TODAY IS TOO LATE (31 page)

“I’m sorry. I am. But they want you contained.” Klay tugged the chains. “Although I’ve got a feeling you could break these.”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll promise one thing. You’ll have your chance to plead your case before our king. We’ll be there in a few days.”

“What kind of man is he?”

“He’s calm. Quiet. He will listen to Dura and the priests. They will decide if you truly serve the seraphim and the Reborn.”

Klay seemed about to say something. Tyrus waited, and Klay looked around. He leaned in close, muttering about elven ears.

“I can get the key. If you want to run. There is talk about what to do with you, none of it good. I think you earned a chance at freedom, but no one else does.”

The idea of running amused Tyrus. He’d be lucky if he got a few yards before collapsing. Hunger gnawed at him, and his runes needed more time to work. He had few options and the only real one was to stay chained.

“Marah is in Ironwall?”

“She is.”

“Take me to her.”

Tomorrow is nothing, today is too late; the good lived yesterday.

Marcus Aurelius

They marched through the shadow of Mount Teles. Tyrus noticed the largest of the Paltiel oaks behind them, no more tree trunks as wide as houses or branches stretching for the clouds. The more mundane oaks might signal the end of holy ground. He didn’t ask. No one spoke, and Klay did not tell him why. They loosened his chains enough for him to hobble along and build his strength. The pain swelled in the pads of his feet and stretched around his heel into his knees and hips. Everything hurt. He fought against it but was forced back to the stretcher.

Three rangers joined the elves. Four bears and two dozen sentinels escorted him from Paltiel. Tyrus sensed more. The elves were impossible to spot, but Tyrus felt eyes watching him and listened for steel. Their mesh armor made few sounds. A larger force, or something worse, followed the escort, although he had no way to prove it.

They left the woods, and brown scrubland stretched to the horizon. He sought flyers in the clouds and found an empty sky. There were no birds. He wondered if Rosh attacked Paltiel again while he was delirious? No smoke. No sense of urgency from the elven sentinels. Two mountain ranges stood before and behind him, each dominated by one large peak. The green mountain was Mount Teles. To the west, a much more humble mountain sat in a smaller range, Mount Gadara, home of Ironwall. He had heard reports of the massive fortifications and hungered to see them up close.

Gadara had three passes, and Ironwall sat in the center. He remembered reports of walls circling the mountain in several places, dozens of them, crisscrossing the passes and covered with towers and gatehouses. As they grew closer, Tyrus counted at least seven walls on the eastern side. He tried to understand the strategy of the defense, but the walls defied reason. It looked like Gadarans built walls for the joy of stacking stone. The expense and wasted time baffled him.

Klay joined his walks, but no one else spoke to him. Tyrus understood their hatred and didn’t want to provoke them. Klay caught him studying the fortress.

“Dizzying, isn’t it?”

Tyrus said, “What madman built those walls?”

“Families of them, over many generations. They are displays of wealth and power. The biggest walls are the most respected, so the wealthiest families have moved toward the bottom of the range.”

“But that makes them first responders.”

“Another point of pride. The most important families live on the far side, facing the barbarians and giants of the Norsil Plains. They truly defend their walls. These”—Klay made a dismissive gesture toward Ironwall—”are seldom attacked, but don’t say that to anyone.”

“Why waste so many resources?”

“Tradition. Ironwall began as a quarry for Shinar and later became the Western Defense. Shinar held the eastern side of Teles, or at least, it did. They are allies and rivals.”

“They sacrifice the initiative to hole up here.”

“Don’t mention that either. Defending the far side is a serious thing. The giants have sacked Ironwall a few times, but not in recent memory. Although they rarely leave their walls, the Gadarans consider themselves the best warriors in the world.”

“The Shinari had Gadaran mercenaries. They fought well.”

“Commoners. An easier path to wealth than the mines; well, maybe more enjoyable is the right way to say it.”

They grew quiet. Tyrus noticed a tension in Klay’s shoulders. He scanned the elves and the other rangers; no one else seemed upset. The closer they drew to Ironwall, the more agitated Klay became.

Tyrus asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve never liked cages. And Ironwall is one of the biggest.”

The next morning, Tyrus noticed the elves had left. He saw four rangers with bears. He had also been unchained and didn’t remember dressing himself, but he wore a thin shirt and breeches. The lack of armor in a strange land—his blanket of steel—exposed him. He wanted to wear plate, but even if he had a set, he lacked the energy to march in it.

“No chains?”

“Not today,” Klay said.

“Where did the elves go?”

“A pack of purims came close last night. The elves hunt them.”

“Purims?”

“You do not have them on Sornum?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Demon spawn. Part man, part bear or wolf. Imagine Chobar running on two legs with fingers and weapons. The Ashen Elves have fought for generations to keep them out of Paltiel.”

Tyrus had never heard of half-animal warriors before and wondered what other Demon Tribes existed. He pictured Chobar swinging an axe and carrying a shield. One would be nasty, but Klay spoke of a pack.

“They roam in groups?”

Klay nodded. “Can you walk?”

“I can. Is it better if I walk into Ironwall?”

“The knights will respect it more.”

Tyrus twisted his shoulders and pulled his knees to his stomach one by one. Stretching helped. His joints popped. The sounds started in his shoulders and worked down his back. Relief washed over him for a moment, but stiffness returned. Time worked against him, traveling to a hostile city without the strength to fight. Ironwall was close enough for the ramparts to be seen, but the march would hurt. He needed sleep and more food. He noticed no roads connecting Ironwall to Paltiel, and they had followed no roads out of Paltiel as far as he knew.

“No roads?”

“Not from the east. There are southern and northern routes to Shinar that go wide of Paltiel.”

“No love between Ironwall and Telessar?”

“The Gadarans adore the elves, but elves are not fond of people. Call us barbarians. They think of knights as little better than heretics, too bloodthirsty to be faithful.”

Tyrus headed toward Ironwall, but Klay stopped him.

“The elves leaving was a bit of luck. I meant what I said earlier. If you want to run, you’ve earned it. We won’t stop you. Not sure if we could do much to stop it.”

“A well-placed arrow. Those bears.” Tyrus gestured at his clothes and lack of armor or weapons. “You could if you wanted to.”

“You don’t understand.” Klay weighed his words. “The knights from Shinar will not give you the chance. They’ll demand your head. Lael had two sons. They lead the Soul of Shinar now.”

“How much influence does Dura have?”

“The king listens to her, but he is his own man. Lael was his cousin.”

Tyrus hated politics. Men should fight with steel and not words. He studied the absurd maze of walls and towers leading up the mountain. The fortress looked like the work of a paranoid architect. In Rosh, they prized mobility over static defenses. Tyrus knew one thing: in his current condition, breaking out of those gates would be impossible.

Klay said, “We can cut you loose.”

“The knights will know, though, won’t they?”

“You’ll have a good lead.”

Tyrus imagined himself alone on the plains, unknown country, filled with war bands. Klay spoke of giants, barbarians, and animal men. Tyrus had the skills to earn his place in a land like that. He could topple kings or forge a new nation to fight Rosh. But to what end? The shedim would find him, and before he built an empire, he would need to outrun knights and elves and Roshan flyers. He saw himself hounded, bled, and killed in the tall grass.

He should protect his wards, but thousands of swordsmen, beasts, and elves blocked his path to Ishma. Zealots surrounded Marah in Ironwall. He lacked tools, supplies, resources. If he were honest with himself, he wasn’t at a quarter of his usual strength. He couldn’t protect himself let alone rescue Marah or Ishma, and the blue star bothered him. A silly dream, but the seraphim promised redemption. Had he earned it yet, or must he stand trial in Ironwall? A bigger game played around him, and no one told him the rules. Did he walk into Ironwall as an act of faith? He wanted to lie down in the grass and sleep. Maybe rest would clear his mind.

Klay coughed. “What do you want to do?”

“I need to protect Marah.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.” Tyrus shrugged. “But it is my duty.”

“So be it.”

He trudged over hard ground; rocks filled the scrublands and bit into the soles of his feet until they burned and bruised. He carried no weight but had strained his neck and back. Pain stopped him several times, and he groaned as he stretched. The rangers waited for him.

“I’m sorry I’m so slow.”

Klay said, “It’s amazing that you can walk.”

“I can barely carry my own weight.”

“You’ll grow stronger.”

As the sun set, they passed the main gates of Ironwall. Tyrus saw evidence of the nobles building walls for prestige: overly elaborate architecture, decorative patterns in the stone blocks, flourishes in the steel gates, floral patterns in the portcullis. The Gadarans made war into art, but they did not sacrifice utility. He noted thick walls, well manned. Breaking through so much stone would take an ordinary army months, maybe years, but Tyrus remembered Azmon’s dreams of running through walls. The beasts would make a mockery of these defenses.

The rangers took their bears away from the people and stables through a side tunnel. Klay stayed with him, but Chobar left. Trumpets signaled heavy infantry bristling with steel. The familiar ring of armor, like tiny bells, echoed down a street. Tyrus saw runes etched into sword blades and shields: dwarven work, expensive in Rosh and probably no different here.

“These are the knights,” Klay said. “They will take you from here.”

“Can I see Marah and Einin?”

“Only if the king allows. I will speak on your behalf, but Ironwall is filled with Shinari refugees.” Klay offered an apologetic look. “You are not very popular.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

A dozen knights circled him, swords and shields ready. Two young men stepped forward, brothers by their faces even if their hair was at odds, blond and brown. They wore medals on gold chains above their armor, a lot of medals. Tyrus didn’t understand. His swordsmen kept their armor clean and smooth to deflect blade points, and he expected knights to be less pretentious.

“Do you remember me?” The blond one spat on Tyrus’s foot. “Answer me.”

“Should I?”

“You killed my father.”

A rehearsed line from a young man filled with hatred. Tyrus kept an impassive face, not hard to do. Dangerous men were quiet and struck when you didn’t expect. The talkers of the world could be dangerous, but most were just loud.

“Well, what have you to say?”

Klay coughed. “Prince Lior, Dura wants him taken prisoner.”

“Dura does not rule here.” The prince stepped closer to Tyrus, close enough to kill with a punch to the throat. “I fought you on the fields of Shinar when you killed the Rune Blade, Edan. I fought you on the walls before your monsters tore them down.”

Tyrus waited for the speech to end.

“King Lael Baladan was my father.”

Tyrus asked, “Are you the king of Ironwall?”

“What? Of course not.”

“Then take me to your king.”

Lior’s eyes bulged. “You dare command me?”

Tyrus waited through more bluster. Lior asked who Tyrus thought he was and what he thought they would do to a filthy murderer, but Tyrus knew he was to be escorted to a cell until the king decided his fate. The prince wanted to pick a fight, and Tyrus was too tired to care.

“Chain him.”

Tyrus became a parcel, packaged and delivered to many places within Ironwall. He hopped from wall to wall up the mountain pass, was handed off to new guards and placed in new cells at each stop. He was dragged to each in a comical amount of chains binding his torso and legs. New people interrogated him at each handoff. No torture could hurt more than his fall, and they could devise no horror that compared to his memories. He endured threats and theatrics.

Later, he found a more permanent home deep within the mountain, mines converted into dungeons with dark boxes cut out of stone. The worst part was the lack of food. When he was hurt, he could eat more than three men, and all they fed him was a watery gruel. They starved him. His stomach growled endlessly, and he felt his strength slipping away again.

All the prison cells warped his sense of time—too many windowless boxes. He passed hours wondering about Ishma. Was she safe? Had Azmon hurt her? He wanted to think of happier times, but none came to mind. If she lived, she probably sat in a cell similar to his.

They kept him in chains but gave him enough slack to use one corner for food and the other to relieve himself. The boredom took its toll, dulled his mind. He had nothing to look at. They had chiseled the cage out of solid rock. It looked like dwarven work, which made sense if they used dwarven weapons.

The rattling chains brought back memories of the Father of Lies, chained in his cell at the bottom of the Nine Hells. If Tyrus were more human, would the knights have chained him like this?