TODAY IS TOO LATE

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  Tyrus crouched in the cave, unable to decide. The seraphim hated Rosh but wanted to protect Ishma’s child. Azmon would kill his own daughter. Worse, Azmon might order Tyrus to kill her, and what did his oaths to protect Ishma mean if he killed her children? How could he do that to her?

  And Marah’s rune was real.

  Tyrus had never heard of a Reborn fathering another Reborn. Azmon made history, again, and without even trying. Such a historic birth, in any other time, would cause months of feasts and celebrations. Blue Feasts would have erupted around the world except the bone lords killed the Reborn, a practice Azmon had started after they conquered the Five Nations. The shedim did not want the heroes of the Seven Heavens defying their armies.

  Tyrus hated himself, frozen and crouching in a cave, knowing inaction made bad decisions worse. Ishma deserved better. A guardian should protect that child.

  Einin resembled Ishma enough to confuse him, which was probably why Ishma picked the girl. That and Einin lacked experience. An older woman would have sold Ishma’s secrets to Azmon. Instead, the girl believed in her empress. Einin’s face and the dream—the seraphim defiling his sleep—left him adrift in old memories, from before the long wars, when Rosh had not been corrupted by sorcerers and monsters.

  Tyrus grimaced at his stupid thoughts. He had no time for nostalgia.

  Using Einin was one thing, but Tyrus thought he deserved better. Ishma assumed the worst from him. If she had asked for help, he could have found a better way to protect her and the baby.

  He had hid in the cave too long. He must choose: kill the child or protect it. Either way, people died today. None of his men would betray Azmon; they feared becoming beasts, and who could blame them?

  A simple choice, Ishma or Azmon, the moment he had long dreaded. She arranged this. Such an amazing woman—he both admired and loathed her, and maybe that was a kind of love.

  “Damn you, Ishma.”

  Tyrus crawled toward the mouth. He stood, stretched his neck. A coldness crept through him. Einin spoke true. Azmon would kill Marah. Tyrus hated that knowledge, but Azmon would bow before the overlords of the Nine Hells, and the demons were heartless creatures. A Reborn fathering a Reborn, the scarcity and wonder of that, would mean nothing to them.

  He unslung his two-handed sword. After all these years, the simplicity of deciding another’s fate amazed him. Once decided, everything else became execution.

  He walked out of the cave and sized up his men, warriors he had served with for years. The gloom of the forest was brighter than the cave, and he had to let his eyes adjust to the shifting light. A breeze danced through the tree branches, leaves rustling together as he strolled toward his men. Curiosity greeted him. Many were seasoned veterans, Etched Men, some bearing more than a dozen runes, but not many with that kind of talent. They looked confident, relaxed, although they were in a dangerous forest; their quarry was cornered, outnumbered, and their task nearly complete. Tyrus appraised their skills. He walked up to Nevid, the strongest of them, the most able, though cradling a wounded arm, and split his skull.

  IV

  Nevid had removed his helm, so Tyrus’s sword cut the head in half and clanged against the neck guard but didn’t lodge. Tyrus kicked the mess away. He refused to remember the half-dozen times Nevid had fought at his side, holding his flank, keeping Tyrus from being overwhelmed in the thick of battle. He pushed memories away and jumped to the next man. He took his head in a clean sweep. The man’s shocked face—bouncing off the ground—would haunt him.

  He killed one more before the shock wore off, and the other eight fell on him. They attacked, because what else could they do, but the group lacked strategy or purpose. They reacted with weapons instead of tactics.

  A man grabbed at his sword arm. Idiot should have swung at it, severed it, but he wanted answers more than he wanted to live.

  “Lord Marshal, what—?”

  Tyrus knocked aside the arm, seized the man’s belt, and pulled him into another man’s sword. Metal clanged. Armor deflected the kill. The man turned, asking his question, when Tyrus bashed his nose into his skull. He made an awful snorting sound, too much fluid in his face, and dropped to his knees.

  The chaos, one against seven, worsened. Tyrus did what he could to maximize this moment of confusion. Too much armor—no easy targets—so he used his strength and size to make men collide, fighting more with his shoulders and feet, pushing and kicking men into one another, all while trying to find an opening for his blade. He was a large target but not large enough for seven men. They would figure this out in a moment. Half would fall back, give the others room, and try to wear him down.

  He must keep his feet. If he fell, he’d lose his leverage, and they would smother him.

  A man shoulder-charged him. Tyrus answered with his own shoulder, and the man bounced off, hit the ground. An easy kill, boot to the throat. Tyrus had the strength to crunch the man’s armor into his neck. The man gurgled, clawing at his throat. For a second, Tyrus marveled at the destructive force of his runes. Shoulder charging a larger man, trying to knock over the Butcher; Tyrus had trained them better than that. Had the man dived for his knees and knocked Tyrus down, the fight would have been over.

  His men started thinking and fell back, weapons ready, eyeballing one another. They needed a leader, and he had already killed the two most senior. One of them was about to bark an order, to take command. Tyrus braced for the attack. Can’t let them regroup.

  He charged. He had the strength to move quickly in full armor, and none of these men could match him. Kill the leaders. Keep them confused for as long as possible.

  He kicked a kneecap, might have shattered it. The man fell forward. Tyrus punched with the hilt of the sword and heard bones crunch in his face before he shoved him into the man next to him. Someone rushed Tyrus from the side, and Tyrus put his knee in the man’s gut—stupid, on the verge of being knocked over, keep feet firm on the ground—and the rest rushed him. Hands grabbed, blades struck, and a press of bodies enveloped him.

  “Pull him down.”

  “Take the sword.”

  He pushed backward, felt bodies give beneath his bulk, threw his arm blindly around someone behind him, arm lock, gauntlet to the face, again and again, until the helm collapsed on the man’s forehead. They tried to pull his arms down, but he was stronger and tore free.

  A knife cut into his shoulder. More pain. He lost his sword. Grabbed a man’s wrist. Wrenched it backward, popping the elbow. A boot kicked out at another man, shattering a leg.

  Tyrus danced with five men. Arm around one, headlock, foot kicking, other hand punching. Hands pulled, suffocated him, but he muscled through. Couldn’t stay in the middle of the pile though. Someone would wrap himself around his legs, and that would be the end. He’d fall like a tree. He had to act fast, to keep the dance swirling.

  A man dove at his hips. Tyrus kneed his face. The impact would have knocked him over if he wasn’t leaning on the man in the headlock. He didn’t know whom he held, nor did he care. He grabbed a shoulder and belt and flung him. Armor smashed into more armor, grunts and curses, desperate cries to tackle him, take him down.

  “His legs.”

  “Bring him down.”

  “Help me.”

  “My nose. I can’t see.”

  “Kill him, dammit, just kill him.”

  Tyrus stooped, found a sword, maybe his, maybe the man with the busted arm’s; it didn’t matter. He was swinging again. A twist, blind attack, but instincts told him someone stalked him. The blade arced from the ground upward through the man’s groin. A wet sound, a shriek of pain, and Tyrus swung blindly again at whoever might have crept up on his other side.

  The sword hit air.

  Tyrus pivoted, breathing heavily, waiting for the attack. He felt the weight of his armor, not a good sign. The wrestling had sapped his strength. Try as he might, the numbers worked against him. They wo
uld wear him down.

  Five remained. Hadn’t there been five before? No. A few had hesitated. He had fought five, downed three, and now there were five again. He cursed. The fresh ones calculated their strikes, blades ready, and he could tell from their eyes which of his wounds was the worst.

  A cut in his upper thigh bled. He felt a pressure near the hip but nothing else. The leg had numbed, hard to control. They watched his leg, hoping for an advantage, a weak side, a limp. His runes burned him as they stopped the flow of blood, a familiar sensation. A few more heartbeats, and the leg would be stronger, but these men wouldn’t give him time to recover.

  “Well, here I am,” Tyrus said.

  Might get one or two talking, might buy himself some time to heal, but no one talked. No one attacked. What were they waiting for? Then he heard it, bones clawing the ground. Biral’s damned dogs. Leave it to a bone lord to wait for his leg to get cut.

  Einin heard curses and howling men, a clash of steel, a battle. She knew the sound, but usually it was distant, thousands of men colliding on a field miles away while the wives of the generals watched under parasols. Armies collided like thunderstorms, distant and shocking, on the horizon. This sounded worse, more intimate. She heard cries of pain and bellows of anger. Usually, the battles were too far away to hear men die. She crept around a cave wall, hiding in the shadows but able to see most of the fight. She saw the Butcher.

  “What is he doing?”

  Marah answered with cries.

  The mouth of the cave gave her tunnel vision, framed the fight, so she couldn’t count his men but saw what looked like dozens of them circling him as if he fought an army. She watched the Damned become a vengeful ghost, a blur of unnatural precision and strength. He seemed to make mistakes while his men struggled to avoid them and kept crashing into each other. They fought hard with wary looks. She did not envy them, trying to take down the Butcher of Rosh.

  “Well, here I am,” he said.

  Tyrus barked the words, snarling like an animal. He didn’t sound human, nor did he act like a normal man, but that illusion was shattered by the dog-like beasts, real monsters, three of them, drooling and sprinting at Tyrus. Their claws shredded the forest floor. They were so unnatural with their bone limbs, black leathery skin, and glowing red eyes that they made Tyrus seem like an average man. The dogs jumped. Men charged.

  Einin held her breath. She didn’t blink.

  Tyrus punched a dog in the face hard enough to snap its neck, sidestepped one, and caught the other. He twisted with the animal, and the snarling thing flew through the air and knocked a man over. The last beast circled, he pivoted, and his sword rose and fell as though he were splitting wood. The blade hacked open the black leathery back. The beast howled and clawed at the ground. Tyrus swung wildly, a large circle, and his men jumped back to avoid it.

  The beast he had thrown did not stay down; it kicked and flopped until it regained its feet and charged. It leapt, teeth bared for Tyrus’s throat, but his sword knocked it down. He split its skull. Guardsmen charged.

  A man howled in pain, and another, and another. Things happened too quickly to watch. None of these men were normal, Einin realized; all of them had runes and were far more powerful than most warriors.

  A sword pierced Tyrus’s stomach. He snarled and dropped his weapon. His large hands fell on the guardsman who stabbed him, twisting an arm until it broke, and the man screamed. Then Tyrus wrenched the man’s neck. He shoved the body aside and pulled the sword from his stomach while two guardsmen watched. He gripped the blade, covered in blood, and glared murder.

  Einin gasped, her first breath since the beasts attacked.

  The survivors backed away. The lord fled. Tyrus held the sword, waiting, blood pouring from his armor, joints leaking red down a shoulder, one hip, and his front. There was so much blood that Einin thought he’d die from his wounds.

  Nine of his men down, wounded and dying at his feet, but pain blurred his vision. Yellow afterimages, starbursts, clouded his mind, and his stomach heaved each time he took a step. The pain seared him. One leg, useless, his left arm hanging at his side while two of his men waited. Their mystified faces angered him. Yes, he wanted to tell them, serve the emperor long enough and you will share my fate. He will give you runes you don’t even want.

  He glared his best don’t-even-think-about-it scowl as he fought his own body. Legs threatened to collapse, and mind wanted to pass out, but the wretched runes kept him going. If he stood in one spot, he felt stable, but there was no way to fight two men without footwork.

  The men were slick faced, red cheeked, and breathing hard. The most junior and weak, they had a talent for taking runes but lacked experience; Nevid would have charged by now. They might still kill him, Tyrus warned himself, and he had no strength to stop them.

  “Why, Lord Marshal?”

  “What will we tell the emperor?”

  They wanted answers. That gave him a few seconds and each one counted, buying his runes a little more time to work. At least Biral was a weak lord only capable of making small monsters. Had Tyrus brought Lilith with him, she would have burned him to a cinder. The men waited for an explanation, but more than answers, they had to voice their disbelief. After serving in an army filled with monsters, they still found him shocking.

  Tyrus squinted, measuring the distance.

  The speaker, Rogi, a young guardsman, new to his runes but able to bear more etchings than other men, someone Tyrus had planned to mentor and groom for leadership—a position that Azmon had given to one of his sorcerers—well, Tyrus regretted the knife as he threw it.

  The blade took Rogi in the mouth. He clawed at it, choking, as he spiraled to the ground. His screams became sputtering gurgles.

  The other man, Tamar, gaped. Tyrus should lecture him, train him further—if you have to kill a man, just kill him; don’t talk. Words won’t make it easier. Tamar backed away, angling for a tree as if Tyrus carried more than one knife. And in a moment of inspiration, all the dead men at his feet, he had plenty of knives.

  Tyrus lurched forward, intent on stopping Tamar. The longer it took Azmon to learn of the betrayal, the longer he had to run. But his leg buckled. He stumbled. Yellow lights burst in his vision, and his stomach churned as though he were seasick. He cursed, maybe screamed, didn’t care. He fought on, found his feet, blinked away the pain, but Tamar was gone.

  Tyrus turned, taking in the scene. Biral had fled with the last guardsman. If he fell down, the survivors might recover before he did. He couldn’t let their runes heal them first. He finished off the wounded with a sword. He had to pull back helms to cut their throats, and a few begged as he did the dark work, their faces filled with outrage. Tyrus understood. Champions enjoyed more certainty than most warriors and often survived wounds that killed lesser men. Their mortality felt a little more secure. Tyrus offered no comfort as he killed them. The work had to be done because he had no interest in fighting them again.

  He must run, but struggled to move. He knelt, only a moment, to ease the pressure on his leg, but he crashed onto his side. His armor dug into his stomach, pushing on the wound. With a groan, he rolled onto his back.

  A few hours, maybe days, maybe weeks, hard to say, and his body would heal itself. Although the healing would torture him, Etched Men could survive a stomach wound, but most killed themselves to stop the agony. Stomach wounds were always the worst. The pain drove men mad. He could feel the fever growing, but he didn’t pass out. The damned runes wouldn’t let him.

  “Are you going to die?”

  Tyrus squinted. Einin hovered nearby.

  He asked, “The princess?”

  “In the cave.”

  “Are the beasts dead?”

  “I think so. Three of them. I’m not sure, but they stopped moving.”

  “Their eyes?”

  “Black.”

  He had killed them then. He remembered, but t
he chaos of the fight, the pounding adrenaline, made everything a blur.

  “Help me get this armor off.”

  “How?”

  He showed her straps and described the others. Damaged ring mail tore at his wounds. At least one plate on his arm had dented inward, cutting off circulation. His hand was numb. Runes made his bones hard to break and would heal him, but he needed to help his body as much as possible. He needed water, meat, and rest.

  He told Einin what to take from the soldiers’ packs, and ignoring her protests, he ordered her to salvage what armor she could from the dead men who were close to his size. Nevid’s armor should fit him—poor, loyal Nevid.

  “They’re too heavy to lift. I can’t get it off.”

  “Keep trying. I’ll be better soon.”

  “What will we do?”

  “I need time to recover and think.”

  Einin stripped Nevid’s armor. Her small frame struggled with the bulk and weight. It took too long, but she worked through her revulsion of the corpse and salvaged the pieces he needed. Tyrus listened to her pause and retch a few times. He gave her time to do her work, and told her how to bundle the plates, strap them together, and toss the pack over a horse. She took a break. Tyrus tested his stomach with a sit-up. His shoulders left the ground before the pain pushed him down.

  If Rogi or Tamar had mastered his fear, he would be dead. What a blissful thought, to finally be done with these runes. Why had his men hesitated? Watching him kill everyone had broken their resolve, but they should know better. His reputation cheated death for him.

  He noticed the clouds, white fluffy things drifting between all the leaves. Lying on the ground, he could pretend the bodies weren’t there although some had already voided their bowels. The smell made them hard to ignore, but the sky seemed peaceful, not something he would normally notice. Strange, how cheating death made him aware of little things like a nice afternoon.