Tyrus reached for his sword. “A bad omen?”
“Hard to say.” Azmon shielded his eyes. “Would be easier to place the constellation at night, but I believe that is the Spear of Abdiel. The angelic hosts of the Seven Heavens have taken an interest in our victory.”
“Seraphim?”
“Perhaps they pay homage to their great king.”
“What does it mean?”
Azmon waited with everyone else. A divine sign was rare, and Tyrus wondered if a visitation would follow, or one of the older stories made flesh: warriors with white wings, raining down fire, brimstone, and holy vengeance. Tyrus had never seen the seraphim before, but he had met more than a few demons. Would the angels avenge Shinar? The air of the arena became expectant, tense.
Nothing happened.
“Strange.” Azmon stood and glanced at the star again before collecting his white robes. “Escort these turncoats to the palace. Keep them separated and guarded. Tyrus, see to the city. I want the fires put out. The less we have to rebuild, the better.”
“As you wish.”
“And I want an accounting of what stands, their losses and ours. I’ll await your report in my quarters.”
II
Columns of smoke marred the skyline of Shinar. The legendary white walls, taller than towers, still impressed Tyrus as he surveyed the smoldering ruins from the arena stairs. All of creation spoke of Jethlah’s Walls, and it felt strange to have humbled them. History would remember him as the man who broke a thing of beauty. A few towers stood, but many had toppled. Rubble and debris choked the streets. Blood stained gutters. Fires raged. Dust and smoke clung to the city, and the haze obscured things, giving the city a ghostly appearance.
When night fell, the temperature would drop, and the armor that boiled Tyrus would soon freeze him. He headed to his tent at the heart of Shinar and saw the blue star hanging in the sky but tried to avoid staring. Too many of his swordsmen, pointing and gossiping, looked to him for leadership. The Damned could not fret over blue light.
He wondered why the omen picked that moment to appear. The Roshan Empire had conquered a dozen cities in their march west. They had left their own continent, invaded this one, and destroyed all who opposed them. Tyrus remembered Azmon creating the first beasts years ago. No stars had shone. Was it an honor for the dead or a warning for the living? What did it mean?
Tyrus had more pressing work. The emperor wanted an accounting, and their supply lines struggled to find new homes within the ruins of the city.
Messengers waited outside his tent, a dozen young men, lightly armored, runners and riders. He had divided the city into quadrants and given each to one of his generals, who subdivided their own sections. Cavalry, spearmen, swordsmen, archers, and a shrinking knighthood—more and more nobles studied runes to become bone lords—all tallied, roughly thirty thousand fighting men reported to him. More than thrice that if you counted engineers, craftsmen, cooks, apothecaries, and surgeons. The emperor tasked him with moving this small city from battlefield to battlefield.
At some point, and he struggled to remember when, he had morphed from a champion of Rosh to a scribe. He wrote orders. The messengers perked at his arrival and rushed to him.
“My Lord Marshal—”
Tyrus raised a hand for silence and entered the tent. He had no interest in a mob of requests. The interior of the tent resembled a cave after the midday sun. The stuffiness, the dimness, washed over him—smell of flax, parchment, old carpets, and dust—before his eyes adjusted and what seemed a confined space looked large enough for a dozen people, tables of tallies and scrolls.
The emperor wanted all that parchment to make sense. Tyrus pushed down a wave of nausea. Before they had conquered creation, he had been a swordsman. Rank came with so many unwanted things.
Elmar, his master clerk, never rested, an ancient face with beady eyes, a man who had scratched his scalp bare. He read reports as two men unbuckled Tyrus’s armor and another toweled his face. Tyrus found a drink in his hand, a cool lead mug, sweating, with a sweet wine that washed the taste of the arena out of his mouth. Elmar had broken out the good stuff, a Habiri Pale that was sugary, and pieces of fruit floated in it, citrus of some kind, sugary and delicious.
Tyrus savored the small cup of civilization. It washed the taste of smoke from his mouth. How had Elmar chilled his mug? No time to dwell on it. Elmar had said something about tunnels.
“Tunnels?”
“In old Shinar, near the river. No good estimates on numbers, but that is the last of the fighting. The beasts are little help. They do not fit underground.”
“They’re still fighting?”
“The fiercest resistance. They say there is a city under the city.”
“Dwarves?”
Elmar checked a scroll. “I don’t believe so.”
Tyrus drank his wine. The coolness soothed his throat, radiated outward, chilling his stomach, and gave him a moment of peace.
He enjoyed reports of the beasts’ failures, but it meant he would lose men. This was the old debate that bothered him still. He had always thought of the beasts as walking siege engines, a rationale that blinded him to their monstrosity. They were the worst kind of weapon. He wanted to use them because it meant fewer of his men died, but they committed such horrid acts of violence. Feeding the enemy to hungry bears would be more honorable.
“Early reports, the Great Library is lost.”
“Lost? Entirely lost?”
“It burned, milord.”
A metallic moan cut through the bustle of the tent. Clerks turned to look. He had done it again. Crushed another glass in his hand. Damn these runes. Elmar took the ruined cup from him. Wine had spilt all over, leaving his hand wet and sticky. The emperor wanted the great library taken whole. Generations of scrolls, priceless knowledge, priceless, Azmon had said.
“Bring me Lady Lilith.”
Elmar sent a runner.
The reports continued, and Tyrus issued orders. According to ancient myths, Shinar had grown from a small fortification to a sprawling city of two million people, but without an elaborate series of aqueducts providing water and an empire shipping goods to the city, it never would have grown so vast. The bone lords smashed the ducts first. The city collapsed on itself, breeding disease and famine. Tyrus had not wanted to destroy the ducts, only to divert their water, but Azmon used the beasts, creating another mess for Tyrus to clean.
He thought Shinar had fallen days ago, but as he learned more, he found that the city was a dozen smaller cities wrapped in one. Most of the resistance came from private nobles with their own small armies guarding villas the size of castles.
“What progress with the casualty lists?”
“The Shinari numbers, milord, trying to count what the beasts left behind…”
Tyrus sympathized. He had watched the monsters do their work, but the emperor would erect a triumphant arch to celebrate his victory. The monoliths stood over a hundred feet tall with details of the victory carved into marble. Azmon loved his numbers. He wanted a full accounting and would engrave his legacy in stone.
“I need to know how many we defeated.”
“Between the conscriptions, the famine, the beasts devouring defenders, there might have been three hundred thousand, or there might have been thirty thousand.”
Tyrus didn’t like either number. They didn’t feel historic. An army of three hundred thousand would have sortied and destroyed the invaders. Not really—most would know they were civilians with no training, but the historians loved scandals. The numbers must protect Azmon’s legacy. They needed a probable number, impressive without becoming absurd.
“Can you count helms or swords?”
“Same problem as the fall of Hurr: the men take trophies.”
“I will commission a sculpture made from Shinari swords and issue a bounty for the blades.” Tyrus waved his hand, a signal for Elmar to work out the pricing. “We’
ll place it on the emperor’s arch, my gift to him. Like we did with Hurr.”
“An expensive gift, milord.”
“But fitting for the first man to break Jethlah’s Walls.”
“As you wish.”
“Prepare an estimate of the conscriptions. Call them irregulars. Make it twice the swordsmen if you must.”
“Of course.”
A decent estimate of the hardened veterans they overcame, and some fanciful numbers of irregular troops they disposed of afterward. That felt truthful, like something Tyrus might read in a history of one of the great emperors.
A wash of sunlight bleached the tent. Tyrus squinted and blinked for a moment. Few people would march in unannounced. He grimaced at a woman in black robes, Lady Lilith.
Unlike most of the nobles, she had never taken runes to make herself appear young, and she did not dye her hair to imitate the emperor. No blonde curls for her. She looked her age, mid-forties, skin weathered from a long campaign, brown hair with strands of gray. Compared to Azmon, the Eternal Youth, she seemed matronly. Around her shoulders, she wore a large gold chain with talismans that signified her rank: the most powerful of the bone lords, Azmon’s greatest student, and the third in command of the Imperial Army. She left the soldiers to Tyrus, and he left the beasts to her.
“Lady Lilith.”
“My Lord Marshal.”
“I’m told the library burned.”
The frosty attitude melted, but only just. He had known her long enough to read her well. The smugness of sorcery faded, but she would not admit her mistake.
“The emperor wanted the library intact. You assured me your beasts would protect the scrolls.”
“There was a fight in the library. I thought I had cornered the Red Sorceress. She fired the scrolls rather than let us have them.”
“The Red Sorceress has been sighted all over Shinar. We’ve been chasing her ghost for days. She is currently leading a resistance in the tunnels near the river. Anytime something goes wrong, it is the Red Sorceress.” Tyrus would not accuse her of lying. He implied it and watched her bristle. “Did you see her, Lilith?”
“One of her students for sure, Larz Kedar. We dueled with runes, but it set off their trap—casks of oil in the library. I lost four beasts to the blaze. They had no intention of letting Azmon take the scrolls.”
That sounded good. He would use that detail in his report. The acolytes burned their treasures rather than leave them to the bone lords. Tyrus knew Azmon would be furious and wondered if he should have secured the library himself. He had fought King Lael instead.
Lilith said, “We don’t need their scrolls.”
“Azmon wanted them.”
“They are relics of a bygone era. Irrelevant.” Lilith smoothed her robe. “If the Shinari scrolls had any power in them, they would not have been conquered. We are the new world power.”
He sighed. “Azmon wanted them.”
“Is this why you summoned me? To avoid blame for the library? I assumed we would discuss more pressing matters. I need to replace over forty beasts. I have a dozen more that are easier to replace than repair. I need materials.”
Materials had become code for bodies.
“No.”
“The nobles are not fools. You sacrificed our beasts against the walls to save your precious swordsmen. Now that we are weakened, you think to consolidate your position—”
Tyrus raised a hand. “We are still sorting the dead. The emperor wants an accounting of the battle. And navigating the caravans around the surviving beasts is difficult enough.” Horses and mules hated the monsters. They needed two armies, marching parallel, to keep the animals from panicking. “There is fighting beneath the city. We need to finish this battle before we start rebuilding.”
“The bone lords will not like that.”
“Tough.”
“You should be more careful. You are his favorite, for now, but the Etched Men are dying out. The bone lords have taken over the court and they do not like bowing before a commoner.” She watched her words work on him. “How much longer do you think the emperor will need a marshal with no talent for sorcery?”
Tyrus stood, and Lilith lowered her eyes. They played this game more frequently of late. He was a commoner by birth, but no noble had ever survived half as many etchings, yet that earned no respect from the court. Did they think the war was over? They planned their little fiefdoms? He took a calming breath.
“You threaten me?”
“Of course not, milord. I speak as a friend, Tyrus, as an old friend. The court has changed, and there are all these new faces. You provoke them. The days of Etched Men are numbered, and many envy your rank.”
“When we have sorted our dead from theirs, you may collect your materials. Until then, do something useful with your sorcery. Put out fires. Find the Red Sorceress. Salvage something from the library.”
Lilith locked eyes with him. She believed he had become irrelevant. Runes strengthened his eyes. In the dim light of the tent, they flashed gold, like a wolf’s, and the staring contest ended. Lilith took interest in the table of scrolls and smoothed her robe again. Her fussiness bothered Tyrus. The lords preferred clean fingernails. Labor was for their beasts.
“You are dismissed, milady.”
Lilith tilted her chin and left.
“If I may, she has a point.” Elmar sidled up to Tyrus. “A lot of things have changed in the last few years. The men no longer call it the Royal Court of Rosh. They call it the Court of Bones. Sorcerers replace everyone.”
“Court of Bones?”
“The latest battlefield promotions.”
Elmar handed him a piece of parchment with two columns, the dead and their replacements. Tyrus scanned the lists. His officers replaced by bone lords, and he knew many of them, soft people, pampered people, who had no idea what the army did. They fought from the rear, barking commands. The men wouldn’t follow them. Champions led the charge. The men with the most runes fought first.
“On whose authority?”
“The emperor’s.”
More scrolls, royal seals, and Azmon’s flourished signature for Tyrus to inspect. Why had no one told him?
“When did this happen?”
“This morning, before the executions.”
Tyrus had stood beside the emperor for hours, and he hadn’t said a word. He called for his armor again even though he hated wearing it in the heat, but until the city was pacified, he had a role to perform. The sight of the Damned in full armor had won a few battles, and Tyrus had learned how to use his black name. Clerks buckled him into his plate.
“Work on the counts. Start buying swords. I need to speak to the emperor.”
“Milord, there are also reports of a small army of knights that fled the battle.”
“How many?”
“A hundred, maybe more. The Red Sorceress was spotted with them.”
“I am so tired of that woman.” Tyrus stretched his shoulders, testing the range of motion as he wondered which reports to believe. He had known the Red Sorceress in another life, Dura Galamor, the emperor’s one-time tutor turned rival decades ago. “I’m starting to think Dura was never in Shinar.”
“She was seen on the wall.”
“An old woman in a red robe was seen.”
“The scout thought the knights escorted her from Shinar. He noted that she had multiple students with her. Five red robes, all mounted.”
The knights might leave a battle to protect Dura. She had a long history with Azmon. She had taught him the Runes of Dusk and Dawn long before he created the beasts. After he created them, Dura tried to kill him and had dedicated her life to rallying Shinar and the nations of the west against Rosh. She decried the monsters as unholy abominations from the Nine Hells. Dura had opposed them when their boats assaulted the port of Imrumm and arrived at each battle for the other cities on the march to Shinar.
“Send a message to Lady Lil
ith. Dispatch flyers to scout for the Red Sorceress. They won’t find her. Never have. But we should try.”
“Of course, milord.”
Tyrus walked toward the palace at the heart of Shinar. The city had a fortress, King’s Rest, within its walls, larger than any of the private villas. Tyrus could see where he wanted to go, but the maze of ramparts and buildings confused him. The streets bent around hills and threw off his sense of direction. Azmon had claimed the royal apartments. Tyrus would need to take rooms befitting his rank but put off the task—too many details to worry about.
The blue star shone brighter as the day wore on. The light pierced the smoke and dust better than the sun. Maybe the seraphim mourned Shinar. The blue light seemed sad, lamenting as it cast a ghostly halo into the drifting smoke.
A bone lady, a younger version of Lilith, patrolled the street with two hulking beasts. She wore silky black robes and carried a silver rod that resembled a stake, a large orb on one end and a tapering point on the other. The beasts flanked her. Their heavy footfalls thudded down the street. They breathed deeply, air rattling their chests. The lady saluted and gave Tyrus a wide berth.
He mulled over the best way to kill her. Not because he wanted to, but as an exercise in tactics. If Tyrus fought Rosh, he would use archers and spearmen, in teams. Arrows to kill the controllers and spears to keep the beasts at bay, similar to hunting bears with dogs. And as a bear would maul a few dogs, he would lose several spearmen to each monster. He could estimate men needed per beast, and the rest became choosing the right terrain to box in the big brutes.
Tyrus thought the bone lords must see their vulnerabilities. Would they replace him with these mindless things? Court of Bones—what idiot came up with that name?
Tyrus felt his age. He had fought beside Azmon before he had been crowned emperor, decades ago, when Rosh was a small kingdom. Runes prolonged his service in ways he had never imagined. Like the emperor, the Eternal Youth, he had stopped aging, yet another reason people called him the Damned. They thought he was another abomination, another beast. His scars had scars, and he sensed his worst defeat before him. He had lived long enough to become irrelevant.
TODAY IS TOO LATE Page 2
