TODAY IS TOO LATE

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “We should proceed on foot.”

  “Is that wise?” Einin looked over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t we hurry?”

  “The way gets steeper. You’ll be safer out of the saddle.”

  Klay followed Einin along the elf trail. He managed the horses, tying reins to saddle horns and leading the animals while Einin carried Marah. They crossed another path. Klay guided Einin along one leading to Mount Teles.

  “Emperor Azmon is the father?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you are not the mother?”

  “No. Empress Ishma is the mother.”

  “Then why do you have the baby?”

  Einin paused. She looked down on him, chin raised and back straight, pretending not to hear the sick child in her arms. If she were rested, bathed, and dressed better, she might resemble a queen. She had a royal presence.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Lead us to these elves.”

  Her attempt at a regal voice irritated. He could tolerate such behavior in a palace, but out in the woods, from an overgrown girl, the rules of etiquette relaxed. Kings and queens became more civil when they depended on a ranger to find their way home.

  “If I might offer a suggestion, milady? Keeping secrets from me is fine, but the Ashen Elves will want answers, and we have a saying in these parts. Never anger the elves.”

  That took a little stiffness out of her shoulders. Klay resisted the urge to smirk. Etiquette dictated that one should never smirk at people putting on airs. Einin picked her way through bushes, holding Marah above their branches. Klay reflected on his advice. His own story sounded bad. Yesterday had begun with scouting for Shinari refugees in the woods and ended with him helping the Butcher of Rosh. No one would believe him.

  VII

  Einin plodded up the hill. She kept her complaints silent but mentally upbraided herself for every mistake she had made: wrong shoes, wrong dress, wrong supplies, wrong friends. Her body was not used to hiking hills covered in slippery weeds. Her legs burned, a sensation palace stairs had never given her. Marah had not grown quiet, but she was so weak that her complaints were muted. She squirmed in Einin’s arms and her face twisted in anger, but the voice squeaked and coughed more often than it screamed. Einin had stopped apologizing because her words sounded flat, empty.

  She promised herself if she ever escaped these wretched woods, she would never travel the same way again. She would have a special pack with special supplies prepared, and the moment she encountered rough terrain, she would have leggings and boots. Let the ladies mock her, but she was tired of tripping on her dress.

  The woods changed. Einin sensed it, and sensed it last, she realized. The woodsman and the horses had stilled long before her. Marah had grown quiet too.

  She found herself surrounded by tall, lean warriors. They wore combinations of brown and green, a mesh armor she didn’t understand, along with swords, spears, and bows, but it was the faces more than the unnatural quiet that made them inhuman. Telling one apart from another was impossible, the wide eyes and angular jaws, the sharp noses, and the way they watched Einin. Not one of them blinked. Their skin had a grayish tint—Ashen, she realized like an idiot—but the eyes, more than the pointy ears, gave them an angelic quality.

  An elf said, “Master Klay.”

  “Lord Nemuel.”

  Einin felt like an animal, livestock, being appraised. Her body was bulky, sweaty, and uncoordinated compared to these graceful creatures. Face too round, hair too messy, her plain frame felt ugly by comparison. Einin didn’t hear everything they said. The leader’s teeth distracted her. Pearly white, straight, aligned, she had never seen such a thing. Even with runes, a person did not have a perfect smile. The teeth were too symmetrical.

  Nemuel asked, “Why did you bring the Butcher here?”

  Klay spoke about the dead champions and flyers hunting Tyrus and Einin. Lord Nemuel watched, but no emotions touched his face. His eyelids did not flicker.

  “And you did not kill him?”

  “I tried, but he’s as strong as Chobar, maybe stronger. And I believe him. He killed his own men to protect the child.”

  “A Roshan feud is no reason for trust. Let them kill each other in their own lands.”

  Einin noticed Klay kneeling and jerked herself into motion. She imitated him and wondered what etiquette demanded in this situation. She knew she was outranked, but she had no idea by what degree. In the old stories about the Second War of Creation, it was the elves, the nephalem, who controlled the people, or the Avani. Einin suspected that the elves would find any Avani rank inferior to their own. How did one talk to elves?

  “He protected us, milord,” Einin said. “The seraphim asked him to guard this child. And he did.”

  “The seraphim do many strange things, child. Do you trust him?”

  Einin said nothing.

  Lord Nemuel seemed amused. “Neither do I. But orders are orders.” He gestured, and two of his sentinels stepped forward to take Marah.

  Einin pulled back, reaching for her knife. The elves raised empty hands.

  “We can help,” Nemuel said. “Do you know how close she is to death? She needs food and smells terrible.”

  That sounded wrong, and then it struck her. “How did you know she was a girl?”

  “This is our home. You cannot stroll through here unnoticed. We have been tasked with keeping her safe.”

  “But how—”

  “We are the true servants of the seraphim.” Nemuel reached for Marah. “Your neglect is shameful. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Our medicine and food and protection? Is that not what Tyrus told you to do?”

  “You’ve been watching?”

  “At first, I thought he might hold the child hostage. And then he left. He does not flee his own kind but rushes toward them. It will be interesting to see what he does.”

  “He will fight them.”

  “Are you so sure? They send his own men after him.”

  “It’s not his army anymore.”

  “No matter. They will all be dead before morning.”

  “Even Tyrus?”

  Nemuel wanted to say something, she could see it, but bit back the words. She realized he detested Tyrus but had been told to wait. That was the only explanation.

  “The child needs us.” He gestured for her bundle. “Let us see her.”

  Einin wanted to do anything but what she did. She handed Marah to him. The elves moved without sound, no rattle of armor or weapons, no crunch of leaves or branches. They placed Marah on a patch of long grass and unwrapped, undressed, and examined her. Einin stood near as three of the elves worked with agile fingers to place a balm on her rashes, discard the improvised diapers, and check her eyes, nose, and mouth.

  Einin had not realized how important Marah was to her. Watching foreign hands with ashen skin touch her child made her tremble. Her heart raced. She found herself reaching to take Marah away and then pulling back. When Marah cried, Einin wanted to defend her.

  They fed her with something that resembled an ivory lamp. The device had a long spout for Marah and a second hole in the middle for air. Marah’s little hands found the spout, and her pale cheeks furiously sucked away. Einin’s eyes watered at the sight. Marah was so hungry.

  “Easy, little one,” an elf said. “Not so fast.”

  “What are you feeding her?”

  “A kind of milk. We had to send runners for it or we would have approached sooner. It will make her stronger, help fight off the infection.”

  “Her coloring?” Einin glanced at Marah’s stark-white hair and skin, but nothing had changed.

  “That is who she is. The redness in her ears and throat is a sickness.”

  “Will she be all right?”

  “She is weak. Only time will tell.”

  “Thank you.” Einin felt the two words left too much unsaid. She tri
ed to find some way to articulate what she felt, to put the entirety of her being into the words, because the elves had given her and Marah a chance at living again, but she could only repeat the words over and over. She wiped away tears. “Thank you.”

  VIII

  Klay left Einin in the care of the elves. She was oblivious to everything but Marah, and he had his own child to look after. Chobar hid from him, no surprise there. The bear hated it when Klay sent him away, but he had little talent for hiding. Klay found tracks, the broken branches of the bear’s passing, and then saw him hunkered down beside a tree, a paw over his face.

  “I can see you, you big idiot.”

  Chobar snorted.

  “I won’t apologize. Bears and babies don’t mix.”

  Chobar moved his paw. A bushy eyebrow rose in question. The bear sulked. His massive shoulders and giant maw, playacting sadness, gave Klay the chuckles. He knelt and reached out to pat his head. Chobar snarled.

  “Please. I know you better than that.”

  Klay waited. Other than the growl, there were no signs that the bear would strike. Chobar let out a whine and rested his head on the ground. Klay scratched his ears. The bear rolled its eyes and grunted.

  “I don’t blame you. I can’t stand people either.”

  “One day that animal will take your hand,” Nemuel said.

  Klay did not jump and was proud of that. After all these years, the elves still snuck up on him. The sentinels moved like the breeze. Klay had spent years trying to learn that trick.

  “He wouldn’t do it to hurt me. Well, not in a mean-spirited way.”

  Chobar rolled onto his side, and Klay scratched his stomach. The leather straps that held the animal’s barding in place rubbed the hair away, and the easiest way to become his friend was to scratch those rough patches of skin. Chobar closed his eyes and grinned, jowls pulled back into a toothy smile. If people knew war bears acted more like dogs, the beasts would lose their mystique. Hard to be terrified of an animal that loves belly rubs.

  Nemuel asked, “Did the seraphim visit you as well?”

  “No divine plan here, I’m afraid. I stumbled upon the dead bodies. Was more than a little surprised to find the Butcher in Paltiel alone with a baby. I always figured he’d lead thousands of men into the woods.”

  “What kind of a man is he?”

  “Quiet. There’s a sadness to him that surprised me. Fights like nothing I’ve ever seen, though. Lael, on his best day, couldn’t take him. The stories are true.”

  Nemuel said nothing. The elf seemed disheartened by the news. Trying to read their gray faces was a fool’s errand, but Klay knew Nemuel wanted to avenge his student. Dura had sent Edan to Nemuel for training. The elf lord was one of the best Rune Blades in Argoria. No one had mastered steel and sorcery like Nemuel, but no one had expected Edan to die at the hands of an Etched Man, either.

  “I was surprised an arrow didn’t take him in the eye,” Klay said. “Kept expecting it.”

  “It would be the simplest way, but they want us to wait. He’s linked to this child.”

  “She is Azmon’s daughter?”

  “Yes. The seraphim want Dura to teach her.”

  Klay stood and slapped dirt off his hands. Chobar wanted more and swiped his paw at Klay’s legs. Klay stepped away, trying to understand what he had heard. The story was true. Azmon’s daughter was a Reborn, and the seraphim protected the child. The Butcher had not lied to him.

  “What will you do?”

  Nemuel said, “Defend Teles, as always. If King Lael had listened to us, the task would be simpler. His pride threatens us all. Azmon wants the gate, and he’ll use Shinar as a staging ground. We will send the Reborn to Dura when she has regained her strength.”

  “Even after what happened to Edan?”

  Nemuel said nothing.

  Klay said, “The shedim will come for her.”

  “But they come to us. Fight us on our ground. That is a battle I welcome.”

  “Does that mean—is it the end of days?”

  “The Sarbor have fought for thousands of years. Most of their fights take place in Pandemonium, but once in a generation it spills over into the Middle World. The shedim will send the Demon Tribes after us, and we will answer in kind. This is another battle in a long war unless Azmon takes the White Gate. Then the stalemate would end.”

  THE BLACK GATE

  I

  A plan formed as Tyrus rode toward the bone lords. He could kill whoever hunted him, ride past the rest to Shinar, and rescue Ishma. Wishful thinking—he should focus on staying alive. Wounded and charging what looked like five flyers, he assumed spearmen followed, reinforced with beasts. Fight a small army? Sure, no problem. And then he could storm a city filled with beasts and thousands of swordsmen to steal the wife of the greatest sorcerer of the age—only a hundred problems with his plan.

  Better to ignore Ishma. Marah’s safety came first.

  If he killed a few of the flyers and caused enough confusion, he might buy Marah time. That counted for something. If Ishma lived, she would hear of his sacrifice. Not the best death, but a worthy sacrifice of a guardian.

  A tedious ride, miles to cover, and he had nothing to do but dwell on the impossible odds. He carried a saddlebag in his lap and ate as much as he could, muscling down the dried foods. Salt angered him. His last meal should have flavor, fresh fruits, juicy meats, maybe chilled wine. Instead, he choked on hardtack. No grand battle for him. No glory. The Roshan army would rip him apart and build a monster from his corpse. Providence punished him for his sins.

  Dark thoughts, and they awoke old memories of another impossible battle. A fitting death if a bone beast tore him apart because, without his help, they wouldn’t exist. Azmon would have never discovered the runes to make the monsters.

  II

  Tyrus remembered old Rosh, before beasts and empire swallowed the entire continent of Sornum. They had conquered the Hurrians, and the Five Nations had banded together for revenge. The odds were impossible, an entire continent waging war on Rosh, five kingdoms sending five armies to their gate. Azmon planned to leave before the battle. He sought help. Tyrus would guard him.

  Before they left, Ishma summoned him to her apartments. He enjoyed the old memories of her when she was in her twenties, a fiery young Ishma. Her anger filled the room. She did not hide her fury, but Tyrus loved the show because despite the scowling and cursing, she was beautiful. He could not think of anyone else who made a snarl attractive. The trick, he had learned, was to avoid smiling unless he wanted a tirade about condescending to her. Best stand still until she exhausted herself.

  “You cannot convince him to stay?” she asked.

  “What would I say, empress?”

  “We need you both, our greatest weapons, leaving before the siege when they outnumber us ten to one. Has no one done the math?”

  “The numbers mean nothing.”

  “The walls cannot hold against so many. Eventually, the numbers matter. They must.”

  Tyrus kept calm. The Roshan fortress stood on a mountain, assailable from one direction and heavily fortified. Three walls, with a deep trench and a collapsible bridge, defended the pass. The fortress would hold. Tyrus had no doubts. The surrounding city would burn, and starvation posed a greater threat.

  He said, “Their numbers work against them. Only a few can attack the wall at a time. They attack in shifts. We defend in shifts.”

  “Until they starve us.”

  “They will starve as well. The mountains will get cold. Azmon planned for this decades ago.”

  “Decades?”

  Foolish thing to say, distracted by all the things he must finish before leaving. Tyrus could remember Azmon as a boy talking about how to break an army against the mountains surrounding Rosh. The idea that Azmon invited this siege spun wheels in her head. She calmed down, calculating, and Tyrus dreaded new questions.
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  “So he planned this war?”

  Tyrus kept his mouth closed. He would not betray Azmon’s trust or lie to Ishma. Best to say nothing. When they sacked Hurr, Azmon took an old spell, hellfire, and used it on a scale larger than anything attempted before. The display of power terrified the five largest nations on Sornum: Holon, Enor, Lahmi, Kaldur and Dimurr. But Tyrus never thought they would join together—maybe a couple, but not all five at once.

  Ishma said, “He wanted to scare them. That’s why he built those new walls. He knew this would happen.”

  “I cannot say, empress.”

  The thought nagged him, though. Did the emperor provoke the other kingdoms on purpose? Was the war an excuse to conquer all of Sornum? Azmon was obsessed with making a statement, proving he was more powerful than his rivals. Everyone must bow before Rosh.

  “Is it true that Dura turns on him?”

  “No,” Tyrus said.

  Dura Galamor did not want to hurt her star student, but she hated the new weapon. Tyrus had heard them argue about the innocent people burned in their beds. As punishment, she taught the other kingdoms how to counter the spell, leaving Azmon powerless in the face of his enemies. Tyrus could not speak of it without sending Azmon into a rage.

  “They’re not talking anymore—are they?” Ishma asked.

  “Not in a while.”

  Tyrus thought an apology might win Dura over, and she might reason with the other kings to save Rosh, but Azmon would never agree. Ishma knew that much. Dura had been cast out of Rosh. Azmon never wanted to see his teacher again.

  “I need my Lord Marshal. This is no time for you to leave.”

  “He is my ward, empress.”