TODAY IS TOO LATE

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  V

  Einin struggled with the realization that she had never seen Tyrus without armor. She knelt before him, nodding as Tyrus explained the plates and the mesh and the way they were buckled together. It couldn’t be right, but the more she tried to recall, the more she realized he was always the man in steel beside the emperor’s white robes.

  She hesitated, amazed at the gore on him. The stains were more than blood; hacked pieces of meat—pieces of people, she realized—stuck to him everywhere. She fought off vomiting and was glad for the first time that she hadn’t eaten much since she left the empress.

  The neck guard had hooks on the side, as did the chest plate. Leather straps held the shoulder plates to the chest plate. Tyrus had to lift one shoulder to give her access to the buckles, and he groaned and punched the ground. His strength, the way the ground shook, made Einin freeze. His runes gave him such strength that she felt as though she helped a bear in a trap. She feared one of his punches might hit her by mistake.

  “Hurry.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  They repeated the work to clear the second shoulder. More blood and gore beneath the layers of plate, it worked its way into everything. The ring mail had torn near Tyrus’s belt. The wound, a dark-red rent in the armor and flesh, looked fatal. That Tyrus had not blacked out amazed her. The shirt had to come over his head, which required him to lift his shoulders a few times. By the end, he looked feverish and clammy and breathed like he had been sprinting.

  The last layer, cloth padding, fit like a shirt. She pulled at it, to take it over his head when his hand grabbed her arm.

  Einin said, “You’re hurting me.”

  “Get a knife.” He let go. “Cut it off.”

  Einin looked at the dead men. She hated taking things from them. They looked so broken and pathetic, to take their possessions felt like spitting in their faces. A strange idea—they had no more use for them—but it felt wrong nonetheless. She remembered her own knife, secreted in her robe, and it spared her from seeing more of the dead men, their eyes open, horrified.

  The padding came off with ease. What was beneath it made her gasp. He was powerfully built, an ox of a man, but he had so many runes, geometric lines interlocked in crazy patterns, that his flesh looked more black than pink. The color was odd too, a muddy green rather than a true black. Her hand traced one rune without thinking, and Tyrus lifted his head to look.

  He asked, “What is wrong?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”

  “Is there a wound there? I can’t feel it.”

  “No. I just, I mean, you have so many.”

  “Scars?”

  “Runes.”

  “Oh, those.” His head flopped back.

  Nobles who could afford the inks had a few, two or three, sometimes four. Most were minor things, vanity runes, for health and looks. The women of the court fell into different groups, some displaying multiple runes as a sign of wealth, usually across the shoulders, chest, and neck, like a pearl necklace, while others took great pains to hide theirs, having etchings on their abdomens, lower backs, and legs. The latter women appeared perfect in their gowns, long milk-white necks and enviable wrinkle-free faces.

  Einin had only one rune, which made her taller, like Ishma, etched above her navel, forever covered by silk gowns. If the empress had taken runes on her chest and shoulders, Einin would have as well, but she preferred the purity look.

  Einin asked, “How many do you have?”

  “I’ve lost count.”

  “How is that possible?”

  He lay gasping. His eyes squeezed shut and rolled in their sockets, an uncanny resemblance to the empress giving birth. She had so many questions, but fear of angering the Damned kept her silent. He glanced at her as if he was confused by her or her question.

  “After a hundred, the novelty wears thin.”

  “A hundred?”

  “Check on the princess. I’m fine now. Need time to recover.”

  At the mention of Marah, she stood. She found the bundle, and the child’s milk-white eyes blinked at her, unfocused and confused, but Einin wanted to believe the child looked at her.

  She attempted another feeding and didn’t think much of this wet nurse thing. The empress had assured her she would produce milk, but nothing happened. She lowered the shoulder of her gown, pulled down the underlayers, and the baby found the nipple. Not long after, the child fussed. Still no milk.

  “I know, little princess. I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

  She tried to soothe the child, to rock it, as she watched the Damned lie on the ground. Over one hundred runes—she had never heard of anyone with more than twenty. His runes were worth more than all of her family’s lands. Rumors in the court said Lael had more than a dozen, scores, but no one had believed them until he fought in the arena, and with all those runes he had still died.

  She glanced through the woods, eastward, toward the smoke of Shinar. Were they going to sit here, waiting on runes? Well, what choice did she have? She could abandon him, but they would find her again. Maybe Tyrus would distract them for a bit. The man had taken horrible wounds for her, compelling her to help him, but her first concern was Marah.

  She tried to tell herself that a few times, the idea that she served the more noble purpose of defending the princess, but if she were honest, the need to abandon him was far more basic. She feared him. The images of him killing all those men, just like a bone beast raging through enemy lines. No one could stop him, and for too long, he had stood beside the Prince of the Dawn in his black armor, enforcing the laws of the land. The nobles at court whispered dozens of stories about him defeating champions from other kingdoms, armies, and cities. Not good stories, like the heroes of old, but brutal stories of an inhuman warrior breaking lesser men. She watched him resting in a clearing filled with corpses. The sight made her shudder.

  Tyrus rode the waves of pain. He fought to control his breathing and his jaw, lest the tremors cause him to bite off his own tongue. Aside from that, he tried to lie still. The pain made him want to thrash, but movement hurt his stomach. A wretched battle, trying to master his own reflexes, but he refused to surrender.

  A chill touched him, which was strange because his runes burned him as they healed. At first he found it a pleasant change, but then it felt wrong, unsettling, as though an animal stalked him. Maybe the chill was death? He heard a whisper at first, and struggled to place the sound, faint words on the wind.

  The child was meant to die, Tyrus. She will be the death of you.

  “What kind of sorcery—?”

  I’m older than sorcery and runes. I am the chaos that came before.

  “Show yourself.”

  I am everywhere, Tyrus. Laughter replaced the words, faded away, but one sentiment lingered on. It is not too late to kill the baby.

  Einin asked, “Who are you talking to?”

  “I don’t know.” Tyrus listened hard for more. “Nobody, I guess.”

  He feared that the pain gave him fever dreams, but they were never like this. He was wide awake, which meant something had either contacted him or he was losing his mind. Pain could do that to an Etched Man, make him hear things, but he had been hurt worse and hever heard such an oily voice before.

  Einin asked, “Is it wise to wait?”

  Tyrus wanted to laugh but coughed instead. She thought he was on the ground by choice. Best to keep her occupied.

  “See if they left us the horses. We’ll use them all, ride them into the ground if we have to.”

  Einin left, and he felt strong enough to roll over on his side. He tested his leg. He could flex it, but the effort made him groan. The wave of pain receded, and he gritted his teeth. A part of him was glad he had lived. He knew his punishment for betraying Azmon would be far worse than death. His soul would never make it to the Nine Hells. The emperor would forge him into a
beast, and he would spend eternity at Azmon’s side as a mindless slave. To avoid that fate, he needed to run. Tyrus pushed up with one arm, turned his neck, and watched the sun: midday. They had to move and soon. Azmon would send the flyers.

  PART TWO

  There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery.

  Dante Alighieri

  THE DAMNED

  I

  Tyrus lost himself in the pain, an animal fighting the awfulness, wanting to gnaw off the offending limbs to end the agony. His stomach boiled, and pain lanced through his hip. A cry broke through his misery. A child, small and pathetic, also hurt. The heir wailed in Einin’s arms. Tyrus craned his head. The battle meant nothing if the heir was hurt.

  “What is wrong?”

  “I’m not making any milk.”

  “Can you?”

  “The empress said I could if I tried to feed her. It isn’t working.”

  “Do you have regular milk?”

  “No.”

  Einin cradled Marah again, and Tyrus realized he knew nothing about nursing. He could not say if she held the baby correctly, but little Marah was not happy. The cries grew louder as Marah became more frustrated until she cried nonstop. Her voice—pained, dry, and squeaky—left him powerless. How often did a baby eat, and where would they find milk in a forest?

  Ishma’s daughter starved, which meant he had killed his own men for nothing. The injustice angered Tyrus. He rolled onto his side, and his stomach tore like it had been stabbed anew. He snarled and punched the ground.

  Einin asked, “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  He missed Elmar. His staff would wash him and set him on a nice cot. They would fend off the outside world, impersonate him in writing if necessary while he recovered. A wound this bad, they might petition Azmon for aid. His loneliness had weight. No one would help him again. Tyrus worked his way onto his hands and knees, wanting to stand, but a wave of pain wracked him. He vomited black fluid, filled with blood, and despaired at the sight because he knew it meant internal wounds. The sword had done more damage than he thought.

  They must move, and pain held them back. Each wasted minute brought the bone lords closer. To make matters worse, they needed milk.

  “Maybe you should lie back down.”

  “Bring me a horse.”

  Tyrus waited on his hands and knees until Einin walked a horse over. He climbed the stirrups. The horse tried to sidestep away, but Einin held the reins, and after a small struggle, Tyrus stood. Gasping, he leaned on the horse, fighting to control his breathing, to block out the pain, to think. The pain turned him into an animal, craving darkness, a place to curl into a ball and wait out the healing. Hiding here was certain death. He patted the horse’s flank, trying to calm the animal.

  Whose mount was this? Best not wonder. A flash of regret, the outraged faces of his men as he killed them one by one. Tyrus closed his eyes. The memories would fade. The farther they ran from this place, the more they would fade, a pleasant lie, bordering on believable, enough to keep him going.

  “Can I help?”

  Tyrus shook his head and placed a foot into a stirrup. The wound in his stomach complained at everything he did. He couldn’t move a leg or use his back without his insides tearing themselves apart. He squeezed his eyes shut. This next part would hurt worse. He swung himself into the saddle. The noise he made sent the horse’s ears flat back, and it pranced about, unsure of its rider. Tyrus leaned over the pommel, trying to find a comfortable position, failing. The jostle of the ride would torture him.

  “Give me those reins.” He pointed at the horse with Nevid’s armor. “Thanks. We need to get going.”

  Einin waited. What did she want? He was in no mood for an argument. She seemed to understand, nodded, and climbed a horse while cradling the princess close to her chest. She struggled at first, to wrap her gown around a lancer’s saddle. They had large plates in the front to guard a man’s groin, and it caught on her silks. What happened to her horse? Tyrus didn’t care.

  He asked, “Where were you going to go?”

  “They say the Red Sorceress is in the west, at Ironwall.”

  “A guess at best.”

  “Where else could I go?”

  Tyrus thought of the Roshan Empire. They had subjugated everything east of the Paltiel Woods: all the coastal cities, all the little towns, and all the ports that might take them back to Sornum. With Shinar fallen, nowhere else was safe. Small nations filled the west, easily conquered. Only a matter of time before Rosh destroyed them all. His stomach bounced up and down. The pain threatened to unhorse him.

  “What will you do?” Einin asked.

  “Protect Marah.”

  Whatever that meant. Thinking of the child as Ishma’s child helped ease the sting of his betrayal. He would guard Ishma’s child as long as possible, until Azmon sent the army against him and he was forced to sacrifice himself. He might buy the girl time to run. He hoped for a true death but knew the bone lords would never offer one.

  “We can’t ever go back,” Einin said.

  “Best not think about it.”

  But Tyrus thought about home. He longed to return to the mountains of Kelnor and the apple orchards. He preferred the smell of apple trees to the large oaks of Paltiel Woods. Did Azmon already know? The survivors had not made it back to court yet, but if Azmon confronted Ishma, he might discover her betrayal. Or maybe Ishma bragged about what she had done. She acted so strangely the last time he saw her. Maybe she wanted to die.

  They rode deeper into the woods, and Tyrus began to feel better. His breathing improved first and his posture followed. The pain tore at him, but he had more control. He rode the horse, in tune to its canter, rather than sitting on it like a pile of rags.

  “Your color is better. You looked like you were going to die.”

  “Felt like it too.”

  “But how?” She accused him of something.

  “I’ll be fine in a little while.”

  “Those wounds… the pain… it would drive a person mad.”

  “You get used to it.”

  Another lie; most Etched Men went insane. What does not kill a man might make him stronger, but more often it gave him a breakdown. Few could endure the wounds and the much greater pain of the runes stitching wounds back together. No one knew why Tyrus endured the pain. The riddle vexed Azmon. Once, after an etching, he had said, “If I could bottle your stubbornness or whatever it is, I could conquer the world.” New runes became a morbid game. Would one more kill Tyrus? What about another? When would he break?

  Most men died at six. In Rosh, only a handful made it to twelve, and about a dozen made it to twenty. The few like King Lael were once in a generation individuals who became immortal heroes in songs, although a few had become godlike sorcerers most Etched Men were frontline soldiers. Tyrus was the only person to take a hundred runes, and the way he survived horrific wounds had earned him the title of the Damned because people thought nothing could kill him, and nothing could help him with the pain.

  For years Amazon tried to create other champions with as many runes, and they all died. The expense of the inks, and the time lost on failures, infuriated Azmon until he abandoned etchings for beasts.

  “We shouldn’t be in these woods,” Einin said. “But I didn’t know how to ride around them. All the roads were guarded.”

  “Afraid of elves?”

  “They hate us.”

  “They might be Marah’s only chance.”

  “But that would mean…”

  It meant they would die so the child might live. Tyrus expected an arrow to his chest at any moment. All of the scouts he had sent into the woods never returned. The gamble meant little to him because he had been guarding others his entire life. A glance at Einin, and he could tell she had never considered the ultimate sacrifice. He could guess her thoughts, denia
l that she was easy to replace.

  The Ashen Elves might spare Einin if they mistook her for the mother. But her gown made her look like the wife of a bone lord. Why did she wear so much silk through the woods? As much as the elves hated him, he doubted they would hurt a baby unless they fumbled an attack on him. Maybe, through the elves, the child would find her way to Dura.

  Ashen Elves ahead of them, bone beasts at their backs, why couldn’t he find a man to fight? He wanted to face off against a bigger man, a great hero, someone who might take his head and give him a clean death.

  The stupid thoughts gave him pause. He craved an end to the pain, which was not a good sign. Maybe the madness began. He reined in the horse.

  “Help me put on Nevid’s armor.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “When they find us, there’ll be no time to dress.”

  Einin tried again to feed the baby. She had been putting it off for hours because the thought of pulling her top down in front of Tyrus made her uncomfortable, but Marah’s cries, Marah’s accusations, forced her to act. The child needed milk, and all Einin could do was hope that the empress was right. She said trying to feed the child would produce milk, but no matter how many times she put a nipple in Marah’s mouth, nothing came out.

  Tyrus noticed, and without talking, he slowed the mounts and let them rest a little. She tried to arrange her riding coat so that he wouldn’t see her front. Their arrangement didn’t afford much modesty, but to her surprise, Tyrus looked away. He looked like the type to rape and pillage, but she knew he did not. Nobles complained about his lack on interest in spoils because it made him hard to bribe and more loyal to the emperor. She had trouble picturing him as a guardian, protecting another’s life and dignity.