he had learned, was to avoid smiling unless he wanted a tirade about condescending to her. Best stand still until she exhausted herself.

“You cannot convince him to stay?” she asked.

“What would I say, empress?”

“We need you both, our greatest weapons, leaving before the siege when they outnumber us ten to one. Has no one done the math?”

“The numbers mean nothing.”

“The walls cannot hold against so many. Eventually, the numbers matter. They must.”

Tyrus kept calm. The Roshan fortress stood on a mountain, assailable from one direction and heavily fortified. Three walls, with a deep trench and a collapsible bridge, defended the pass. The fortress would hold. Tyrus had no doubts. The surrounding city would burn, and starvation posed a greater threat.

He said, “Their numbers work against them. Only a few can attack the wall at a time. They attack in shifts. We defend in shifts.”

“Until they starve us.”

“They will starve as well. The mountains will get cold. Azmon planned for this decades ago.”

“Decades?”

Foolish thing to say, distracted by all the things he must finish before leaving. Tyrus could remember Azmon as a boy talking about how to break an army against the mountains surrounding Rosh. The idea that Azmon invited this siege spun wheels in her head. She calmed down, calculating, and Tyrus dreaded new questions.

“So he planned this war?”

Tyrus kept his mouth closed. He would not betray Azmon’s trust or lie to Ishma. Best to say nothing. When they sacked Hurr, Azmon took an old spell, hellfire, and used it on a scale larger than anything attempted before. The display of power terrified the five largest nations on Sornum: Holon, Enor, Lahmi, Kaldur and Dimurr. But Tyrus never thought they would join together—maybe a couple, but not all five at once.

Ishma said, “He wanted to scare them. That’s why he built those new walls. He knew this would happen.”

“I cannot say, empress.”

The thought nagged him, though. Did the emperor provoke the other kingdoms on purpose? Was the war an excuse to conquer all of Sornum? Azmon was obsessed with making a statement, proving he was more powerful than his rivals. Everyone must bow before Rosh.

“Is it true that Dura turns on him?”

“No,” Tyrus said.

Dura Galamor did not want to hurt her star student, but she hated the new weapon. Tyrus had heard them argue about the innocent people burned in their beds. As punishment, she taught the other kingdoms how to counter the spell, leaving Azmon powerless in the face of his enemies. Tyrus could not speak of it without sending Azmon into a rage.

“They’re not talking anymore—are they?” Ishma asked.

“Not in a while.”

Tyrus thought an apology might win Dura over, and she might reason with the other kings to save Rosh, but Azmon would never agree. Ishma knew that much. Dura had been cast out of Rosh. Azmon never wanted to see his teacher again.

“I need my Lord Marshal. This is no time for you to leave.”

“He is my ward, empress.”

“He can take a dozen guards with him. Convince him to leave you behind, Tyrus, please.”

Why did she bother to talk like this? He had no choice, and his impotence unnerved him. He wanted to please her, give her what she wanted, but she asked for impossible things. True, he was close to Azmon and might bend his ear, but Azmon did not negotiate. He commanded.

“I cannot refuse him.”

“Rosh will fall,” Ishma said, and he tried to talk, but she waved him off. “Arrange duels against their champions, one by one. No one can stand against you.”

“That’s why no one will fight me. Not alone.”

Ishma wrung her hands and muttered under her breath. He understood the frustration. The old customs about champions settling wars with duels had fallen out of practice. The Roshan Engravers, Azmon especially, put the Five Nations to shame. Tyrus doubted if any of their champions came close to twenty runes, while he had more than a hundred, but what was the point of being the greatest champion if no one would fight him? His enemies would use numbers and sorcery against him instead.

“Where are you two going? What weapon is he seeking?”

“You know I cannot say.”

“How long will it take?”

“Empress, these are questions for Azmon.”

“I’m sorry. I am. I stay awake at night, trying to find a solution. He leaves me trapped in a box.” She sighed. “What will I do?”

“Keep the quartermasters honest, enforce the rations, especially for the nobles, and let Lilith and House Hadoram worry about sorcery. You must be the rock. Do not cave to the nobles or let them change our plans, and Rosh will hold.”

“But for how long?”

“Long enough.” Tyrus meant to assure, but his words sounded weak. “Azmon will return with his new weapon, and their armies will run away.”

A fatigue replaced Ishma’s anger. She seemed resolved to her fate, or sad, he couldn’t tell. She stood a head shorter, but it felt as if she looked down on him.

“Keep him safe,” she said. “Everything depends on him.”

“Of course, empress.” Tyrus offered a smile. “I am his guardian. No one will touch him.”

“Guard yourself too, Tyrus.”

He bowed at the nice thought, but oaths kept him from guarding himself. The old songs filled his head, verses about heroes marked for glory, marked for death. Should Azmon fall, Tyrus would die avenging him—better than returning home without his ward.

They said their goodbyes at the gates before dawn. They hoped no one would notice, and for the most part, they were right. A few guards gathered, and the audience grew, but nothing as large as a formal goodbye. Tyrus warned his men that they went for help and would be gone for as long as a year. Azmon wanted secrecy, but Tyrus knew the siege would wear down morale. Better to share strategy than give the impression of abandoning Rosh.

Azmon wore red robes, as did Lilith and her brothers. They discussed the rituals to protect the walls, one last time, talk of sorcery and runes and the kinds of attacks to expect. Azmon seemed uneasy about leaving his city with Lilith.

Tyrus and Ishma waited. Ishma wore a flowing green gown, fluttering in the breeze, and he kept watching the fabric fold around her form. Her beauty made him feel uglier. The grace of her figure contrasted too much with his large and bulky frame, made more imposing by his armor. He loomed beside her.

Azmon turned to Ishma. “Have I forgotten anything?”

“Will you please stay?”

“I mean to win, not starve to death.”

“Azmon—”

“You must have faith.” Azmon embraced her. “The siege will be hard, but Rosh will not fall.”

They whispered goodbyes. With his runes, Tyrus heard everything but pretended not to out of respect. Ishma pleaded with her eyes. Azmon mounted his black charger. Tyrus mounted another. They left Rosh with no trumpets or crowds or guards. Two horses sounded faint, small. Years had passed since they had ridden anywhere without an escort. Tyrus thought the last time might have been before Azmon inherited the crown.

As they left, the sun rose over the mountains. Long shadows stretched over the road. A strange day, Tyrus did not like leaving before a battle, and Ishma dominated his thoughts. When the siege became insufferable and the rations dwindled, the Five Nations would offer terms, and Ishma would face the greatest challenge: controlling rebellious nobles. The longer the siege, the more likely they would sacrifice her to appease the invaders.

“Doesn’t it feel good to be out in the air?” Azmon sounded carefree. “When was the last time we went on a hunt? I am sick of ambassadors and demands and negotiations.”

“Where are we going?”

“Enjoy the fresh air while you can.”

“Why?”

“We go to see King Targar Thadius Tubal.”

“Sounds like a dwarf name.”

“He rules Dun Drunarak, deep within the Underworld.”

“You seek a dwarven weapon?”

“No. I want passage to the Bottom of the World.”

Tyrus did not like the sound of that. Memories of the maps and scrolls in Azmon’s tower bothered him. His friend’s eyes gleamed with a hint of madness. No one went to the Bottom of the World.

“Maybe the dwarves can help us?” Tyrus asked. “If their armies marched to Rosh, it might be enough to scatter the Five Nations.”

“They have little interest in the surface other than to guard it.”

Tyrus had never heard that before. The creatures seldom traveled to Rosh. They stood four to five feet tall and were as wide, arms as thick as a man’s thighs. Tyrus had never thought of them as guardians.

“What are they guarding the surface from?”

“The horrors of the deep.”

Two weeks later, they entered another mountain range, far to the north, the wastelands of ancient Kassir. The peaks were more violent than the ones around Rosh, harsh edges of stone jutting out of the ground. Azmon led them to a cave large enough for a giant and overgrown with weeds. Pillars of marble framed the entrance, but they were cracked and broken. Pieces of statues and walls littered the ground. Years ago, something had shattered what looked like a door. Moss grew on the broken stone.

“The ruins of Falrin,” Azmon said.

Tyrus had heard of them but never seen them before. Fools ventured into the depths seeking treasure. Few returned. He studied the barren landscape. No settlements. People stayed away from this place, which meant something unpleasant lived in the ground.

“Is there another way?”

“Not close enough. The few clans who trade with the surface are in Holoni lands.”

Holon was one of the Five Nations marching on Rosh. Tyrus considered the risks. If they rode through Holoni lands, they at least knew what they would face. The dark cave could contain anything, including whatever drove away the dwarves.

Azmon unsaddled his horse. “A waste to leave them, but no need for horses anymore.”

Tyrus also unsaddled his horse, and they left the chargers to roam the mountains. A small chance they would wander back to Rosh. More likely a farmer or a traveler would happen across them. The thoroughbreds were a windfall of gold. As they walked to the cave, Tyrus caught a smell, pungent like rotting meat.