“Dura does not rule here.” The prince stepped closer to Tyrus, close enough to kill with a punch to the throat. “I fought you on the fields of Shinar when you killed the Rune Blade, Edan. I fought you on the walls before your monsters tore them down.”
Tyrus waited for the speech to end.
“King Lael Baladan was my father.”
Tyrus asked, “Are you the king of Ironwall?”
“What? Of course not.”
“Then take me to your king.”
Lior’s eyes bulged. “You dare command me?”
Tyrus waited through more bluster. Lior asked who Tyrus thought he was and what he thought they would do to a filthy murderer, but Tyrus knew he was to be escorted to a cell until the king decided his fate. The prince wanted to pick a fight, and Tyrus was too tired to care.
“Chain him.”
II
Tyrus became a parcel, packaged and delivered to many places within Ironwall. He hopped from wall to wall up the mountain pass, was handed off to new guards and placed in new cells at each stop. He was dragged to each in a comical amount of chains binding his torso and legs. New people interrogated him at each handoff. No torture could hurt more than his fall, and they could devise no horror that compared to his memories. He endured threats and theatrics.
Later, he found a more permanent home deep within the mountain, mines converted into dungeons with dark boxes cut out of stone. The worst part was the lack of food. When he was hurt, he could eat more than three men, and all they fed him was a watery gruel. They starved him. His stomach growled endlessly, and he felt his strength slipping away again.
All the prison cells warped his sense of time—too many windowless boxes. He passed hours wondering about Ishma. Was she safe? Had Azmon hurt her? He wanted to think of happier times, but none came to mind. If she lived, she probably sat in a cell similar to his.
They kept him in chains but gave him enough slack to use one corner for food and the other to relieve himself. The boredom took its toll, dulled his mind. He had nothing to look at. They had chiseled the cage out of solid rock. It looked like dwarven work, which made sense if they used dwarven weapons.
The rattling chains brought back memories of the Father of Lies, chained in his cell at the bottom of the Nine Hells. If Tyrus were more human, would the knights have chained him like this?
Armed guards entered Tyrus’s cell. One carried a torch, flames dancing along the stone walls, and the light blinded after days in the dark. He waited for commands or insults or punches or clubs. Instead, they mounted the torch in a bracket on the wall and left. An old woman, white haired, rooster-like skin on her neck, opened the door. She wore red robes and held a staff pointed at Tyrus. The years had not been kind—decades of worry lined her face, liver spots marked her temples, and her skin appeared too loose—but Tyrus still recognized Dura Galamor.
“Tyrus of Kelnor, it has been a long time. You’ve made several names for yourself, Lord Marshal. The Damned, the Butcher of Rosh, and if the elves are to be believed, maybe the Broken?”
“Dura.”
“Do you remember the whole name?”
“I’m not mad.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” She huffed. “If I believed all the stories I’ve heard, you would be lucky to be sane.”
Tyrus rolled his eyes. Did she think to lecture him about his own runes? She waited. He would not speak first, and the silence grew awkward.
“I asked you a question.”
A small victory, but he won the staring contest. “Dura Galamor, the Red Sorceress of the Red Towers of Sornum. I stood outside the library in Rosh when you gave Azmon his first lessons in runes. Back when you had brown hair and smooth skin.”
“No need to be an ass.”
“I’m not mad.”
“And yet you walked into Ironwall willingly. You can understand why I might wonder,” she said. “Why come here?”
Hunger pangs left him wondering the same thing. “Marah is here.”
“So the Butcher of Rosh protects the Reborn now?”
Her voice had an edge. Tyrus had dreaded this moment and remembered Edan the Rune Blade setting fire to Tyrus’s face before Tyrus beat the boy to death. He studied the boy’s teacher while unpleasant memories came to him, punching blindly, writhing in agony, listening to his gauntlets breaking the boy’s skull—another death cheated.
He asked, “How long did you train Edan?”
She stood a little taller, hatred blazing in her eyes, but she said and did nothing. Tyrus waited for sorcery. She had the power to kill him with a word, and he was chained and too weak to resist. He assumed she would strike, but her anger faded. Her eyes stayed cold.
“Eight years.”
“Why not keep him on the walls with the other sorcerers?”
“You think I killed him?”
“A question, curiosity. Why send him against me?”
“He refused to stay behind, believed he should lead the Soul of Shinar. Lael used him as bait, but Azmon saw through the plan.” Dura shook her head. “Lael was a cavalry man, would not listen to anyone. He wanted to ride against the beasts and wasted our strength outside the walls.”
Tyrus offered no apology and wondered if she expected one. She must know him better than that. The boy wanted to fight, one of them had to die, and Edan came close to killing Tyrus, closer than King Lael. Strange for a young boy to be so dangerous. He remembered the long weeks recovering from that fight, almost as bad as falling from the sky. Dura leaned against her staff, studying him.
“Is Marah okay?”
“Do you care about Ishma’s daughter, or the Reborn?”
“They are the same.”
“You know what I mean. Which master do you serve?”
“I have no master. Not anymore.”
“Why come here? What is the game?”
“The last time I saw her, she was sick and starving. Is she all right?”
“The knights think you surrendered as a clever trick to assassinate the king.”
“Azmon doesn’t want Gadara. He wants Teles.”
“I know it. You know it. But Shinar burned, and now everyone is scared.” She shook her head. “I also know the seraphim asked you to protect the child. No one will believe such nonsense, but I know it to be true.”
Tyrus relished the words and was glad to hear someone else say it. He had not imagined the dream or thrown away everything for a cripple. Had the seraphim told Ishma? He hoped they had because she deserved to know her child had survived, and she should know that he had not betrayed her. When it mattered, he had protected her daughter. He was still her guardian.
“Is Marah safe?”
Dura waited. “You kill Edan one day and save Marah the next. How does that work? Where is the logic?”
Tyrus tried to find the words. He had spent a lifetime serving the Pathros dynasty, decades guarding a young Azmon, and later, a young Ishma. There had been a golden age once, before the War of the Five Nations and the bone beasts. The child should be spared the sins of her parents. He could not stand by and let the shedim kill Ishma’s child.
“She is like my own daughter.”
“Edan was like my son.”
“You won’t tell me about Marah. Fine. I deserve that,” Tyrus said. “So why are you here?”
“Many want to execute you. Lael’s sons demand trial by combat. They’re preparing for the event.”
She must have been joking. He could laugh, but her awful glare kept him quiet. She had no rank other than sorceress but carried herself like a queen. A tilt of her chin, strong eyes, the old girl had grit. He could not laugh at her. She compelled respect.
“They want to fight me?”
“They think the hand of God protects them.”
Tyrus thought about the princes at the gates, young men, boyish faces, but full grown. He guessed they had not
been shaving for long. What would possess them to fight him unless he didn’t understand the seraphim champions? Maybe the knights had divine help?
“Does God protect them?”
“As much as he protected their father. They are a strange breed, holy knights, trained from birth to ignore anyone who questions their faith. I might have made things worse when I tried to argue the seraphim’s case. They became more adamant. Now it will take a divine visitation to stop this thing.”
“Will the angels show?”
Dura saddened. Tyrus did not expect them to. He had suspected as much all along; deep down, he knew. They wanted the Reborn and would sacrifice him or Einin or hundreds of elves to secure their prize.
“So, why are you here?”
“To ask a favor.” She shrugged at the absurdity. “Lael’s boys are good boys. Young, hard headed, but good boys. They’ll demand a fair fight, like the stories of great heroes, and you would kill them.”
Tyrus agreed.
“I’d like it if you didn’t.”
“Pardon?”
The way she watched him, asking without pleading, she was serious. He had never lost a fight on purpose. The idea was so absurd, went against the essence of his being. He had risen from a commoner to the Lord Marshal of Rosh because he never backed down from a fight. He tested his skills agains the best and always prevailed.
“It doesn’t matter. If you win the trial, they’ll find an excuse to kill you. King Samos delays because he knows you’ll win, but the princes have a right to duel. I’m asking you to spare the fools. Don’t delay the inevitable.”
“If they want my head, they’ll have to earn it.”
The cell became quiet. Dura shuffled her feet and made to leave. Before she closed the door, Tyrus said, “You should ask them to not fight.”
“I have.”
The door closed. She left the torch, and he was thankful for it. Watching the oiled wrapping burn away, layer by layer, gave him something to do. Were the nobles of Ironwall wasting time on such a foolish thing, or was this some elaborate trick? He couldn’t figure it out, but if rangers voted on battlefield commands, then maybe the knights wasted days arguing for a trial by combat.
III
The last bits of the torch sputtered, sparked, and fell to the stone floor. Darkness covered Tyrus again. He leaned against the wall, trying to still every muscle in his body. He must conserve his strength.
The room changed.
The door had not opened, yet he knew he was no longer alone. Goosebumps blossomed down his neck. His ears caught it first, a slight inhalation. The smell—flowers—came second. His eyes saw nothing. That bothered him because he should see the far wall. His eyes adjusted to the dark, but the walls of the cell had vanished as if someone draped a black cloth over his head.
“Who is there?”
Silence answered.
“You stand on my right. I know you are there.”
“Your senses rival ours. I am impressed.”
A flame leapt into being, bright white and bursting with energy. Tyrus winced. As he blinked away afterimages, he saw a masculine figure, lean and too tall to be a man, who held a flame. The creature put the fire on the dead torch. At first, Tyrus feared it was the Father of Lies, but he was deep within seraphim territory. When he saw the creature’s white wings, he breathed more easily.
The angel asked, “I wonder, how strong are you?”
Tyrus had not met anyone stronger than him in a long time. His strength had grown beyond measurement.
“Arm wrestle?”
Tyrus shook his chains. “Sorry.”
The angel had a face that was hard to understand, masculine jaws with feminine lips and eyes. The head craned to the side, like a dog, as it studied the chains. It knelt before him, gestured for him to kneel, and took a length of chain.
“Pull.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
He pulled the chain until the cuff bit into Tyrus’s wrist. Tyrus wrapped his hand around the links and countered. The angel gritted its teeth and slid on the floor toward Tyrus. Then it became stronger, flexing and pulling Tyrus from the wall. The links of the chain vibrated. They squealed as the metal warped.
“Enough.” It stood. “You rival us in strength.”
“Who are you?”
“I am called Ramiel. I am an archangel of the Seven Heavens. Ithuriel sends me as his messenger.”
Tyrus knew the name Ithuriel, the leader of the seraphim host and father of the holy knights. In the old stories of the First War of Creation, he had cast out Mulciber and the other angels who revolted against God. Ithuriel won that war, banishing Mulciber to the Nine Hells.
“At this point, most mortals grovel.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“No. I’m the one who sent you here.”
In his dreams, he remembered a woman’s voice, but seeing Ramiel in person, he could understand the mistake. The creature had feminine features and a soft voice. Tyrus waited to die. He had fought against the seraphim for many years and expected the archangel to kill him.
He asked, “What do you want?”
“How did you pass the Black Gate?”
“That was Azmon. The overlords taught him runes to survive the other side. He hasn’t aged a year since. Neither have I. I feared we would die on the other side, burn up or something, but we didn’t.” Tyrus hung his head. “I thought Azmon had gone insane. I never dreamed it would work. We were supposed to die together.”
“And you freed Moloch?”
“He calls himself Mulciber.”
Ramiel bristled. “He was stripped of that name. Do not use it. The adversary is Moloch.” He grew quiet. “Our father must want a war. It angers him when we harm this world, but he sets in motion things we cannot stop.”
“I tried to protect Marah. I’m told she is safe.”
“She is.”
“I did what you wanted. Now what?”
“In the eyes of Ithuriel, you have redeemed much, but in the eyes of these people, you redeem nothing. I am sorry.”
Tyrus sneered, expecting as much. They had their prize, and he was expendable. Ramiel would not kill him, just watch as the knights did. For all the stupid ways he had cheated death and the ways he had dreamed of fighting someone stronger than him, to die like this, executed like a common thief, felt small. He wanted a famous battle, a duel that filled songs for generations.
“You won’t tell them to spare me.”
“No. I won’t.”
Tyrus couldn’t find the words to complain. Had he become so unforgivable that they would watch him die? They visited him in person to what, taunt him?
“Tyrus, they demand miracles as if they are parlor tricks. They command us to answer prayers or they won’t believe, and they bribe us with petty sacrifices. A fat man swears off wine if I cure his ailments. A woman pledges eternal faith if I save her daughter. That is not faith. They seek control when faith is surrender.”
Tyrus wanted Ramiel to take charge. A simple rebuke would set the knights straight. If Ramiel walked up the stairs, the knights would kneel and do as they were told.
Tyrus said, “Command them.”
“Shinar should have tempered their arrogance, but it only makes it stronger. They try to be faithful. They’re just not good at it.”
“You let Shinar fall?”
“When my kind fight, mortals die. If we had defended the walls, the shedim would have joined the battle. The entire city, perhaps the Reborn too, would have been lost.”
Tyrus imagined the Sarbor waging war on the walls of Shinar. From the few he had fought, he could believe in a great slaughter, but the phrasing sounded odd. Ramiel emphasized Marah’s title too much. Tyrus saw the first hints of a bigger game.
“Shinar fell so Marah could be born?”
“She is important to Ith
uriel.”
“I want to protect her.”
“For Ishma more than yourself. You are a strange man, a true guardian with misplaced loyalty. Imagine if you had chosen another as your ward. Without you protecting Azmon, Moloch might still be chained.”
“What must I do?”
“Earn their forgiveness. Do you think God will forgive you when your enemies don’t? The divine is far harder to please than these people. That is the real meaning of penance. Look to your neighbors before you seek the divine.”
“But they are right to hate me.”
“Yes, they are.”
Tyrus dwelled on all the battles he fought after the Roshan invaded Argoria. He had razed dozens of cities, slain tens of thousands of people. For Azmon alone he had eliminated multiple rivals. The beasts were not his creation, but he used them to conquer creation. He had earned his names. He was the Damned, the Butcher of Rosh, and second in command of the armies of the Nine Hells.
“Forgiveness isn’t possible.”
“It is always possible. Dura will be at your side, but the battle for their hearts is yours.”
“Their hearts—a battle?”
“Yes. A battle where muscle and runes mean nothing.”
“But I have no gold.”
Ramiel laughed. “Bribery is not forgiveness.”
The angel knelt and laid a hand on his shoulder. A flood of warmth, energy, a revitalization, washed over Tyrus. He felt clean, strong, for the first time since he had left Shinar. Wounds healed, hunger vanished, strength returned, and he knew he could rip the chains from the wall. A gasp escaped his lips.
“A small boon, for your sacrifices. You understand what you must do? If I order them, they will resent it and find an excuse to ignore me. Their priests are masterful sophists. They would kill you and beg forgiveness. You must convince them to be better men. You must solve the riddle of their hearts.”
“How would I fight… like that?”
“Think on it. It will come to you. You are the great Lord Marshal of Rosh. Who am I to tell you of battles?”
The light went out. Tyrus listened for breathing, but he was alone. A rage grew because the seraphim used him as a moral experiment to train their little lapdogs. His arms had power again; flexing them would tear the chains from the wall. Their steel was weapon enough for a fight with the guards, and while he might not make it out of Ironwall, scores of men would die with him.
TODAY IS TOO LATE Page 27
