Mulciber tore apart the other chains and stood tall. His joints cracked. Black wings unfolded, and Tyrus remembered a childhood story about them—the dark mark from the First War of Creation, when the angelic host revolted and God punished the rebel angels with black wings. Muscles flexed, and the angel sighed. Azmon and Tyrus knelt.
“You must leave this place.”
“Yes, master.”
“I will fight to reclaim my throne. The war will be long. The overlords have had millennia to fortify their territory against me, as has Ithuriel. Our work is only beginning, my children. Return to Rosh and await orders.”
“Master, the runes to save my home?”
“Your journey is long. I’ll contact you before you return home.”
Each nightmare ended the same: a blackness suffocated Tyrus and pulled him down into a cold, dank hole. All the while, the angelic creature taunted him with murderous eyes. He hated Mulciber’s beautiful face.
“You cannot escape me, Tyrus. We are linked.”
“Leave me alone.”
“You are my champion, my general, my Lord Marshal. You are the only one to bear all my runes, and you will stand at my side when we crush the seraphim.”
“I won’t do it.”
“You think they’ll have you? After all you’ve done for me?” The voice, so much like his mother’s, lilted into a soft laugh. “You are practically shedim, and Ithuriel will never help you. They will tear you apart, but I will claim your soul. Such a prize belongs to me alone.”
Those words drifted through his dreams, over and over until the meaningless choir threatened his sanity.
Mulciber laughed. “You will never escape me.”
Another sober moment hit like a hangover. Tyrus could move his body, a little, raise his chin, twitch his fingers. He tested his limbs, and they felt broken but not shattered. The pain pulled him down, a weight on his lungs. He struggled to focus on a green blur before him and the sensation of seeing through a tunnel. A woman sat nearby, and he thought it might be Ishma. How had she found him? She left before he could ask, and another entered his periphery, big, brown; a wet nose sniffed his cheek. Cold snot dripped down his face.
“Chobar, off.”
“Klay? Where am I?”
“You were in Telessar for three weeks. Now we travel to Ironwall. Dura wants to see you. The elves said you were ready to move.”
“I can’t sit up.”
“Your bones put themselves back together. They say you might walk in a few days.”
“I was truly in Telessar?”
“I’ve never seen them argue so fiercely. Half wanted to kill you, and the rest wanted to study you. They let you pass the gates. You don’t remember a thing, do you?”
“No.” Tyrus sighed. “Why didn’t they kill me?”
“No one thought you would survive. First they said your heart would give out. Then the fevers would burn you up.” Klay became a distant blur. “You have runes no one has ever seen before. Their masters studied them until it became obvious you would recover.”
“How far away is Ironwall?”
Klay paused. “How many immortals does Azmon have?”
“None. I can die.”
“This is important. How many have these new runes?”
“No one.”
“How many runes do Roshan champions usually have?”
“A dozen. Only a handful have more.”
“I only have two.” Klay paused again. “In Ironwall, eight is rare.”
Tyrus saw his future, chained to a table as engravers poked and prodded his flesh. They would torment him, change his etchings, and try to unlock the sorcery in his body. How long before they understood Azmon’s greatest frustration? Tyrus had a unique ability to endure the etchings. No one knew why. How many champions would they kill trying to copy him? And they would blame him for the deaths, too.
“How did Azmon do this to you?”
“The shedim taught him new runes.”
“And you traveled through the Black Gate?”
Tyrus closed his eyes to hide his fear. What had he said while he was delirious? The nightmares blurred in his memory with no sense of order or time, dominated by vague, fuzzy things that made little sense and waking nightmares that defied self-control. He wrestled with the idea that he had managed to betray himself.
“What did I say?”
“Many things. Not much made sense. The elves sent emissaries to the dwarves to check the Deep Ward. They argued about that, too. Mortals die if they cross the gates. What you said is impossible. Not even the nephalem can cross over without dying first.”
“Is Marah in Telessar?”
“She is safe with Dura in Ironwall, and so is Einin. We go to them now.”
“They are safe?”
“Yes. My friends escorted them.”
“And the Roshan lost the battle?”
Klay rested a hand on Tyrus’s shoulder. “We won this one.”
“Klay—”
“Food, again? Only person I’ve ever seen that ate like a bear on his deathbed. Doesn’t it hurt?”
“I need more.”
“I know. I’ll get you meat.”
They traveled slowly. Tyrus’s vision improved enough to count the leaves overhead. He lay on a flat bed, a box that squeezed his shoulders. Later, he learned his “cart” had no wheels. Teams of stretcher-bearers carried him through the woods. For the first time in ages, he slept without fear of delirium. After a few days, he took his first steps, though he felt as weak as a newborn colt and looked as wobbly. Despite all the food and runes, his body struggled under its own weight. The day after he walked, he awoke in chains. Klay stood nearby.
“I’m sorry. I am. But they want you contained.” Klay tugged the chains. “Although I’ve got a feeling you could break these.”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll promise one thing. You’ll have your chance to plead your case before our king. We’ll be there in a few days.”
“What kind of man is he?”
“He’s calm. Quiet. He will listen to Dura and the priests. They will decide if you truly serve the seraphim and the Reborn.”
Klay seemed about to say something. Tyrus waited, and Klay looked around. He leaned in close, muttering about elven ears.
“I can get the key. If you want to run. There is talk about what to do with you, none of it good. I think you earned a chance at freedom, but no one else does.”
The idea of running amused Tyrus. He’d be lucky if he got a few yards before collapsing. Hunger gnawed at him, and his runes needed more time to work. He had few options and the only real one was to stay chained.
“Marah is in Ironwall?”
“She is.”
“Take me to her.”
PART THREE
Tomorrow is nothing, today is too late; the good lived yesterday.
Marcus Aurelius
VISITATIONS
I
They marched through the shadow of Mount Teles. Tyrus noticed the largest of the Paltiel oaks behind them, no more tree trunks as wide as houses or branches stretching for the clouds. The more mundane oaks might signal the end of holy ground. He didn’t ask. No one spoke, and Klay did not tell him why. They loosened his chains enough for him to hobble along and build his strength. The pain swelled in the pads of his feet and stretched around his heel into his knees and hips. Everything hurt. He fought against it but was forced back to the stretcher.
Three rangers joined the elves. Four bears and two dozen sentinels escorted him from Paltiel. Tyrus sensed more. The elves were impossible to spot, but Tyrus felt eyes watching him and listened for steel. Their mesh armor made few sounds. A larger force, or something worse, followed the escort, although he had no way to prove it.
They left the woods, and brown scrubland stretched to the horizon. He sought flyers in the clouds
and found an empty sky. There were no birds. He wondered if Rosh attacked Paltiel again while he was delirious? No smoke. No sense of urgency from the elven sentinels. Two mountain ranges stood before and behind him, each dominated by one large peak. The green mountain was Mount Teles. To the west, a much more humble mountain sat in a smaller range, Mount Gadara, home of Ironwall. He had heard reports of the massive fortifications and hungered to see them up close.
Gadara had three passes, and Ironwall sat in the center. He remembered reports of walls circling the mountain in several places, dozens of them, crisscrossing the passes and covered with towers and gatehouses. As they grew closer, Tyrus counted at least seven walls on the eastern side. He tried to understand the strategy of the defense, but the walls defied reason. It looked like Gadarans built walls for the joy of stacking stone. The expense and wasted time baffled him.
Klay joined his walks, but no one else spoke to him. Tyrus understood their hatred and didn’t want to provoke them. Klay caught him studying the fortress.
“Dizzying, isn’t it?”
Tyrus said, “What madman built those walls?”
“Families of them, over many generations. They are displays of wealth and power. The biggest walls are the most respected, so the wealthiest families have moved toward the bottom of the range.”
“But that makes them first responders.”
“Another point of pride. The most important families live on the far side, facing the barbarians and giants of the Norsil Plains. They truly defend their walls. These”—Klay made a dismissive gesture toward Ironwall—”are seldom attacked, but don’t say that to anyone.”
“Why waste so many resources?”
“Tradition. Ironwall began as a quarry for Shinar and later became the Western Defense. Shinar held the eastern side of Teles, or at least, it did. They are allies and rivals.”
“They sacrifice the initiative to hole up here.”
“Don’t mention that either. Defending the far side is a serious thing. The giants have sacked Ironwall a few times, but not in recent memory. Although they rarely leave their walls, the Gadarans consider themselves the best warriors in the world.”
“The Shinari had Gadaran mercenaries. They fought well.”
“Commoners. An easier path to wealth than the mines; well, maybe more enjoyable is the right way to say it.”
They grew quiet. Tyrus noticed a tension in Klay’s shoulders. He scanned the elves and the other rangers; no one else seemed upset. The closer they drew to Ironwall, the more agitated Klay became.
Tyrus asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve never liked cages. And Ironwall is one of the biggest.”
The next morning, Tyrus noticed the elves had left. He saw four rangers with bears. He had also been unchained and didn’t remember dressing himself, but he wore a thin shirt and breeches. The lack of armor in a strange land—his blanket of steel—exposed him. He wanted to wear plate, but even if he had a set, he lacked the energy to march in it.
“No chains?”
“Not today,” Klay said.
“Where did the elves go?”
“A pack of purims came close last night. The elves hunt them.”
“Purims?”
“You do not have them on Sornum?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Demon spawn. Part man, part bear or wolf. Imagine Chobar running on two legs with fingers and weapons. The Ashen Elves have fought for generations to keep them out of Paltiel.”
Tyrus had never heard of half-animal warriors before and wondered what other Demon Tribes existed. He pictured Chobar swinging an axe and carrying a shield. One would be nasty, but Klay spoke of a pack.
“They roam in groups?”
Klay nodded. “Can you walk?”
“I can. Is it better if I walk into Ironwall?”
“The knights will respect it more.”
Tyrus twisted his shoulders and pulled his knees to his stomach one by one. Stretching helped. His joints popped. The sounds started in his shoulders and worked down his back. Relief washed over him for a moment, but stiffness returned. Time worked against him, traveling to a hostile city without the strength to fight. Ironwall was close enough for the ramparts to be seen, but the march would hurt. He needed sleep and more food. He noticed no roads connecting Ironwall to Paltiel, and they had followed no roads out of Paltiel as far as he knew.
“No roads?”
“Not from the east. There are southern and northern routes to Shinar that go wide of Paltiel.”
“No love between Ironwall and Telessar?”
“The Gadarans adore the elves, but elves are not fond of people. Call us barbarians. They think of knights as little better than heretics, too bloodthirsty to be faithful.”
Tyrus headed toward Ironwall, but Klay stopped him.
“The elves leaving was a bit of luck. I meant what I said earlier. If you want to run, you’ve earned it. We won’t stop you. Not sure if we could do much to stop it.”
“A well-placed arrow. Those bears.” Tyrus gestured at his clothes and lack of armor or weapons. “You could if you wanted to.”
“You don’t understand.” Klay weighed his words. “The knights from Shinar will not give you the chance. They’ll demand your head. Lael had two sons. They lead the Soul of Shinar now.”
“How much influence does Dura have?”
“The king listens to her, but he is his own man. Lael was his cousin.”
Tyrus hated politics. Men should fight with steel and not words. He studied the absurd maze of walls and towers leading up the mountain. The fortress looked like the work of a paranoid architect. In Rosh, they prized mobility over static defenses. Tyrus knew one thing: in his current condition, breaking out of those gates would be impossible.
Klay said, “We can cut you loose.”
“The knights will know, though, won’t they?”
“You’ll have a good lead.”
Tyrus imagined himself alone on the plains, unknown country, filled with war bands. Klay spoke of giants, barbarians, and animal men. Tyrus had the skills to earn his place in a land like that. He could topple kings or forge a new nation to fight Rosh. But to what end? The shedim would find him, and before he built an empire, he would need to outrun knights and elves and Roshan flyers. He saw himself hounded, bled, and killed in the tall grass.
He should protect his wards, but thousands of swordsmen, beasts, and elves blocked his path to Ishma. Zealots surrounded Marah in Ironwall. He lacked tools, supplies, resources. If he were honest with himself, he wasn’t at a quarter of his usual strength. He couldn’t protect himself let alone rescue Marah or Ishma, and the blue star bothered him. A silly dream, but the seraphim promised redemption. Had he earned it yet, or must he stand trial in Ironwall? A bigger game played around him, and no one told him the rules. Did he walk into Ironwall as an act of faith? He wanted to lie down in the grass and sleep. Maybe rest would clear his mind.
Klay coughed. “What do you want to do?”
“I need to protect Marah.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.” Tyrus shrugged. “But it is my duty.”
“So be it.”
He trudged over hard ground; rocks filled the scrublands and bit into the soles of his feet until they burned and bruised. He carried no weight but had strained his neck and back. Pain stopped him several times, and he groaned as he stretched. The rangers waited for him.
“I’m sorry I’m so slow.”
Klay said, “It’s amazing that you can walk.”
“I can barely carry my own weight.”
“You’ll grow stronger.”
As the sun set, they passed the main gates of Ironwall. Tyrus saw evidence of the nobles building walls for prestige: overly elaborate architecture, decorative patterns in the stone blocks, flourishes in the steel gates, floral patterns in the portcullis.
The Gadarans made war into art, but they did not sacrifice utility. He noted thick walls, well manned. Breaking through so much stone would take an ordinary army months, maybe years, but Tyrus remembered Azmon’s dreams of running through walls. The beasts would make a mockery of these defenses.
The rangers took their bears away from the people and stables through a side tunnel. Klay stayed with him, but Chobar left. Trumpets signaled heavy infantry bristling with steel. The familiar ring of armor, like tiny bells, echoed down a street. Tyrus saw runes etched into sword blades and shields: dwarven work, expensive in Rosh and probably no different here.
“These are the knights,” Klay said. “They will take you from here.”
“Can I see Marah and Einin?”
“Only if the king allows. I will speak on your behalf, but Ironwall is filled with Shinari refugees.” Klay offered an apologetic look. “You are not very popular.”
“I understand. Thank you.”
A dozen knights circled him, swords and shields ready. Two young men stepped forward, brothers by their faces even if their hair was at odds, blond and brown. They wore medals on gold chains above their armor, a lot of medals. Tyrus didn’t understand. His swordsmen kept their armor clean and smooth to deflect blade points, and he expected knights to be less pretentious.
“Do you remember me?” The blond one spat on Tyrus’s foot. “Answer me.”
“Should I?”
“You killed my father.”
A rehearsed line from a young man filled with hatred. Tyrus kept an impassive face, not hard to do. Dangerous men were quiet and struck when you didn’t expect. The talkers of the world could be dangerous, but most were just loud.
“Well, what have you to say?”
Klay coughed. “Prince Lior, Dura wants him taken prisoner.”
TODAY IS TOO LATE Page 26
