TODAY IS TOO LATE (29 page)

Tyrus dreamt of the Bottom of the World. He and Azmon left the dwarven Deep Ward to spend endless months walking through black, twisting tunnels. They used their runes to see, not torches, and the darkness became heavy. Tyrus had forgotten the sun and the sky and the birds. He wanted to see colors again, wanted to smell green things. Moss and mushrooms and damp filled the Underworld. Things smelled spoiled, but that was the Demon Tribes.

Long days were wasted fighting the tribes as they worked their way lower into the Underworld. Azmon usually drove them away with sorcery, but Tyrus often brawled with dozens of huge, hairy, dark-fleshed creatures. Milk-white eyes spat hatred. They wore crude armor made of disks and fought with clubs and blades as often as tooth and fang. The tunnels filled with furious howls echoing on and on into the Deep.

One day, the tribes vanished. No more guttural challenges or rocks or arrows or tests. Azmon pointed at the reason why: square stones, more masonry that they followed to an ancient causeway, crumbling and cracked. The carvings looked dwarven.

“The Lost City,” Azmon said. “A path to old Skogul.”

“But where are the Tusken?”

“Don’t worry about them.”

Tyrus had a duty to worry. The dwarves considered them a great enemy and spoke of Blood Quests to reclaim the Lost City. Not long after they found the causeway, his worries were confirmed when the Tusken found them. Once, they had been dwarves, and their boxy frames and thick arms echoed their ancestry, but black skin and teeth that looked like boar tusks marred their faces. Red eyes—Tyrus had seen them before, but it took a moment to place: trolls and orcs. The half-dwarves had mixed with the Demon Tribes.

They wore black armor, thick plates like the dwarves in the Deep Ward, and carried cruel maces with hooked heads. A few of them stood bigger than Tyrus, seven footers, but most were under five feet. The largest one shouldered two clubs and gave them the evil eye. Tyrus had room to swing his sword and prepared to engage.

“Wait,” Azmon said.

Azmon spoke a language filled with grunts and snarls. The Tusken looked at one another. They deferred to the brute with two maces. He stepped forward, and Tyrus tensed but the monster knelt. He spoke low, more animal sounds. The rest of the Tusken knelt as well.

“Come,” Azmon said.

“You cannot trust these things.”

“Careful. They might understand.”

“They knew you were coming?”

“I arranged it with their master.”

Tyrus said nothing. He knew Azmon spoke of an ancient rite to converse with the shedim. If the idea of an alliance with the demons unnerved him before, seeing what they had done to the dwarves made it worse. Tyrus thought of Ishma and dreaded the day when the people of Rosh might look like the Tusken, half-breeds, demon spawn corrupted by the Nine Hells.

“Come. They’ll take us to the Black Gate.”

“Azmon—?”

“We cannot turn back. Hurry before they grow suspicious.”

Tyrus and Azmon followed the deformed Tusken through the Lost City of Skogul. Unlike the other cities of the Deep, it had fallen into disrepair and smelled of the Demon Tribes. Stones had crumbled to the floor, buildings were cracked, and parts of the city were little more than piles of rubble. Cook fires offered a little light and filled the air with a pungent haze. Everything looked burned.

Around one corner Tyrus watched a line of Grayskins—orcs and goblins—passing baskets of food. The line stretched for miles down a dark street, wrapping around buildings, and large Tusken guards snapped whips to keep it moving. The supplies fed a large castle with burning windows and what sounded like a large feast.

“What’s in there?”

Azmon said, “Their king, but he should have orders to leave us alone. I don’t want to waste time with another audience.”

Deep within the heart of Skogul, past a small army of burly half-dwarves, past iron gates, bulwarks, trolls and shattered doors, they found the Black Gate. The Tusken bowed low and gestured at a large stone doorway, but they would not speak to them or move. A giant could pass that door without ducking. When Azmon and Tyrus entered it they saw, hundreds of yards away, a circle of stone covered in runes and set in the side of a rock wall. The circle was alive, pulsing with a black light that looked like a pool of lava. Flames jumped out of it, and left large scorch marks up the wall and ceiling of the cave. Black ooze morphed and swallowed orange ooze.

The chamber reeked of sulfur. Tyrus wiped his eyes and coughed. He had an itch in the back of his throat. When he glanced back at their escort, he saw they were gone. The Tusken abandoned them.

He asked, “What now?”

“We see if these runes will work.”

“Let me.” Tyrus approached the gate, sword drawn. Walking foward took effort because all of his instincts screamed at him to run away. “Are there any spells, or something? Do I just walk in?”

“Let me protect your gear.”

Azmon spoke strange words, and Tyrus did not feel any different. As he grew closer to the gate it gave off a powerful heat that made him wince. His cheeks burned, tightened, and he tested the lava with his sword. The blade dipped in and out without being destroyed. He reached a gauntlet into it, expecting his fingers to burn off. The lava had the consistency of thick honey. In the fever dream, he begged himself not to enter the thing again, but Tyrus had no control. He watched himself nod to Azmon, take a deep breath, and step into the gate.

He had to fight past a hallway of lava, unable to see or breathe, and the churn of the gate threatened to lift him off the ground. The lava blistered his face, and he used an armored forearm to protect his eyes. His toes dug into the pathway, and he swam more than walked until he hit air and landed on his face.

The Nine Hells looked worse than the gate. Tyrus blinked at fumes that burned his eyes, and though he struggled to see, the upper levels of the Nine Hells stretched before him. A burning landscape of red flames, black clouds, and orange lightning that cracked the sky. On the ground thousands of specters shuffled about in mobs while above them demons with black wings and jagged spears circled.

Tyrus thought, then and now, that he didn’t belong there. That this was a mistake. That his master had gone insane. He turned to leave, when Azmon fell through the gate. Azmon coughed and retched while Tyrus helped him to his feet.

“We don’t belong here.”

“I know.”

“We should leave.”

“We’ve come too far to turn back now. The shedim can save Rosh.”

“Let Rosh burn, Azmon. We don’t belong here. This is a place for the dead.”

“Tyrus, calm yourself. They seek to use us, and we will use them. You will see. There is no need for Rosh to burn.”

Tyrus wanted to argue more. In his fevered state he wished he had abandoned his oaths to Azmon and let the Tusken kill them both. The memories tortured him. Tyrus had been tested and failed. He had dozens of chances to stop Azmon and never took them because, back then, he still hungered for power no different than Azmon. Only years later, after he learned the price, had he known real regrets. The shedim tricked them into bringing demons to the mortal world. The beasts were little more than fiends of the Nine Hells wrapped in the bones of dead men.

Instead of abandoning Azmon, Tyrus protected him as demons took an interest in the gate. They flew in formations overhead, circling, but not attacking. He watched them, and noticed a figure walking toward them through a red haze of heat. It appeared to be a man, wrapped in black robes, bulbous and bald with one milk-white eye.

“Greetings, mortals. I am Gorba Tull of Kassir. It is good to see that you survived the gate.”

Tyrus whispered, “The False Prophet?”

“A title Ithuriel gave me, when I killed Alivar and began the Age of Chaos.” Gorba smiled. “But you aren’t here to talk about ancient history, are you? Come, Azmon of House Pathros and Tyrus of Kelnor,
father
is most eager to see you. Be warned, however, that the way is blocked. Others control the lower levels, and they will fight to keep him in chains.”

Azmon said, “We understand.”

“There is a hidden stairway that will take you past most of the armies. I, myself, cannot follow you beyond the sixth circle without starting another war.”

Gorba escorted them through Pandemonium. Azmon followed with his head lowered, but Tyrus could not help scanning all around them for danger. Demons licked their lips at him everywhere he looked.

Tyrus inhaled. His eyes shot open to trees and a forest, back in Paltiel. Foolish thought—he had never left the woods. He breathed better, but the slightest movement felt like burning coals under his skin. Sharp pains lanced through his entire body. Gasping made it worse, and he struggled to calm his breathing without crying out. His lungs conspired against him. Every breath hurt, and if he gasped, it only became worse.

He was on a board or a cart. He couldn’t say and struggled to focus. He heard footsteps and saw a blurry green cloak.

“Klay?”

“I’m here. What is it?”

“Food.”

“They’re afraid it will make you sick.”

“Need more food. To heal. Meat.”

“I’ll tell them.”

“Starving. Need food.”

“All right. Take it easy. We’ll feed you more. You need to rest.”

“Nightmares. Can’t sleep.”

“The Father of Lies isn’t here, Tyrus. Moloch is locked away. Relax. The battle is over.”

Tyrus tried to sit and thrashed from the agony. Each movement brought on more pain, and he wanted to run away. Hands grabbed him. They burned where they touched. He fought and, through the blur of pounding blood, heard someone repeating that moving made it worse. The voice barked at him to hold still. He fought against every instinct, to calm his body, endure the torment, and breathed a little easier. The pain had not vanished, but receded.

Had he spoken while feverish? “What did I say?”

“Nothing. A nightmare. Try to relax.”

His lucid moment faded. Tyrus felt the delusions crawling back into view. The pain overwhelmed his senses. Nightmares did not bother him. His memories did.