TODAY IS TOO LATE (6 page)

A monster smart enough to use a sword would be the ideal. Tyrus saw it, even if Azmon wouldn’t admit his plans. Beasts with swords required no supplies. A new army without cooks or clerks or smiths would be truly unstoppable, large beasts to pull down walls and small beasts to assault tunnels and towers.

Tyrus kept his face blank but saw his future. He would be replaced with the first monster to master an axe.

Emperor Azmon Pathros, Prince of the Dawn, First of the Bone Lords, Supreme Ruler of the Roshan Empire, and Conqueror of the Five Nations, stretched his back. He groaned. He had spent too long hunched over tables filled with scrolls, and a tightness pulled across his shoulder blades while the base of his neck felt pinched. He glanced at Tyrus, a mountain of black armor that had grown quiet.

Azmon asked, “Anything else?”

Tyrus shook his head once.

“I’ll leave you to sort out the tunnels.”

“As you wish.”

Azmon watched his friend leave, a lumbering hulk as wide as a door, but no idiot. Tyrus was clever. He could read a person or battlefield like a scroll, and the man’s uncanny knack for controlling a battle had awed Azmon many times. He acted with precision, making deft moves quickly, while others watched. Given free reign, he might cull too many bone lords.

Azmon considered the problem. If the lords could not outwit a warrior, they deserved to die, but at the same time he had hope that a few might progress further. No matter how he approached their training, many would never attain mastery. The Runes of Dusk and Dawn eluded most, a problem for another day.

He returned to Lael’s scrolls. Nothing important: no communications of note, no hints at why the elves had not aided Shinar, and nothing about the runes in the library. Nothing to suggest any of the nobles knew about the blue star. No prophecies or proclamations. Azmon picked through petty lists of expenses, entertainments, and crop yields. Not one important number among them.

Azmon wanted the real books behind Shinar with the debts incurred defending the city, but he found dated and useless trivia. Dura was here. He saw her attention to detail in the lack of evidence. She had cleansed the palace and left Azmon to confront Telessar blind. He closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and gathered himself. He had arcane tools for gathering information, but none were pleasant.

The old crone had stood here and played with these documents. What had she done? What did he overlook? Azmon pushed away memories of his childhood, memories of Dura teaching him runes, memories of Dura lecturing him about his potential, memories of Dura pushing him to his limits. She never forgave him for embracing the shedim or creating the monsters.

He struggled with the memories.

She had told him once that inside each man live two children: a Child of Light and a Child of Darkness. She had warned him that the child he fed would dominate him. Little choices, day by day, would determine what kind of man he became. As a child, he had accepted those words as gospel, but ruling an empire changed him. The world was seldom so black and white.

Azmon kicked a pile of scrolls. The stack fluttered across the room like dead leaves. No choice but to use sorcery. He muscled down his revulsion.

“Guardsman.”

A man in black armor opened the door.

“Bring me one of Lael’s clerks.”

The guard saluted, left, and returned a short time later with a pudgy man who had beads of sweat on his upper lip. The clerk had the wide nostrils of a scared animal. He trembled before dropping to a knee.

“Your Excellency. How may I be of service?”

The clerk spoke fluent Kasdin with a hint of an accent. Most of the Shinari spoke Nuna and tended to slur their
s
’s. Azmon hated wasting an educated man, especially one conversant in his native tongue. He gestured for the guard to leave. The door banged shut.

Azmon stood in his white robes, studying the man, estimating his height and weight. The man’s eyebrows twitched when he peeked at the room. Azmon withdrew a silk bag of sand from his robes. He found a large enough space on the marble floor, knelt, and used fistfuls of sand to draw the Runes of Dusk and Dawn. He held his hand a few inches above the floor and let the sand snow into lines. Grains of sand bounced across the tiles in a large circular pattern.

“Your Excellency?”

“Silence.”

When he finished, he surveyed his work and made minor changes. Azmon gathered himself, inhaled, and closed his eyes. He visualized a gate rune, an orange and fiery circle that he willed his mind to enter, and part of himself traveled beyond his body to the Nine Hells. The room chilled. He opened his eyes to tunnel vision. Most of his sight blurred except for a small disk in front of him. Touching the other realms did this, slowed his heart, drained the blood from his face, leeched the color from his eyes. A force pulled at his soul, tried to drag him into the hells. He dueled with this invisible thing, cheated death, and was rewarded with an infusion of power. He felt crippled and godlike all at once. He exhaled, conscious that, while time felt slow, he had only breathed once.

He spoke a word of power, and the beads of sand drew together into firm lines. The grains looked alive, dancing on the floor, circling and binding to one another. The runes no longer resembled spilt dust but thin coils of metal.

“Come here.” Azmon gestured at the clerk. He could not see him but used his ears to find the man from the ruffle of clothes, a hand straightening a coat. Azmon enjoyed the tunnel vision for this next part. He could not see the victim’s face. “Stand here. You can step on them. Do not worry. They are strong.”

The clerk took position. He turned to ask, “Here?” and Azmon covered his mouth with one hand, stepped behind him, and slit his throat with a dagger. A move practiced over many years, hiding the dagger until the last moment.

“Hush.” A word of power kept the man from thrashing but didn’t stop the choking sounds. Azmon lowered him facedown to the floor. Blood spilled. The runes drank. They glowed, a red light growing in strength.

Azmon had to rely on a chant for the next part. He had not yet achieved the mastery to visualize the incantation. He spoke forbidden words, heretical, Runes of Dusk that the overlords of the Nine Hells had taught him. A red mist formed around the body. He chanted a profane prayer to the shedim. The mist swirled and became a face. Azmon knew the owner was masculine, but the androgynous features were too pretty to be male. The voice pleased the ear, a musical lilt. The demons were so pleasing in appearance that when they first approached Azmon, decades ago, he had thought they were angels.

“Speak.”

“Mulciber, my master, Shinar has fallen. The Eastern Defense is destroyed, and King Lael Baladan is no more. The Soul of Shinar is defeated.”

“Not all of them.”

“A small host of knights escaped with Dura. They head for Telessar or Ironwall. We are not sure.”

“The seraphim try to hide her, but your old teacher heads for Ironwall.”

“There has been a development,” Azmon said, “a blue star over the city.”

“Ignore it. Begin the first of the seven battles. Gather my beasts and claim the White Gate.”

“I know nothing of the elven strength. The Paltiel Woods are much larger than the Shinari plains. The elves did nothing to help Shinar.”

“They prepare for you, but the days of the nephalem are numbered. Take my army to the gate.”

“Everyone fears the Ashen Elves.” Azmon licked his lips. “Even the Shinari say they are the real power in the land, and their sorcerers have secret runes. I fear their city will not fall as easily as Shinar.”

Shimmers of heat rippled the surface of the face. Azmon could never tell if it was pleased. Anger played out as a scowl, but Mulciber seldom smiled. “The battle will be long. You will burn the forest. Force them to their mountain.”

“As you wish, master.”

“Claim the gate. Now begone.”

“Master?” Azmon dared much, and his hands trembled. “Does Ironwall march to defend the mountain? What strength do we face?”

The face closed its eyes. Azmon wondered if he had pushed Mulciber too far, but he needed to know Dura’s plans. Taking Shinar had been simple. They had laid siege to a city. But the elves hid in the Paltiel Woods and would have every advantage. Azmon needed to level the odds.

“The seraphim guard their secrets well,” Mulciber said. “Ironwall does not march. Dura tries to unite the dwarven clans. She will fail…” The voice trailed off. “Construct more beasts. Burn the woods to the ground. Do not underestimate the elves.”

“Yes, master.”

The red mist evaporated. Azmon rolled the dried corpse off the runes and spoke a word of power. The rigid shapes became sand again—white with no bloodstains. Where did all the blood go? He should know but had not written the rites, only memorized them. He used his sorcery to gather the grains into a ball, swirling in the air, and to collect them in his silk bag.

Azmon struggled with an unclean feeling as he severed contact with the Nine Hells. Clammy and crawling skin made him shudder, and blood raced to his face and extremities while his heart fluttered. He closed his eyes and centered himself, fighting off a dizzy spell. Mulciber was the worst of the demons to summon. He had fewer problems after talking to the other overlords of the Nine Hells.

“Guard.”

The door opened.

“Dispose of this. Have my maid draw up a bath.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

The man hesitated. Azmon tried to keep these rituals as discrete as possible. His followers feared what they did not understand, and he had learned to be more humble after the last civil war. No sense provoking their little minds. The man struggled to speak.

“What is it?”

“Lady Lilith has been collecting materials for new beasts, Your Excellency. Shall I send this to her?”

“No. Burn it.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

The fat clerk had nothing of quality to produce a decent beast. Lilith would know that, but he wondered if the soldiers needed to know it as well. The less they knew about the constructs the better. Many of the beasts were created from fallen soldiers.

He waited for his bath, feeling things slither across his skin, a sensation of bugs prickling every hair on his body that brought back old memories of his travels to the Underworld. Azmon had promised demons service in exchange for forbidden runes, and he was one of only two mortals to travel to the Nine Hells without dying first. Fifteen years had passed since that journey, and the nightmares still gave him insomnia. Thinking about it brought back the smell of sulfur and ash. He tried to convince himself it was only Shinar burning.

All the sacrifices he had made for Mulciber—thousands of victims bled to give the overlord strength before Azmon risked his own life to help free Mulciber from his prison—and this was his thanks? His empire, his army, all his strength wasted on the Ashen Elves. He might lose everything.

Azmon scratched his scalp. He told himself the crawling bugs were only in his mind, but that didn’t stop the itching.

He knew he was expendable to the shedim, but if he found the runes he needed, then he would finally have the power to challenge the angelic host. Angels and demons alike would be cast down as false gods. He would create a new world free of their tyranny and rules and egos. But time dwindled. Mulciber wanted war, and Azmon must obey.

Tyrus walked the great walls of Shinar. He had humbled them, used beasts to tear holes into them, but their height and thickness still amazed him. He saw for miles, the Shinari plains, the small trickles that passed as rivers in Argoria, as well as the various districts in the city, and noted that, inside the walls, fires cleaned the streets and teams of men fought them while, outside the walls, an army of craftsmen, mules, and carts fought for new homes. Everything tasted of ash. Tyrus could not escape the smell. Smoke clung to the smoldering rubble until a breeze changed and washed him in clouds that watered his eyes and burned his throat.

The sun set in the west, blood red. He had not seen his real home in seven years and imagined it somewhere past the shadowy horizon in the east. He retraced the path of the army: marching hundreds of leagues from Shinar, east and north through the port cities of Narmena, Cosar, Imrumm and Rallir—each of which the bone lords had conquered and purged—and then sailing for weeks over the Grigorn Sea, to the port of Narbor on the continent of Sornum; and marching for weeks again through the Kassiri mountains past the city of Rosh to his homeland of Kelnor.

Kelnor had apple trees. Tyrus struggled to remember the smell of their blossoms. His home’s soil was a proper black, not the yellow clay that filled the Shinari plains. Shinar’s streets looked like dried piss.

Tyrus headed for the northern gatehouse. A smaller city would call it a fortress, but Shinar’s actual fortress, King’s Rest, dwarfed it. As daylight faded, the star shone brighter. It dominated the sky and tinted the smoke blue. The star insisted, and Tyrus could not help looking. What did the seraphim want? He planned a defense as he walked, teams of beasts to control the broken walls while he guarded the royal family himself, safeguarding Ishma and the unborn heir. A futile gesture if the seraphim attacked, but he planned to die fighting.

At the gatehouse, six archers sat on the ramparts. Three slept while the others complained about smoke, and below them, in the northern gate, teams of mules and oxen bleated. Tyrus caught a furious whisper. “Sweet mercy, it’s the Damned.” The men scurried to attention.

“Lord Marshal.”

“Relax,” Tyrus said. “As you were.”

The archers eyed one another. No napping with him here. A gust of smoke covered the gatehouse, but at least the temperature had fallen to something tolerable.

Tyrus said, “I wanted some fresh air.”

One man attempted a polite laugh.

Who was Tyrus fooling? The star summoned him to this spot, to see the field where he had killed Shinar’s Reborn hero. He squinted through the smoke. Memories came, another bloody day, when he had earned another title: the Butcher of Rosh.

Three months ago, the Roshan host entered the Shinari plains from the north. Tyrus remembered seeing Shinar, the Jewel of the West, for the first time, glittering in the sun, impossibly large, impressive from the plains, and foreboding as they neared. The monstrous walls dominated the plains; he had never seen stones stacked so high. An army waited outside, silver armor shining, gold banners fluttering in the wind.

Tyrus urged his horse forward. He ordered the cavalry to form a screen while the infantry took position. The Shinari did not charge. They let them form a line. He wondered at their confidence and then studied the walls, which provided an advantage of some sort: siege engines or archers or sorcerers. Armor rustled behind him, hundreds of infantry shifting. Azmon rode a white charger through the lines. Lilith followed on a black mare.

Azmon asked, “Impressive, aren’t they?”

Tyrus said, “They appear to be well disciplined.”

“I mean Jethlah’s Walls. The books and songs don’t do them justice. Only a prophet could build something that large. I don’t know how he did it. No one does. The runes are lost forever.”

“Breathtaking,” Lilith said, “and they have never fallen.”

“This is wrong.” Instead of admiring architecture, Tyrus counted knights. “I expected them to stay within the walls and use sorcery, like the other cities.”

“Lael Baladan is a hero king,” Azmon said. “The Dauntless means to make history and will not surrender the plains without a fight. Tyrus, do you see Dura?”

Tyrus pointed at red robes. “There. On the wall.”

Azmon squinted. “You sure?”

“Red robes, can’t see her face. At least a dozen red robes, but one has gray hair. That one there is old enough to be her.”

Tyrus scanned the yellow clay and found nothing but rolling plains with a few hills big enough to screen a flanking maneuver. Which is why the Shinari dared them to attack. Numbers and experience would decide the battle. How would his veterans compare to the Shinari knights? How would the bone lords match against the students of the Red Tower?

Lilith asked, “Lael leads them?”

“No,” Azmon said. “That is Dura’s student, Edan, the Rune Blade.”

“The farm boy?”

“Tyrus, your eyes are better. That figure there, with the red shield.”

Tyrus found him, a slim youth, wearing the armor of a warrior sorcerer. Knights stood beside him, in heavier armor, wide-shouldered men with beards. The boy had a girl’s slender shoulders. Tyrus did not see Lael but knew the boy was bait. The Warrior King would flank them.

Tyrus said, “Looks like the stories are true. Shall I give them your terms?”

“They want a fight. They believe their Chosen One will drive us back to the Grigorn Sea. Dura will help from the wall, and Lael will hit us after the battle starts.”

Tyrus agreed.

“Lilith, send your beasts to their left,” Azmon said, “and I’ll hit the right.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

The air chilled. Azmon’s eyes whitened, pupils becoming pinpricks. Lilith’s did the same. Dead eyes—Tyrus had never liked the look. The soldiers edged away from the chill. No one wanted sorcery to touch them. Bone beasts roared and ran like apes, long arms mangling the ground as shorter legs hopped forward.

Azmon said, “Let us see what Lael does.”

The Shinari host cantered forward. Lights ignited on the walls, the red sorcerers summoning hellfire. Time slowed. The beasts had a long distance to cover. Flames leapt from the walls. Seconds passed as the fire flew through the air, smoky trails streaming behind. An explosion consumed a beast. The ground shook. Monsters roared. The boy hero led the knights in a charge, and hundreds of knights crashed into scores of monsters. The biggest of the monsters, fifteen feet of claws and sinew, would be overwhelmed by so many lances.

“Take the lancers,” Azmon said. “Charge the center.”

Tyrus unslung his two-handed sword.

“Tyrus, if the boy is as strong as they say, withdraw.”

Tyrus hesitated. If he could slay their savior, it would break their morale. He was a Reborn, though, trained by some of the best sorcerers in creation. Rune Blades were rare; few could master both the sword and sorcery, and those who did were more than equal to an Etched Man, a galling thought, that the little boy might best him, but sorcery ignored thick arms.

“I’ll test the boy. Lael will strike from those hills.”

Azmon glanced west. “From so far? Are you sure?”

Tyrus studied the hills, which resembled a series of yellow dunes on the otherwise flat plains. They bordered the western side of Shinar and provided a screen on Edan’s flank. Tyrus wasn’t sure, but his instincts filled him with dread. He felt cold when he looked at those hills. Death waited beyond them.

“The boy is bait,” Tyrus said, “and there’s nowhere else for Lael to hide his cavalry. He’ll come from the hills. That’s how I would do it.”

Azmon said, “Watch for Edan. Don’t underestimate him.”

“I won’t.”

Tyrus rode his charger in front of the cavalry. He raised his sword, and they raised their lances. He had never been one for speeches, but this charge deserved solemn words to inspire the men, to distract them from the Reborn hero on the field or the massive walls or the sorcerers conjuring hellfire. Actions spoke louder.

“For Rosh!”

He pointed and charged, and the cavalry followed. Hundreds of yards to cover, the plain trembled beneath the rumble of hooves and armor. Cold adrenaline crept into his stomach as the sounds deafened his ears, and for a brief moment he thought about how each battle felt the same. A sense of duty and training moved him forward while his instincts screamed at him to flee. He waited for the shift. The Shinari would hunt him first. They spotted him, and their boy hero broke off from the beasts, screaming in the Nuna tongue. Knights rallied. Edan pointed his sword at Tyrus, and they charged. On the walls, flames leapt up only to arc down. The explosions shook the ground. Horses screamed while men died.

The charging armies collided.

The rush of wind and speed slammed to a halt. Thousands of lances and shields crashed together, a rolling sound as the uneven lines met like a wave breaking over rocks. Tyrus saw three lances aimed at him, men intent on dying to slay him. He sacrificed his mount to survive, his last plan before chaos. The horse reared, screamed, and Tyrus fell.

He bounced off hard clay, and his own shoulder plate smacked his helm. He kept his sword while hooves kicked his hips and a man stepped on his back. He saw silver armor, grabbed an ankle, pulled the man down. Claustrophobia seized him, a press of bodies, animals and men, armor and shields, pushing him down. Darkness consumed as dust and bodies blocked out the sunlight. Too much noise. Too many people dying. No way to shout orders. Any moment, a lance would pierce his back.

His world brightened: blue skies, black smoke, and sunlight. Men in black armor, his champions, fought to him. A force rushed by, a sensation of power and speed, men on horses charging over the dead and broken people.

Tyrus found his feet, saw silver armor, and attacked. Dozens fought him. His own men stayed close, kept him from being pulled down. The holy knights weren’t like normal men: fearless warriors who gave him no space or respect, most too weak to meet his blade. Tyrus blocked and hacked and found no one with the strength to fight back. These men should let a champion challenge him.

He saw the boy. Knights held him back. Edan shouted and pushed, but the knights sacrificed themselves in his place. Tyrus hacked a man’s legs out from under him, had a moment to breathe, some clarity, and spat dirt. He had a mouthful of clay. Couldn’t remember how that happened.

An explosion, a high-pitched ringing sound, and Tyrus flew through the air. He crashed into the ground. His armor folded his body into a painful contortion, hips above his shoulders. He fell to his side, shook his head, and saw a slim figure standing firm. All around, men had been tossed like leaves, and yellow dust drifted on a breeze. The boy pointed his sword at Tyrus, and the blade burned white hot.

So he was a true Rune Blade. Tyrus knelt, judging the distance. Not much to do; he had no cover and no shield. Flames leapt from the sword. Tyrus pulled his face down, using his forearms to guard his head. The heat hit and suffocated. He wanted to scream but had no air and drowned in fire.

The spell stopped with a rush of warm wind. His armor smoked, his helm burned his forehead, and the smell of his own flesh cooking nauseated him. He ripped off his helmet, but not before it blistered his scalp. Edan prepared another attack, pointing a glowing sword. Tryus launched his helm at the boy. More flames washed past but dulled, off target, and Tyrus charged.

Thousands of men fought, but with less fury than before. They watched the Chosen One engage the Damned. The sorcerers on the walls sent fire at them, but the bone lords intercepted the blasts. A strange landscape in which to fight: dead and broken bodies in yellow dust with explosions burning the sky.

Edan closed with his sword, and their blades crossed. His aggression impressed Tyrus, a brave kid with arms not much thicker than the sword’s blade, but he had strength. Tyrus shouldered him back and hacked downward with everything he had, all his bulk, all his power, and the boy caught it. The shield didn’t even dent. Edan was a Reborn hero who could do things a normal Rune Blade could not, his power impressed Tyrus and he realized he should withdraw.

Azmon was right; this was a task for a sorcerer. But where could he go? His men watched, and if he ran, they would flee while the Shinari rode them down. Thousands would die. No choice but to fight. They crossed blades again, and Tyrus let Edan attack. He blocked each strike, casting about for an advantage. Tyrus had the strength to hold him back, but Edan would figure that out soon and go back to his spells.

“Die,” Edan shouted. “Damn you.”

Tyrus respected the anger but wouldn’t waste time on a retort. He saved his breath, planning on a long fight. He fell back. Maybe he could wear him down, let him exhaust himself, but then he sensed another spell, a chill in the air—so much for stalling.

The sword burned, and each slash sent forth a lash of flame. Edan threw multiple lashes at Tyrus. They scorched the ground and ripped past his armor as if it were made of wool. He felt them cut into his flesh, cauterizing as they tore. He tried to parry, but the flame ignored his sword. Dozens of strikes hit his body. The pain sickened him. He wanted to retch and scream, but he refused—not in front of his men. A force knocked him down. He rolled, and the combination of burns, wounds, and heated armor made him scream despite himself.