TODAY IS TOO LATE

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “You cannot protect her as well as I can.” The nobles gasped, and Tyrus flushed with embarrassment. Insults would not win their hearts. “With all due respect, your majesty.”

  Lior said, “The Butcher does not protect children. Majesty, these ridiculous stories insult the memory of my father and your court. Let me put an end to this nonsense.”

  Tyrus studied the knight. He saw the ghost of King Lael in his eyes, chin and shoulders, a large boy, well muscled and too eager to fight. No one had hungered to fight Tyrus in years. In fact, Tyrus could not remember the last time someone had picked a fight with him on purpose. Usually, he was attacking their homes. At least King Lael offered respect. Lior must think himself untouchable.

  Tyrus asked, “Do you want to die?”

  “The righteous warrior does not fear death.”

  “I didn’t ask if you were afraid.”

  “I will not die today.” Lior glared contempt. “Your tricks won’t work here. Azmon is too far away to help you cheat.”

  “A moment, Prince Lior.” King Samos glanced at the delegation of dwarves. “Do you recognize him, King Sian Tola Varag?”

  A dwarf shouldered his short sword and approached Tyrus. He circled, eyeballing every inch of him. The dwarf stood a little shorter than five feet but was wider with massive shoulders, arms like tree trunks and a bright red beard. Beady eyes with a hint of blue passed over Tyrus’s face.

  “He is the right size, but you all look the same to me.”

  “You don’t recognize his scars?”

  “It was years ago, over a decade, and he wore black armor. He might be the one, but I doubt it. No one returns from the Deep.” The dwarf turned to Tyrus. “You claim to have passed my gates?”

  “I don’t remember all the names; there were dozens of cities.”

  “What did you find past the Deep Ward?”

  “Demon Tribes and the Tusken.” The dwarves hushed. The Gadarans seemed confused. “The half dwarves that mixed with the tribes. They have blackish skin, red eyes, and tusks.”

  The dwarves drew weapons, shouting outrage and insults.

  “No.” The elf leader, Nemuel, spoke. “He describes them well.”

  Tyrus waited to continue. “They let us pass the gates of Skogul. The Black Gate is the color of a bloody sunset.” Dwarves flinched, and Tyrus said, “It is a circle of stone at the heart of Skogul, larger than the doors to this room. Large enough for a giant. Most shedim are that big.”

  Nemuel spoke again. “Mortals die on the other side.”

  “Azmon discovered runes to survive,” Tyrus said. “He thrives on proving people wrong. As a small boy, if someone told him a thing couldn’t be done, he would try and fail until he made it work.”

  Samos looked at Dura, and she nodded.

  “You’ve been at his side so long?”

  “His father raised us together. I was a few years older, groomed to be his guardian. It is a common practice in Rosh. You fight harder for your adoptive family.”

  “More lies.” Lior stepped toward the throne. “Majesty, he barters for time. The Butcher is no guardian. You cannot hand him over to the nephalem for questioning. No mortal can pass the gates. Grant me my rights, and I’ll show you. He is a man.”

  “And yet he describes the Black Gate.”

  “Ancient scrolls describe the gate. The Roshan thrive on clever tricks. They use monsters and lies to intimidate everyone. Some of our own cities surrendered without a fight. You must see his lies for the desperation that they are.”

  The nobles waited. King Samos rested his chin on a fist and glared at Tyrus. Dura was supposed to help Tyrus, but she did nothing. He studied her, and her face stayed as passive as a stone. The elves and dwarves looked worried but deferred to their host.

  King Samos asked, “You want to fight a man with a hundred runes?”

  “A dozen are real at best. The rest are fake.”

  “He beat your father.”

  “Sorcery beat my father. Azmon is not here to help him.”

  “Bedelia, do those look fake to you?”

  The plump priestess on the king’s left grimaced. “I have not inspected them, your majesty, but no one can survive so many.”

  Samos harrumphed. “Dura, do those look fake to you?”

  “No, your majesty, they do not.”

  Lior glared at her. “Milord, you cannot trust Azmon’s teacher.”

  “Boy,” Dura said, “I fought the Roshan before you could walk.”

  “I should warn the prince,” Tyrus said. “The attempts to starve me failed. I am not as weak as he thinks.”

  Lior winced.

  Samos asked, “What is he talking about?”

  “More lies,” Lior said. “He was fed two meals a day.”

  King Samos asked, “You choose this of your own free will?”

  “I do,” Lior said.

  “I grant a trial by combat for King Lael’s death only. Not the wars or the sacked cities or the abominations set loose on your people. The Butcher does not go free if he wins.”

  “Milord, with all due respect—”

  “Don’t test me, prince. You want a fight and I’ll allow one, but I will not pardon him when you die.”

  “I will not die.”

  Tyrus coughed. “I did not kill King Lael. He died in the arena when he refused to kneel before Emperor Azmon.”

  His words set off a storm of arguing. Angry voices rose with complaints, and the knights denied the claim while others argued that it did not matter. King Samos let them shout as he conferred with Dura. The chaos and disrespect shocked Tyrus. This wasn’t leadership. They haggled. No one had challenged Azmon like this since he was a young prince, and Azmon never allowed angry nobles to rewrite the laws. The emperor made decrees and exceptions but never let others do it by proxy. Samos gave the knights free rein. Dura caught his eye. She shook her head at him, a slight movement, easily missed and meaningless. What was she telling him to do?

  “Look at him. He is afraid to fight me.” Lior stalked toward Tyrus. “He does everything he can to avoid a fight. Lies and tricks and quibbles over who did what when Shinar fell. My father would be alive if it weren’t for Roshan sorcery.”

  Lior slapped Tyrus.

  A dozen ways to kill the prince sprang to mind, and the one he picked, snatching the prince by the hair and driving his skull through the stone floor, tempted him. His hands trembled at the thought, but Dura shook her head. A boy slapped him? He had led the armies of Rosh against the Hurrians, the Five Nations, and the Shinari. He defeated sorcerers, Etched Men, champions, famous warriors, and the demons of the Nine Hells. Armies surrendered when he took the field.

  No one slapped the Damned.

  Tyrus fumed and nearly missed the knife lancing toward his guts. Lior had twisted away to spring back with the blade. The tip stabbed Tyrus before he caught Lior’s wrist. The prince pushed, but Tyrus pulled the blade out, twisted his wrist, and knocked Lior to the floor. His runes sealed the little gash before it bled: a refreshing change, to be at full strength again.

  Nobles debated the dishonorable assault, but Tyrus silenced them with a loud voice. “I grant the princeling a duel.”

  Dura glared at him. Tyrus shrugged. She had had her chance to speak and did nothing. He would not die piece by piece. After he ripped apart the princeling, they could execute him however they wanted.

  King Samos sighed. “So be it. Proceed.”

  II

  Tyrus followed Klay to one corner of the wooden square. He didn’t understand why the Gadarans used a floor with wooden tiles, made up of planks, all interlocking, a vast series of cracks for blood to drip through. Hay or sand would absorb the blood better. The floor had some give, and the wood creaked under his weight. His guards withdrew to the front ranks of the nobles, resting their shields at their feet, creating an impression of fence posts.

&nb
sp; “There’s not much to this,” Klay said. “I’m here to ensure no one tampers with your equipment. Normally, there would be a scoring system for touches, but this is to the death.”

  “One arena is no different than another.”

  “Your color has improved.”

  “I’ve had time to heal.”

  “They fed you?”

  “I was given enough.”

  Klay waited for more and shrugged. Dura glared at Tyrus, but no one noticed. Would she use sorcery against him? He doubted it; people would feel the chill. The audience watched the two combatants. Tyrus had seen it before; they wanted blood, weighing him and his opponent, wondering if the Butcher would slaughter the young prince or if the knight might prevail against the hulking monster. The nobles gestured at one another and said little. They pointed at their palms and counted with fingers.

  “What are they doing?”

  Klay said, “Betting.”

  “Who’s got better odds?”

  “Want me to ask?”

  “No.”

  The princeling should die, too stupid to be left alive, but Ramiel’s words distracted Tyrus. How could he win their hearts? Either he died or the prince did. He needed a third option and sensed time slipping away from him. Meanwhile, Lior and Lahar argued about something with fierce whispers. Lior threw his gauntlets down and said, “Do it.” Lahar shook his head and unbuckled Lior’s armor.

  “What are you doing?” Klay asked.

  “I won’t wear armor against a bare-chested man. Fair is fair.”

  The audience grew louder, changing bets.

  Klay whispered, “I’ve seen him practicing. He is a blade master.”

  Tyrus ignored that. He counted runes as Lior shed armor, ten, and he knew them well: the boar, the bear, repeated a few times, runes of strength and endurance. The knights preferred brawn to speed, a common weakness in heavy infantry, hiding behind armor. Without armor, the prince would fight faster, but he lacked the runes to be deadly. Tyrus could kill him, fulfilling everyone’s expectations for the Butcher of Rosh. He had to do something else.

  Knights approached each corner, bearing long swords. Lior swung his blade, loosened his shoulders. Klay inspected Tyrus’s blade, tapping it on the stone, and offered it hilt first to Tyrus. The warrior in him couldn’t resist the dwarven smith work. The weight of the sword, the straightness of its lines, minimalist detailing in the hilt and pommel, the weapon was a work of beauty. Too many nobles preferred gaudy blades covered in gems, but dwarves knew their craft. The plainness spoke to its utility, and simple runes strengthened the steel.

  Lior and Tyrus stepped into the center of the square. Talking fell away. Everyone waited. Lior desired bloodshed—grinning as he twirled his sword—and that offended Tyrus. Killing should be a necessity, not a longing. Lior was large, but Tyrus stood taller and was much thicker in the shoulders and arms. The prince’s scar-free skin suggested innocence.

  “For Shinar!”

  Tyrus dodged multiple attacks, sidestepping, ducking, backpedaling. He worked the floor, kept Lior near the center, and did not allow himself to be boxed in a corner. The minute he drew blood, the Gadarans would hate him. Avoiding Lior was simple. Tyrus was at full strength and much faster.

  Lior pulled back with a frustrated frown.

  Tyrus waited for another strike. Did Lior sense the hopelessness? Because Tyrus did. He saw no way to win. What should he do? A glance at Dura showed that she glared, but not as hard. Tyrus had to defeat the princeling without hurting him, and not following his instincts wasn’t much of a plan.

  Lior attacked again, faster and far more reckless. Tyrus passed a dozen chances to kill him. He fought down years of training, every fiber of his being, instincts screaming for blood. The prince did a ridiculous spin that Tyrus could not ignore. The minute his back turned, Tyrus jumped forward, shoved him, and sent him flying into the floor.

  “Stay down, your highness.”

  “Fight me, damn you.”

  “You should not have insisted on this duel.”

  “Coward. Fight.”

  Tyrus granted his wish. For the first time, steel rang together. Tyrus did not press an attack but thwarted every jab and thrust. He looked like a man teaching a child. Lior became more incensed, and as his anger grew, his form became so sloppy that it begged for blood, but Tyrus resisted. The audience whispered their doubts. The prince could not win.

  Lior lunged. Tyrus sidestepped away and behind, seizing the prince. They tangled, and Lior tried to grapple, but he lacked the bulk to be effective. Tyrus had him in a bear hug, one hand clamping his sword arm, fingers digging into the forearm until Lior cried out and his blade rattled to the floor. Lior snarled and kicked and threw his head back, attempting a reverse head-butt. Tyrus smelled the sweat in the man’s hair, felt his body heat wash over him, and registered the pain of his attacks. Pleasant little bruises compared to falling from the sky. Tyrus lifted him, squeezed to make a point—his runes were real, capable of crushing the man’s ribs with little effort—and Lior gasped. He kicked less. Tyrus threw him down. The floor clacked. Lior bounced.

  “Stay down. You don’t have enough runes.”

  The prince wheezed, punched the floor, and no one stopped the duel. Tyrus waited for another attack. In Rosh, this humiliation would shame them both. Tyrus might save face by offering a clean death, but he saw no way to do that without becoming the Butcher. Lior surged forward empty-handed. He punched and kicked and screamed, and Tyrus took the abuse like a wall of stone. He grew tired, caught a fist, pivoted, and threw him to the ground.

  A slight twist of the wrist and the arm would snap, and Tyrus decided against that too. He shamed them both, but ignoring his instincts was his only plan.

  “He is a Rune Blade,” Lahar said. “He uses sorcery against my brother.”

  “I have more runes.”

  “More Roshan lies. Those cannot be real. Dura, you must stop his spells.”

  “There are no spells, prince.”

  “He ignores the rules. The duel should be steel on steel.”

  “It is,” Dura said. “He fights without sorcery.”

  King Samos said, “Lord Nemuel, is he a Rune Blade?”

  The elven leader spoke. “There is no sorcery here, your majesty, other than the spells etched into his flesh.”

  “Impossible,” Lahar said. “Not even Father could endure so many.”

  “He is not a Rune Blade,” Nemuel said. “We let him pass through Paltiel because his story is true. He guards the Reborn for Archangel Ithuriel.”

  “Our priests would have told us.”

  “I tried to persuade King Lael against his plan.” Nemuel bowed before King Samos. “I told him he underestimated the Roshan, but he refused to listen and fought them on the plains. The Shinari hear what they want to hear.”

  “Thank you, Lord Nemuel.”

  Lior asked, “What is going on?”

  King Samos said, “The matter is settled, prince.”

  “We are both alive; nothing is settled.”

  “He granted you a duel, not a trial.”

  “Then I demand a trial.”

  “You had your chance.”

  “Milord—”

  “Silence.”

  The room grew uncomfortably quiet, and Tyrus waited for the rest of it. They would overpower him and take his head. He could not fight his way out. Such a stupid way to die. He considered going down fighting, but that would probably hurt him. His best bet was to take his punishment and hope the seraphim protected him in the next life. Before the sun set, he might be back in the Nine Hells. The memory of Mulciber’s face gave him shudders.

  “What will I do with him?” King Samos asked the crowd. “The Butcher doesn’t want to fight.”

  Nobles chuckled politely.

  “Kill him,” Lahar said. “Execute him and be done with it.”

/>   “Your majesty,” the priestess, Bedelia, said, “he is an unholy abomination and should be destroyed.”

  The king glanced at Dura.

  She said, “Those runes are priceless, sire.”

  “I hate the word—priceless,” Samos said. “Everything has a price. Everything is negotiable. People say dwarven steel is priceless and yet I buy it. No. Give me a price.”

  “Take the yield of your mines for a year, and multiply by ten.”

  Dura glanced at Tyrus. She had the right idea. If he could buy their hearts, he would too. This was the help Ramiel promised him—an invisible hand that brought about a sense of awe because the shedim were never so subtle. He watched greed chip away at the king.

  “Why not study the runes after he is dead? Seems safer.”

  Dura said, “He can tell me in what order they were etched. He can tell me which runes Azmon learned last, the hardest runes. He might know where Azmon found them. Such knowledge could save many lives, if we tried to use those runes.”

  “Ten years… ah, but who would we sell these secrets to?”

  “Why, you, your majesty.”

  “Me?”

  “Imagine if your soldiers with one rune had ten. Think of the army you would field against Azmon when he brings his monsters to your walls. You would be ten times as strong at a fraction of the price.”

  Worried faces spread across the nobles. Tyrus had seen this before, the way runes upset the natural order, changed the power structure. It had been the same in Rosh, contributing to the civil war as much as the beasts. A commoner, like him, should have never risen to second in command, but runes made it possible. People born to power did not surrender their titles to more capable commoners, not without a fight.

  Samos asked, “Can you control him?”

  “Of course,” Dura said. “He knows no sorcery. But his secrets are worth the risk. My tower is more secure than your dungeons. If I cannot control him, I will destroy him.”

  Lahar asked, “Is this what passes for Gadaran honor? He sacked Shinar, and you haggle over runes? What is wrong with you people?”

  Samos sat up, stern eyes betraying his attempts at humor. He ruled this room, and a glance at the sheepish nobles told Tyrus everyone knew it. Such a strange people, chaotic one moment, subservient the next, he couldn’t explain it. Maybe King Samos had a nasty temper.