TODAY IS TOO LATE (26 page)

From a distance, elves resembled men. Tall, wide shoulders, long necks, and lean frames that moved like wolves. By comparison, Einin resembled a mangy hound. She felt malformed. Aside from their grayish skin, they had perfect cheekbones, wide eyes, and brilliant teeth. Their beauty was uncanny, monstrous in a quiet way that exposed Einin’s flaws. Her round face felt fat. Only a few days earlier, she had been one of the beautiful ladies attending the famous Ishma of Narbor, but in the presence of the elves, she looked like a common field hand. None of them perspired, nor did they make a sound. They wore armor and weapons but marched without noise.

They hiked Mount Teles. The giant trees gave way to a mountain path and a monstrous peak that swallowed the horizon. A sheen of sweat covered her body, dampened her clothes, and matted her hair. She panted. Hiking was a new experience because coaches carried nobles up mountains. Her legs burned. Marah, a tiny burden, produced an ache in her shoulders. She shifted the child from one arm to the other with little effect. The small weight grew more tiresome as the day wore on.

Behind Einin, the horses clopped on the path. Their hooves taunted her. She craved a rest in the saddle, but none of the elves rode. No one rode at all. Einin told herself she could walk as well as the elves. She had no need of a break. The lie mocked her. Foolish pride, but nobles were supposed to be better. In Narbor, the ruling class stood taller and stronger because they ate better and did not break their backs in the fields. The elven perfection, in what appeared to be common soldiers, galled her. She felt like a grunting hog scurrying after stallions.

She refused to ask for more help.

They rounded a bend, and sunlight blinded Einin. The sun shone both behind and in front of her. She covered her eyes and saw gleaming gold. Then she gasped. A city grew from the side of the mountain and wrapped upward around the peak. White marble trimmed in gold vines. The spires rivaled anything in Shinar, massive and yet elegant, tapered lines that made Shinar look like stacked blocks. Einin saw it late, marveling at all the gold, but the stone spires resembled trees without branches, an echo of the Paltiel oaks. Was that the Forbidden City? What else could it be? She turned to ask and found the elves smiling at her. At first she thought they mocked, but then she noticed a hint of pride.

“I envy you, seeing Telessar for the first time.” An elf beamed at her. “It is a precious gift, a sight you cannot unsee.”

Einin said, “How much longer to the city?”

“Only the faithful may enter. We travel to an outpost. One of the lower gates.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Most Avani die before they glimpse the walls. You are honored this day.”

“I am.” Einin had no words. “Thank you.”

“If you surrender the child, we will take her to the city and escort you away from Paltiel. The Reborn are always welcome in Telessar.”

Einin clutched Marah. She would fight and die before she surrendered the child. The elf seemed to read her mind.

“No matter.” He gestured for her to keep walking. “You have the protection of the seraphim. They want Dura Galamor to care for the child. We are their servants.”

She knew the name Dura, one of Azmon’s old teachers, but she was before Einin’s time. The Roshan hated her. The Red Sorceress tried to destroy the bone beasts and had led multiple armies against them on both Sornum and Argoria.

“Will Dura take her from me?”

“The child is not yours.”

“She is. She needs a mother.”

The elf considered her, and Einin felt judged. The passive disagreement reminded her of the ladies at court. She was certain the elf thought her an unfit mother but would not say it.

“Marah should be raised by her own kind, a Narboran. Her mother wished it.”

“Of course.”

His polite smile bordered on condescending. Einin fought down a rash urge to lash out. She wanted to strike his smugness away. A childish thought, beneath her; she was so indebted to them, and maybe that galled her more than their attitude. Mistakes were allowed, she told herself, if she learned from them.

Einin heard bears trampling through the underbrush long after the elves. She gasped and tried to put the elves between her and the noises.

“Relax. It is a ranger.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. No. Wait. Two rangers.”

A moment later, the rangers came into view down the mountain pass from them. Two figures in green cloaks rode reddish bears, a bearded man and a tall woman. They dismounted and sent the bears away from the horses. As they approached they greeted each other with a brief wave.

“Change of plans,” a ranger said. “We escort her across the plains to Gadara.”

“She needs supplies for the trip.”

“The Elasod outpost?”

The elf nodded.

No one asked Einin what she thought or wanted, and she did not appreciate becoming cargo. She wanted to be more involved in Marah’s safety, but she had no resources and knew nothing about the area. She had to swallow her pride yet again. The woods provided a never-ending lesson in humility.

She focused on the few things she could control. She played with Marah’s new blankets and gently inspected her ears and throat. The elves were right. A redness, an infection, spread across the skin. Einin hoped their milk was enough to keep Marah healthy. The rangers and elves reached an agreement, and the rangers followed the party to the outpost. The female ranger said they could carry enough of the elven milk to reach Dura. Marah should have plenty of time to regain her strength. They did not need to march hard.

Einin asked, “What about the fighting?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“How can I not worry? They hunt us.”

“Yes, but they have to fight through the elves first. Should they manage it, we’ll be long gone by then.”

Einin kept her doubts to herself and wished Tyrus had not left. The man terrified her, a monster in a man’s skin, but he had his uses and knew things about beasts and lords. The confidence of the rangers and elves betrayed their ignorance. The Roshan beasts would not be so easy to kill, and Einin felt certain they should hurry away from the battle.

“What of their flyers?” she asked.

“If they fly low enough, we’ll shoot them out of the sky.”

The woman didn’t look afraid, but most fools were fearless. The elves stopped, together, and turned their heads in the same direction. Einin saw nothing. The rangers shrugged, and their bears seemed oblivious as well.

“What is it?” she asked.

An elf said, “Our forces engaged the enemy. The battle begins.”

“How can you tell?”

“Ringing steel.”

Tyrus followed Klay along a dry riverbed littered with dead trees, crunching leaves, and dusty rocks. The rangers kept a good pace, and they hugged one bank, which dropped off into a tangle of tree roots and bushes. The vine-like wall that framed the riverbed provided a little cover.

Tyrus sought tracks in the dust. All he saw were the large pads of the bears that walked point. No one came this way. The sun peaked, past midday, and heat reflected off the rocks. Sweat poured down Tyrus’s face. The fur cloak was hotter than plate armor, and the lining matted around his neck, itching like a hundred spider legs. Should he survive the day, he would shred the cloak. He hated it, but he had to hide from the flyers. If they spotted him, he would pull more interest than the rangers deserved.

“I don’t understand the elven strategy,” Tyrus said, “but I think that is their plan. They engage and break off at random points, testing the Roshan strength. Is that their plan?”

“No idea,” Klay said. “No one ever invaded Paltiel before.”

“Ever?”

“Around here we have a simple rule. Don’t anger the elves.”

“How large is their force?”

“I don’t know.”

Tyrus hoped Klay spoke true. He fought the urge to convince Klay he could be trusted. Nothing Tyrus said made him more credible, and only a liar begged to be trusted. In Rosh, his black name meant respect. People might not trust him, but they listened out of fear. Outside of Rosh, he realized the opposite was true. No one listened because of fear.

“Can one of your people reach them?”

“Yes.”

“Have them send a large force after us.”

“How large?”

“I don’t know their numbers. Enough to flank the Roshan.”

Klay relayed the request to Jorn.

Jorn said, “The elves will think it is a trap.”

“Lilith is using my tactics,” Tyrus said. “Let the elves attack and fade with one force. We deliver the killing thrust through the riverbed.”

“Lilith?”

“The largest flyer. Their leader. She never comes in low enough to attack.”

Klay said, “Tell them where we strike and ask for help.”

“This is the plan?” Jorn asked. “The ten of us flank an army?”

“No, we harass. If they help, we flank.”

The rangers stopped. Many kept wary eyes on the sky. Tyrus felt exposed in the riverbed, but Lilith kept her scouts too close to her ground forces. They had a chance to act before she became more aggressive. Each hour they wasted, the Roshan army sent more beasts and swordsmen into the woods, and soon Lilith would flex her power.

“So,” Tyrus said, “are you voting again?”

“No. I’ll go,” Jorn said. “Can’t promise they’ll listen, but I’ll do my best.”

Klay said, “They’ll have seen the river from the air.”

“Yes, and they’ll station three beasts to guard it.”

Tyrus was wrong. Not long after Jorn left, they trotted around a bend in the river and saw a dozen champions with five beasts. Wall breakers, the worst beasts, fifteen feet of bulk and claws, and three of them stood in the riverbed. The other two guarded each bank. Tyrus stopped. The beasts explained the lack of flyers. They had this flank guarded, and it was quiet.

Klay, right beside him, muttered, “Buzzard’s guts” and drew his bow.

Chobar snorted and growled. The bone beasts swiveled heads and flexed claws. Glowing red eyes locked on Tyrus. The cloak didn’t fool them.

“A waste to use five,” Tyrus said.

“How does that help us?” Klay asked.

“It doesn’t.”

Tyrus hefted his sword, poorly weighted but a decent edge. He wished he had his two-handed sword. The cleaving weapon was better suited for fighting the beasts. He picked his targets and called to the rangers. “The black robes first. Don’t waste arrows on the beasts. Not yet.”

The soldiers shouted and Tyrus charged. Bears roared. Bone beasts answered. Nine bows hummed behind Tyrus, and missiles darted overhead. Champions and bone lords fell. The rangers could shoot.

That small comfort meant little as three beasts set on Tyrus. He slid in the dust and jumped back while a beast slammed the ground. Tyrus cleaved the claw from the arm and came close to breaking his sword. Two bears lunged at a monster on his right, and the one on his left tried to gore him with its tusks. He stumbled over loose rocks and brought his sword down, braining the monster.

He enjoyed a brief lull in the battle. Behind him, rangers picked targets. Around him, armored men and bears tore into each other. He had the experience to calm himself and pick his next target. Where could his runes inflict the most damage? Three bears fought a beast. Tyrus watched the monster break the back of a bear. One bone lord cast flaming orbs of hellfire, and an animal roared in pain. The dusty riverbed filled with the smells of burnt fur and phosphorus.

Three champions rushed Tyrus with swords. He cast around for a missile, settled on a rock, and hurled it at the bone lord. The rock took the man in his shoulder and spun him to the ground. Tyrus couldn’t see if he stayed down. His world became clashing steel. The fight shifted, and a glance at his opponents’ faces told him why. They recognized him and wanted to run.

His infamy won another battle for him.

In their moment of disbelief, Tyrus kicked one to the ground and stabbed another. The third turned to flee, but Tyrus grabbed him by his collar and yanked him off his feet. The man crashed into the rocks. Tyrus crushed his noseguard. The helmet dented inward, and the man thrashed in the dust.

Tyrus recognized him from the camps, but they had never spoken. A sense of guilt tugged at him, but he had no time to worry. A beast fought on, pelted with arrows and trading blows with a couple of bears. Tyrus recognized Chobar and sprinted to him. He swung and cut a piece from the bone beast’s knee. The enraged bears snarled as they pushed the beast toward Tyrus, and he had no room to swing. The bears thrived on violence, and their snarls sounded like a dozen saws cutting wood. The ones with the worst wounds fought the hardest. Tyrus chose his strike with care, from behind, hamstringing the beast, and the bears killed it.

A few champions ran, but rangers dropped them with arrows. Of the nine rangers, six stood, one was wounded, and two were gone. Tyrus saw four bears on their feet. Klay approached, arrow nocked. Chobar grunted and Klay relaxed.

Klay asked, “How many beasts does Rosh have?”

“There were over a hundred in Shinar, but they might have made more.” Tyrus watched the rangers hold one of their own back as they killed a wounded bear. “We need to go.”

“A hundred of those things, sweet mercy.”

“The flyers will send more.”

“Give them a few moments,” Klay said. “You don’t understand.”

Broin knelt before a mound of blondish hair. His bear had been gored by a beast. He lowered his head to the bear’s, cradling the face to his own, and wept. Others took the moment of silence to retrieve arrows or bandage wounds. Broin raised his voice in a long keening; the sound tore at Tyrus. He remembered men crying for friends, but this sounded more like a parent who lost a child.

“Will they be okay?”

Klay said, “A ranger who loses a bear is never the same.”

Tyrus wanted to press on. They had ground to cover, but he couldn’t afford to anger these men. “What do we do?”

Klay spoke low. “We revenge.”

Tyrus felt new cuts closing on his forearms and chest. He had no idea how he got them, nor did he care. A familiar burn spread through his body as his runes repaired flesh. Hunger gnawed at him. He needed meat, but he had to wait. He watched the sky. If one of the beasts belonged to a scout, the Roshan knew of the fight.