TODAY IS TOO LATE (24 page)

“You sent Tyrus to protect Marah.”

Her eyes widened a fraction. “I did no such thing.”

“The child is a Reborn.”

She paused. “She is?”

He knew her well. She looked less surprised and more caught off guard because he seldom spoke so directly. Azmon smiled. She scowled back. And they understood each other. He sidestepped her to examine her room.

“The blue star confused me longer than it should have. I mean, of all the people to have such a child… and the odds of one Reborn fathering another—it is practically meaningless to calculate.”

“You’ve seen the rune? Was Marah returned?”

Back turned, he grinned. Her spies were as inept as his.

“The secret birth, Tyrus betraying his oaths—but I don’t understand why you are here. Why wait to get caught?”

She playacted confusion until her mask insulted them both. She could do better. The way she slipped out of the statuesque beauty surprised him. Small things ruined the look: a slump in her posture, arms folded like a merchant, an angry flare of her nostrils.

“You need to ask?” she said. “Where could I hide? Who would take me in knowing you or the Damned was after me?”

“You have gold.”

“And you have more.”

“The famous Narboran lancers wouldn’t protect you?”

“Not against abominations.”

The words washed over him. He kept his face passive, not allowing her to see an insult land. She did this often, blamed him for aligning with the demons and the beasts even though they were the only allies available to save them from the Five Nations. The Red Tower cast him out, the seraphim conspired against him, and he refused to let lesser kings defeat him. None of which mattered now, old arguments, from an old marriage. He wanted to know about his daughter.

“All these years without an heir. Is the child mine?”

“She is.” She sounded mournful. “I wish she wasn’t.”

The words struck him, but she wasn’t trying to land a hit. The insult twisted his stomach in a mix of shame and anger. She wished for a better father? He had conquered creation, disease, and old age. One day he would free all of humanity from the tyranny of the Sarbor, and these little people dared question his methods when they lacked the ability to comprehend them?

Azmon took a calming breath. “I want to know how you turned Tyrus.”

“I didn’t know I had.”

“You sent him after Marah.”

“You commanded that.”

“As you knew I would. Who else could protect our child?”

“I didn’t know.”

“He protects her nonetheless. Killed ten of my champions, and started a war with the Ashen Elves.”

Ishma asked, “Is Marah safe?”

“You care?”

“Of course I care.”

“You abandoned her, but still you care. How does that work?”

She didn’t answer. He waited but she stayed silent.

“How did you turn Tyrus?”

“I didn’t.”

“Are you saying this girl, Einin, turned him? He never had a vice for young women.”

“No. Loyalty was his greatest failing. He should have left years ago when you started making your monsters.”

This again—Azmon worked to uncurl his fists. If the monsters bothered Tyrus, he would have rebelled during the civil war. Perhaps Tyrus feared the beasts would replace him. He couldn’t think that? They were nothing compared to him. For a long time, Azmon thought he had unlocked real power. He had created the greatest champion in history, but when he realized no one else could survive so many runes, he had lost hope. His greatest creation and failure, all wrapped in the bones of his oldest friend.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” he asked. “If Tyrus makes it to Dura, she will use him against us.”

“They’ll kill him.”

“Dura will try to save him, and Tyrus is hard to kill.”

“Another war.” Ishma shrugged. “It means nothing.”

“Except this time you sent my daughter to the front lines.”

“She was dead anyway.”

Azmon stopped pacing. He forgot his mask, and anger twisted his face. Ishma recoiled. He asserted himself, contained the fury. His father’s memory rebuked him. Self-control and patience were an emperor’s most deadly tools. The other houses accused him of killing children to win people to their cause, but to hear his own wife say such things hurt.

“You think I’d kill my own child?”

“Tyrus knows the real you. He did not question it. You would kill her without a second thought—”

Azmon struck her. The slap echoed in the room, and Ishma held her cheek.

“I would never kill my own daughter.”

“The shedim would order you to, and you would.”

“A Reborn with sorcerer blood—why would anyone waste that potential?”

“You don’t mean—”

“She could be my greatest student. Her skills might surpass mine.”

“You would let a child rule the armies of the Nine Hells?”

“Now you sound like Dura. Our daughter would be a world power. The shedim would hesitate before crossing her.”

Cradling her cheek, Ishma blurted out a laugh. A cruel sound, condescending, that grew in its intensity, and Azmon prepared to strike her again.

“Is that what you think?” she asked. “That you are some great power and the demons respect you?”

“The angelic host went to war because God created men. Moloch refused to bow before the Avani. Our destiny, the destiny of all Avani, is to replace them. This is
our
world, not theirs.”

She laughed harder. “They will tear you apart. You are an insect to them, a tool, nothing more.” She stopped laughing. “You’re smarter than this. I know you are.”

Azmon had heard the same arguments when he created his first beasts. Little minds that could not see the bigger picture always lashed out with insults and accusations. He would free humanity from kneeling before seraphim and shedim. No more bargains. No more rules. Free will would mean something. He opened and closed his hands, calmed himself, sought control over his anger.

“Azmon—”

“They’ll be angry at you.”

Her jaw trembled. “You wouldn’t give me to the shedim?”

Azmon sneered. “I’ll kill my daughter but not my wife?”

“Please, don’t.”

“You should beg to be executed. And even that might not protect you from the Father of Lies.”

Her knees gave out, and she slumped onto the floor. He hated seeing her surrender. The fire that attracted him went out, robbing him of joy. This was no empress, only a broken traitor with the dead eyes of the condemned.

He considered how he might protect her, but the shedim would not be denied or fooled. A few more years, and he might be in a position to do something. Why couldn’t Tyrus and Ishma understand? His ascension neared, and he could rebel against the shedim—soon, he would finally defeat the demons—but no one had faith in him.

He headed for the door.

“Kill me,” she whispered.

He hoped he heard her wrong.

She said, “I’ll take my chances in the next life.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Azmon left her apartments. He didn’t know if she acted alone, but it didn’t matter. The elves stood between him and his daughter. He considered contacting Mulciber again. The Father of Lies might know if Marah was in Telessar or not. Azmon realized the shedim did not know about the Reborn. Otherwise, they would have sent orders to kill Marah. That meant he had a little time to try and protect his family. He should lead the reinforcements to Paltiel.

The thought stopped him.

He needed time to rebuild, and his beasts would be stronger than anything his students created, but if he defeated the elves, he might find Tyrus and his daughter before the shedim did. A daring plan, a huge gamble, but he might crush the elves before the battle became a drawn-out war. He knew it for an emotional decision, lacking logic; better to build up a stronger force and devastate the elves. He wanted to race off, but why risk everything for a traitor? Tyrus chose Ishma. He had rebelled too soon. In time, they would all understand. A few more years, a few more scrolls, and Azmon would stand above the shedim.

Klay leaned on Chobar, scratching his ears to keep him calm. The bear closed its eyes, grunting happily. Elves led Einin and Marah up Mount Teles. They took the Roshan chargers with them. Klay focused on the little bundle, only a newborn yet the heir of the Roshan Empire and a Reborn as well. Klay had met only one other Reborn before, Edan the Rune Blade. He doubted if this Reborn would offer any help, born too late to make a difference, but a divine gift regardless. A sad thought: if Rosh won the war, Marah might be the last Reborn.

Einin waved. Klay returned the gesture, hoping his smile looked genuine. The Ashen Elves might take Marah from her. No one could guess what the seraphim wanted, but one command from them, and the elves would become Einin’s nightmare.

Lord Nemuel approached. “You do not wish to follow?”

“I’ll need to speak to my order. Where are you headed?”

“To kill the invaders.”

Nemuel spoke the words with a calm that chilled Klay. He was one of the greatest Rune Blades in any land and not someone Klay would want to test.

Klay said, “I’ll bring what help I can.”

“Shinar was only the beginning.”

“We need to vote on it. Not my call.”

“Delays will cost us the gate.”

“I know.”

They grasped forearms.

“Tell Dura she has wasted enough time with those fools in Ironwall. The gate is everything.”

“I will try, but I don’t have the breeding they respect.” Klay shrugged his embarrassment. “If I were a knight, it would mean more.”

The elf sniffed. “Human nobility, an oxymoron.”

The sentinels headed east. Nemuel followed them. The tall and graceful creatures moved without a sound despite carrying more weapons than Klay.

He called after Nemuel. “Good luck.”

“The faithful have no use for luck.”

The elves trotted, single file, and Klay waited to catch their trick, but it eluded him. An elf moved behind a tree. He waited for it to emerge from the other side, but it never did. They melted into the greenery. He sighed. One day he would master their secret and become more elf-like than any of the rangers, but not today.

Klay approached Chobar and patted a shoulder before rummaging in a saddlebag for his horn. Designed by elves, the ranger’s horn had several loops, a half-dozen rings with a small mouth. He stood tall and blew a high-pitched note. The sound resonated through the woods. Paltiel, always quiet, waited with Klay. He heard a similar sound to the south, and another far to the west. He strained his ears and heard more distant responses. Soon, all the rangers within twenty miles would head to Grizzly Rock.

Chobar knew the sounds well. He stood, ears twitching, snout sniffing the direction of the last calls. With a thump, he fell to all fours and nudged Klay. The bear nearly knocked him over. Chobar clawed the ground, hopping in anticipation. He growled with delight when Klay jumped into the saddle.

“Yes, yes. Let’s go.”

Chobar lunged. Bears made poor mounts with shorter front legs that gave a rider the sensation of constantly falling forward, and horses avoided things that bears pushed through. Most of the time, Klay pulled his hood forward to keep branches from flaying his face. Adding armor to the bears made it worse. They relished the protection and demolished everything in their path. Klay grasped the saddle tightly. The forest tore at his cloak, and his high boots offered little protection while branches bruised his thighs and shins. To the north, a horn sounded, and Chobar stood to roar back.

“Down! Down, you big idiot.”

Chobar fell into a run, his grunts tinged with laughter.

They arrived at Grizzly Rock a few hours later and found two rangers waiting, a man and woman. They wore the same cloaks and carried similar gear, and their bears bore the same barding. Klay exchanged greetings but forestalled explaining himself until everyone arrived. Gatherings like this, so soon after Shinar had fallen, inspired dread. The rangers eyed Klay but said nothing.

Meanwhile, the bears released stress in their own way. They sized each other up—literally, by standing—and boxed each other’s ears. The game of dominance sounded more brutal than it was. An outsider might think they fought for real, but a practiced eye saw no tufts of fur torn out or blood. Deep, guttural growls echoed through the woods, which had become quiet at the display.

Klay envied the animals. They knew something big was afoot and found a way to pass the time while he paced, fretted, and rehearsed his presentation to the other rangers. A little exercise might clear his head. The adrenaline surging through his veins made him nauseous.

“How long on the others?” Klay asked.

“Midday, I’d guess,” Jorn said. “Most are out scouting the edges of Paltiel.”

“Who knew the Roshan would charge the center?” Dacie asked.

Jorn said, “Strange plan. Don’t see it working.”

Klay nodded. One by one, nine more rangers joined them. As the day grew, Klay dwelled on the black flyers circling Paltiel. How many monsters had they brought into his home? How many joined the fight while they waited to discuss a response?

“This is all of us?” Klay asked.

No one thought anyone else had heard the call, but it was hard to tell. Klay expected more, but since Shinar fell, the ranger corps had spread themselves thin searching for the next Roshan advance. He told his story, how he had stumbled upon the Butcher and the heir of Rosh. He explained the flyers and the elves and suggested they aid Nemuel. The ranger corps had rank and followed it at court or during a foolish parade, but out in the woods, ideas and experience trumped everything else. Klay was not the most senior, but he expected a quick vote.

Instead, twelve faces, eight men and four women, puzzled over him. Aside from the beards and braids, everyone had the same gear covered by green hoods and cloaks. Had he misspoken? He talked of urgency again, and Jorn interrupted.

“You fought the Butcher of Rosh?”

“We both did.”

“How did you survive?”

“He didn’t want to kill us.”

“Ah, well that explains it.” Dacie smiled, and a few of the rangers chuckled. “Why not take him with an arrow?”

“I didn’t think it was him until I saw him move, and I wanted to know who the child was. At one point, Chobar had him pinned, tried to maul his throat, and he kicked free. Tossed Chobar backward a few feet.”

“That’s not possible.”

Klay raised a hand as though he took an oath, and the rangers glanced at Chobar. The bears had their fun, wrestling with each other, aside from three that were far older and bigger. Chobar was a youngster who tested his powers on his peers. He fought for respect and received little.

“Want to hear something impossible?” Klay asked. “He’s supposed to have over a hundred runes.”

“Gossip.”

“Nonsense. More stories.”

Klay said, “The lady claimed she saw them.”

“Did she know what to look for? How could she? Was she an engraver?”

The rangers debated runes and strength and legends of the Butcher. The old stories, discredited as tall tales, became more believable if he had a hundred runes. Some speculated that if he had a dozen ox runes, interlocked correctly, he might be strong enough to toss a bear. Others refused to believe and argued with more anger than necessary.

“We should secure the Reborn,” Klay said. “Make sure she reaches Dura. You know how elves keep time. She could spend a year in Telessar.”

Elves outlived humans by centuries and had dozens of strange terms for time. The wrong translation of urgent meant the difference between months or minutes. Amidst general agreement, a few rangers suggested the elves could have saved Shinar, and a new argument started.

Lord Broin called for silence. “Two should be enough to see the child to Dura. Who shall go?”

People looked to Klay, but he did not want to leave Paltiel. Two hands raised.

“Agreed?” Broin asked.

Twelve voices agreed.

“Any disagree?”

Silence.

“Now, do we ride with the elves or wait for help from Ironwall?”

This prompted more debate about the slow response time of the priests in Ironwall. The knights would perform ceremonies, make oaths, and pray for guidance. It might be days before they marched, bureaucrats as incompetent as the farsighted elves, and the comparison between Gadaran nobility and the elves made Klay cringe. The rangers agreed that half of Paltiel would burn before the knights engaged.

“We need one volunteer to ride to Ironwall.”

“Why not send the message with the lady’s escorts?”

“Who knows how long they’ll be in Telessar?”

Dacie raised her hand, and the group agreed it was the right thing to do. They asked her to try and hurry the knights. Klay wished a man had volunteered but kept the thought to himself. The knights had little respect for rangers in general and less for female rangers.

“What can ten of us do?” Jorn asked.

Klay said, “Harass supplies. Kill their sorcerers.”

“We need the knights and the royal guard,” someone said.

“And the priests,” said another, “especially against those abominations.”

“The high priests can stay in Ironwall,” Broin said. “We have no need of sacraments, but the war priests could use runes against those abominations.”

“There is no time.”

“And there are too many beasts. We need an edge.”

Klay said, “If we wait on war priests or sorcerers, the fight will be over. Do we let the elves repel the invasion alone?” Klay let the question hang in the air, knowing no one liked that option. “We must act now with Lord Nemuel.”

Everyone looked at one another.

“Do any disagree?” Broin waited. “Then we ride.”

Tyrus gripped his elven spear and dagger as he jogged between tree trunks. Above him, one of the bone lords flew over the canopy. He heard men fighting to his right. Clashes of metal and screams of pain filled the woods. Tyrus paused, hefted the spear, and waited for the flyer to pass through a gap in the branches. The thing banked. No shot.

Tyrus cursed and gave chase.

He had wasted hours on this game. None of the flyers flew close enough to strike, and he lacked the speed to run them down. He reminded himself it wasn’t a lack of speed but uneven terrain. Running through Paltiel—dense brush, fallen trees, slippery moss, hills, boulders, and giant tree roots—was more difficult than he expected.

He found another spot and waited for the flyer to circle. But it never did. The flyers veered east. Tyrus spun, searching for high ground, and saw a small hill. From the hill, he saw the flyers cluster together. The Roshan advance maybe? He had circled the woods for so long that he wasn’t sure of his location anymore. In the distance, he heard more fighting and fresh fires. Smoke filled the woods, ghosting through the treetops. He realized the fighting closer to him had calmed. The elves vanished into the trees again and must have hit another group.

Tyrus sensed the Roshan search net collapsing. They would want a stronger formation, and the elves picked off stragglers. He needed to find the Roshan center but had misjudged their deployment and cursed the trees. Finding the enemy was simpler on an open battlefield.

The flyers traveled miles away. Impossible to catch on foot, but they held the key to the battle. He dropped the weapons to twist and stretch and unbuckle his plate armor. He ditched half of it, relying on the thin layer of mail underneath. Lighter, more flexible, he took up the spear and dagger and jogged at a pace he could maintain. The balance between using his runes without overtaxing them was difficult to maintain. In theory, he might run all day. In practice, he never did. Frustrations forced mistakes, and inefficiencies wore him down.

The flyers fanned out over Paltiel again. A glimpse of one, through the canopy, and he changed course again. Something darted out of his periphery, and years of fighting saved his life. Instincts threw him down without a thought.

A massive set of claws, white bone, mangled a tree. The bone beast followed, snarling, clawing the ground and stomping after him. This beast was different. Not as big. No battle cries. Tyrus dodged another claw and lost his temper. Tired of running. Time to kill. He jumped toward its head—maw open, drooling—and speared an eye socket. His feet crashed into its chest, and he kicked the beast backward.

Both of them toppled.

The beast raged. Claws tore the spear free. Tyrus darted behind, jumped, and clung to its back. He stabbed with the knife, dozens of jabs, hitting hard enough to bruise his hand. Black ooze sprayed from the wounds. He tried to sever the spine. The thing flopped, and Tyrus clenched his teeth, waiting for the pain. There was a moment of vertigo before he smashed into the ground. The beast landed on top, and bones dug into his body, all along one side, from his knee to his shoulder.

No leverage, no way to push it off, a smothering feeling, claustrophobia, suffocation—he screamed and writhed and tried to force the beast off. It rolled away only to turn to bite. Tyrus buried his knife in the other eye. He grabbed at horns on its jaw and wrenched the head, hearing a snap. The head wobbled on its neck. The beast collapsed.