TODAY IS TOO LATE (20 page)

“So they’ll catch us before Ironwall.” Klay turned on his heel, studying the woods. “Not many options. How big will the ground force be?”

“No way to know.”

“We have a good lead on the walkers.”

“Until the flyers land ahead of us. They’ll slow us for their friends.”

“Well, that complicates things,” Klay said. “Suggestions?”

Tyrus studied Klay, a young man, but he looked honest. Delegation was the hardest part of being Lord Marshal. Could he trust this ranger with Ishma’s baby? She starved anyway, and what choice did he have?

“Take us toward the elves.”

“A Reborn is one thing. Azmon’s child is another. She might be safer outside Telessar.”

“The seraphim sent us this way.”

“Angels?” Klay did not hide his shock. “That’s the long story?”

“Most of it.”

“Buzzard’s guts, man.”

Tyrus risked too much on dreams and circumstance. He could have done things a dozen different ways and been in a position of strength, but they kept reacting to events instead of planning. Klay seemed tense. The rangers must have their own secrets.

Tyrus said, “Take us to their city, not their army.”

“Who said anything about an army?”

“Are you saying those beasts will face no challenge? The elves will let them invade?” Tyrus grew impatient. “They will strike today. I don’t care. Take us to their city.”

“One does not simply walk into Telessar.”

“Get us close. I’ll figure out the rest on the way.”

A few miles later, they found a pile of dead men. They smelled them long before, the putrid odor of decaying meat cooking in the midday heat. Dead swordsmen and archers, and unlike most battlefields littered with bodies, these had their weapons and armor. Tyrus recognized the black plate from Rosh. The faces had blackened and squirmed, covered in insects.

“What happened?” Einin asked.

“My men,” Tyrus said. “Scouts, small forces sent into the woods while we sieged Shinar. They didn’t come this far, though.” Tyrus turned to Klay. “What does this mean?”

“This is the older part of Paltiel.” Klay pointed up. “Notice the size of the oaks. They say some of these trees are older than Shinar. Farther in is sacred ground. The Ashen Elves do not let anyone approach the mountain.”

The trees were enormous, as wide as a house, but Tyrus had never heard of the elves doing something so barbaric. Had he done this? Had the Roshan Empire angered them so much that they would leave his men out in the sun like garbage? He studied the pile, trying to identify the faces, trying to remember their names. He didn’t know any of them.

“We should burn them,” he said.

Klay coughed. “I would
not
start a fire in these woods. Not during the summer and definitely not this close to Telessar.”

“They deserve better.”

“The elves seldom march to war, but when they do, they mean to win. You’ll receive no mercy from them.” Klay nudged his mount forward. “This is the boundary. Do you really want to go to Telessar?”

“Can you plead our case?”

Klay grimaced. “Shinar still burns. What can I say to make that right?”

Tyrus understood. No sense arguing the politics of the Roshan court. The infamous Lord Marshal could not deny his crimes. He glanced at Marah, fussy and crying in Einin’s arms. The heir should not be punished for his sins.

“Can you plead Marah’s case?”

“The seraphim truly protect the child?”

Einin said, “That is what Ishma said.”

“I doubt they’ll kill a woman and child.”

Tyrus asked, “Are you sure?”

“A week ago I was sure Shinar would hold while we gathered our forces. Everyone was sure Jethlah’s Walls would repell Azmon’s beasts. If Lael had stayed within the walls, it might have. Now, it’s hard to be sure of anything. Strange days.”

Tyrus understood the unspoken terms. He endangered Marah more than anything, which meant he had to trust Ishma’s child with an unknown man and a bunch of elves who hated his people. The alternative was watching her starve.

“It will be easier without me.”

Klay nodded.

Einin watched, and it said much when she didn’t protest. He killed his own men for her, but she didn’t want to be near him. He understood. He had a black name, and had probably killed a few of her family’s friends during the civil war. The list of people he had killed had grown ponderous. She looked wary, the way everyone did when they discovered what a hundred runes did to a man. She would call him the Damned behind his back, like everyone else.

“Take Einin and Marah to Telessar.”

Klay said, “I will speak for her. I will make her case.”

“Make it good.”

“Where will you go?”

Tyrus turned east. Klay followed his gaze and then looked at him like he was mad, but Tyrus knew the flyers hunted him as much as they hunted Marah. The woods gave him options, cover; he could strike and fade like the elves did and maybe slow the bone lords. His capture would slow them more.

Klay said, “You can’t be serious.”

“Speak for the child,” Tyrus said. “Make it good. I’ll lead the beasts away. Take them south if I can.”

Tyrus hesitated. Einin and Klay watched him, but none of them knew each other well enough for a formal goodbye. This felt wrong. They were more than strangers but less than friends. He should know the people he protected better than this.

“Einin, find the elves. Get supplies. Rest a while; let Marah gain some strength and head to Ironwall. Tell the elves that the seraphim want the child delivered to Dura Galamor. I’ll find you when I can.”

“I will.”

The silence became awkward.

“Well then,” Tyrus said. “Good luck.”

Klay didn’t know what to think: the Butcher of Rosh had defeated King Lael in single combat, killed the Reborn hero Edan, and sacked Shinar. And he had caught an arrow. Only in the old songs could champions defy death like that. Klay had awoken three times during the night—impossible to sleep with the Butcher nearby—and found him pacing in front of the camp like a guard dog. The hulking brute resembled a mangy old hound, scarred from too much fighting.

Hard to accept him guarding a mother and child. Didn’t make sense. Everyone knew the Butcher was second in command of the armies of the Nine Hells and a childhood friend of Emperor Azmon. No reason for a crony to betray his master, and for what? Einin rode behind Klay. She looked weary with grief. The baby was too sick to last the day, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her. The girl feared Tyrus. No courtly romance there.

Klay said, “Your friend is a bit odd.”

“We are not friends.”

“He risks much for you.”

“For Marah. Not me.”

“Is it true? He has scores of runes?”

“More than a hundred.”

“But that’s impossible.” Klay tried to imagine so many runes on one body. None of the master engravers in Ironwall had that kind of talent. A hundred would need to be woven together or made smaller. Who engraved the Butcher’s runes? “Wait, more than a hundred? How many more?”

“He said he’s lost count.”

“That’s impossible.”

“It’s true,” Einin said. “I’ve seen them.”

One did not forget an etching. Klay shuddered at the memory of his two runes: tied down with leather straps, a hot needle scoring his flesh, the boiling tar. He had screamed and whimpered and cried. He pushed the memories down. He wanted a third rune to one day become a ranger lord, but he feared the needle too much to dare another etching.

A hundred runes would explain the fight. Tyrus fought with unnatural strength and speed. Klay remembered impossible feats: catching an arrow, fighting a bear with his hands, kicking Chobar over as if he weighed nothing. Klay thought he might be a Rune Blade. Sorcery was the only explanation, but Tyrus never chanted or gestured. He fought like an Etched Man, not a warrior sorcerer, his only sorcery the spells carved into his flesh.

Klay heard Chobar a few yards downwind, complaining with peevish grunts. Klay whistled at him to keep his distance. The bear trampled underbrush as it moved away. Klay watched the horses. They had wide eyes, flaring nostrils, twitchy ears. They knew a predator stalked them and waited to bolt. Klay could not help admiring the animals, tall, powerful, and well trained—chargers fit for kings, the pinnacle of horse breeding.

He had not ridden a horse in years. Bears had shorter front legs, and Klay found himself leaning back in the saddle. A level saddle felt odd. Guilt bothered him as if he cheated on Chobar. Based on his moans, Chobar did not like being replaced.

The trail they followed faded away. Klay searched for another. He dismounted, drew his short sword, and cut a path through brambles and ferns and dark green vines with stickers that grabbed at his leggings and cloak. The brush gave way to another path, and Klay could tell it was no game trail. The elves used this one. He scanned the trees for shapes or movement, not sure why he looked. He never spotted them when they didn’t want to be seen. The sentinels of Paltiel would intercept them soon.

“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.

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.”