TODAY IS TOO LATE (30 page)

Tyrus stood beside Azmon in the deepest level of the Nine Hells. They spent an eternity climbing down frozen stairs, occasional veins of blue and white in the black ice. The cold burned his cheeks, dried his eyes, and cracked the back of his throat. Azmon looked possessed. Tyrus heard no voices but listened as his friend spoke to them. A stilted, one-sided conversation, and for the first time, his emperor sounded like a whipping boy.

“We are closer, master. No one followed.”

At the base of the stairs, two enormous gargoyles guarded a door. They looked like statues carved from purplish ice until their eyes opened and burned with orange flames.

“Begone, mortals.”

“You will not free him.”

Tyrus stepped in front of Azmon, sword ready. Even in his fevered state, he thought the demons were too big. The real fight, years ago, had been simpler. The shedim stood ten feet tall, ferocious fighters, but his mind tortured him, and he remembered them as if they were thirty feet of fangs and claws. They had faces all over their bodies, blazing eyes, and on their sides were dozens of mouths twisted in agony. Tyrus struggled to remember if the faces were real or a delusion.

“This isn’t real.”

The demons charged. Tyrus answered with steel, Azmon with sorcery. Tyrus hacked and kicked while Azmon sent bolts of lightning and fire. Their claws rent gashes in his armor. Their hide chipped his blade. One fell, burning, and Tyrus severed the other’s head. Along the demon’s flank, dozens of mouths groaned and screamed and whispered things Tyrus would never forget.

“You must not free Moloch.”

“Fools.”

“You know not what you do.”

“You doom us all.”

The revolting sounds died when the body stopped twitching. Tyrus wanted to drag Azmon away from these horrors. Let Rosh fall. Let Ishma and everyone else die. They did not belong in this place.

Azmon walked past, oblivious. “We are close, master.”

In the lowest hell, they found a spire of black rock suspended with chains as thick as a city gate. It hung above an abyss of black energy and purple lightning. Azmon led them down the chains, climbing over links, until they found a series of heavy stone doors. They worked through them, two at a time, Azmon breaking their seals while Tyrus guarded the rear. As Azmon destroyed the runes that held the doors shut, the Nine Hells stirred. A horde of demons swarmed the spire. They wailed and screamed that the Father of Lies must not be freed. Tyrus didn’t understand at first, but as the words became clearer, they nauseated him.

The demons feared Moloch.

“I’m trying, master,” Azmon said. “The runes make no sense. I’ve never seen them before.”

Outside, Tyrus heard claws and wings. He shouldered the door, and a force smashed the other side. The stone jumped in its frame. If it broke, they were dead. Tyrus might fight a few in the narrow hallway and buy Azmon a little time, but the swarm would tear them apart. His armor was ragged, and his sword was chipped. Tyrus doubted he could fight many more.

Tyrus said, “Hurry.”

Azmon traced the runes engraved in the rock. He spoke words of power, and a few glowed white. The light pulsed, faded.

“I’m close, master. Close.”

Tyrus strained against the door. “I can’t hold them.”

Demons pounded the door, heavy and forceful. Cracks formed. Tyrus gritted his teeth and waited for it to crumble, and then white light exploded behind him. The pounding stopped. The Nine Hells moaned. Tyrus heard the horde wail, “They freed him. They freed him.” Azmon disappeared into the light. Tyrus followed, sword raised, into a room of white stone and bright lights, so clean that it blinded him.

Azmon knelt before an angel in chains. The body resembled a man, only larger, nine feet of lean muscle. Chains, links as big as fists, splayed its limbs to the four corners of the room. An iron mask bound its head. Another chain anchored the mask to the floor. Their steel had a strange texture, but on closer inspection, runes were carved into every link.

“Tyrus,” Azmon said. “Break the chains.”

“Who will guard the door?”

“Listen. They flee. Break the chains.”

The worst part of the nightmare—he should have refused. A sweep of his sword could have killed Azmon and ended the madness. Tyrus liked to blame Azmon for inviting demons into Rosh. The truth was more shameful because back then, Tyrus also hungered for power. He wanted to lead the armies of Rosh across creation. Traveling to the Nine Hells filled him with doubts, not guilt but fear. These demons would betray them. He knew it, but he didn’t want to suffer. Only years later did he understand the enormity of his sins.

“Tyrus, break the chains.”

“No. This isn’t real.”

The nightmare robbed him of control. He screamed at himself to stop. The memory continued, and he inspected the links, ran his sword blade through one and used it as a lever to twist. He strained to the point of bursting, blood rushing to his face, veins popping out of his neck, fighting that one link. Azmon hovered close, speaking words of power. The iron twisted, groaned, and snapped. One arm freed and helped them free the other faster until the creature fell to the floor.

“His helm next.”

They broke the locks around the neck. Large white hands reached up and withdrew the iron mask. The face beneath was beautiful, perfectly proportioned features with wide eyes, a sharp nose, and full lips. The eyes opened, and they had crystalline irises, a combination of light blue and pink.

“You have done well, my children. Exceedingly well.” Mulciber laughed. “None of the overlords thought you were a threat.”

“Mulciber.” Azmon bowed. “My master.”

In his memories, Tyrus felt giddy at the creature’s approval. He had not felt that way since he was a small child and his mother praised him for helping with chores. He had been so young, the chores felt more like an adventure than work. In the nightmare, Tyrus saw Mulciber’s trick. He spoke with his mother’s voice, only a little bit deeper.

Mulciber tore apart the other chains and stood tall. His joints cracked. Black wings unfolded, and Tyrus remembered a childhood story about them—the dark mark from the First War of Creation, when the angelic host revolted and God punished the rebel angels with black wings. Muscles flexed, and the angel sighed. Azmon and Tyrus knelt.

“You must leave this place.”

“Yes, master.”

“I will fight to reclaim my throne. The war will be long. The overlords have had millennia to fortify their territory against me, as has Ithuriel. Our work is only beginning, my children. Return to Rosh and await orders.”

“Master, the runes to save my home?”

“Your journey is long. I’ll contact you before you return home.”

Each nightmare ended the same: a blackness suffocated Tyrus and pulled him down into a cold, dank hole. All the while, the angelic creature taunted him with murderous eyes. He hated Mulciber’s beautiful face.

“You cannot escape me, Tyrus. We are linked.”

“Leave me alone.”

“You are my champion, my general,
my
Lord Marshal. You are the only one to bear all my runes, and you will stand at my side when we crush the seraphim.”

“I won’t do it.”

“You think they’ll have you? After all you’ve done for me?” The voice, so much like his mother’s, lilted into a soft laugh. “You are practically shedim, and Ithuriel will never help you. They will tear you apart, but I will claim your soul. Such a prize belongs to me alone.”

Those words drifted through his dreams, over and over until the meaningless choir threatened his sanity.

Mulciber laughed. “You will never escape me.”

Another sober moment hit like a hangover. Tyrus could move his body, a little, raise his chin, twitch his fingers. He tested his limbs, and they felt broken but not shattered. The pain pulled him down, a weight on his lungs. He struggled to focus on a green blur before him and the sensation of seeing through a tunnel. A woman sat nearby, and he thought it might be Ishma. How had she found him? She left before he could ask, and another entered his periphery, big, brown; a wet nose sniffed his cheek. Cold snot dripped down his face.

“Chobar, off.”

“Klay? Where am I?”

“You were in Telessar for three weeks. Now we travel to Ironwall. Dura wants to see you. The elves said you were ready to move.”

“I can’t sit up.”

“Your bones put themselves back together. They say you might walk in a few days.”

“I was truly in Telessar?”

“I’ve never seen them argue so fiercely. Half wanted to kill you, and the rest wanted to study you. They let you pass the gates. You don’t remember a thing, do you?”

“No.” Tyrus sighed. “Why didn’t they kill me?”

“No one thought you would survive. First they said your heart would give out. Then the fevers would burn you up.” Klay became a distant blur. “You have runes no one has ever seen before. Their masters studied them until it became obvious you would recover.”

“How far away is Ironwall?”

Klay paused. “How many immortals does Azmon have?”

“None. I can die.”

“This is important. How many have these new runes?”

“No one.”

“How many runes do Roshan champions usually have?”

“A dozen. Only a handful have more.”

“I only have two.” Klay paused again. “In Ironwall, eight is rare.”

Tyrus saw his future, chained to a table as engravers poked and prodded his flesh. They would torment him, change his etchings, and try to unlock the sorcery in his body. How long before they understood Azmon’s greatest frustration? Tyrus had a unique ability to endure the etchings. No one knew why. How many champions would they kill trying to copy him? And they would blame him for the deaths, too.

“How did Azmon do this to you?”

“The shedim taught him new runes.”

“And you traveled through the Black Gate?”

Tyrus closed his eyes to hide his fear. What had he said while he was delirious? The nightmares blurred in his memory with no sense of order or time, dominated by vague, fuzzy things that made little sense and waking nightmares that defied self-control. He wrestled with the idea that he had managed to betray himself.

“What did I say?”

“Many things. Not much made sense. The elves sent emissaries to the dwarves to check the Deep Ward. They argued about that, too. Mortals die if they cross the gates. What you said is impossible. Not even the nephalem can cross over without dying first.”

“Is Marah in Telessar?”

“She is safe with Dura in Ironwall, and so is Einin. We go to them now.”

“They are safe?”

“Yes. My friends escorted them.”

“And the Roshan lost the battle?”

Klay rested a hand on Tyrus’s shoulder. “We won this one.”

“Klay—”

“Food, again? Only person I’ve ever seen that ate like a bear on his deathbed. Doesn’t it hurt?”

“I need more.”

“I know. I’ll get you meat.”

They traveled slowly. Tyrus’s vision improved enough to count the leaves overhead. He lay on a flat bed, a box that squeezed his shoulders. Later, he learned his “cart” had no wheels. Teams of stretcher-bearers carried him through the woods. For the first time in ages, he slept without fear of delirium. After a few days, he took his first steps, though he felt as weak as a newborn colt and looked as wobbly. Despite all the food and runes, his body struggled under its own weight. The day after he walked, he awoke in chains. Klay stood nearby.