TODAY IS TOO LATE (27 page)

“We must move.”

They hurried toward the Roshan. The rangers who had lost bears seemed inconsolable, and yet they kept going.

“Will they be okay?”

“People think they are pets,” Klay said. “But a companion is more dear to us than our children. You have no idea how hard they are to find and train.”

“Why go to all the trouble?”

“Ever fought a half giant? They’re about the same size as a bear. There are many things on the other side of Paltiel, demon spawn, that hunt horses.”

Tyrus considered that but felt uncomfortable watching the rangers mourn. He wanted them to dry their faces because their emotions left him hollow, and he struggled to remember the last time he cried for the dead. When he killed his own men, handpicked and groomed for leadership in the army, he had felt more cold than sad.

Klay said, “No one thought a bone beast could kill a bear in one slash.”

Tyrus said, “They are twice as big.”

“They’re supposed to be slow and dumb.”

“The new constructs are more lifelike. They’re starting to think.”

They picked their way through the riverbed. Everyone watched the treetops, but nothing flew overhead. Klay raised a hand, and as they slowed, he pointed into the woods. Tyrus stayed close to Klay, and the rest of the group spread out. They stalked the trees, arrows nocked on bows. Tyrus listened for fighting.

“We should have never let you land your boats,” Klay said. “The nobles said they’d finish you after you broke against Jethlah’s Walls. No one thought it would be like this.”

“The age of castles is ending.”

“The age of what?”

“Nothing.”

Tyrus gestured for silence. His runes helped him hear the Roshan before they saw them. Klay used hand signals to keep the other rangers back. A bear moaned, and everyone winced. They lurked through the woods until they found a clearing filled with black armor and steel. Among the guardsmen and archers were lumbering hulks. Years in the field told Tyrus there might be a thousand men. He pitied Azmon. The emperor wanted to secure Shinar before he fought the elves and now wasted troops on a poorly planned invasion.

Tyrus noticed a makeshift field hospital where surgeons met a steady stream of wounded men. This was the rally point for the new troops. Given time, they would build a forward base, fortified with earthworks and fallen trees.

“What do we do now?” Klay asked.

“We need to get their leader’s attention. The woman, up there.”

“You said she never flies low.”

“She doesn’t, but she wants me to die. How far do you think the elves are?”

“I have no idea.”

Tyrus studied his men, and a mad idea flashed through his mind. It was less a plan than a stupid way to kill himself, but success might cripple this advance, distract Azmon, and buy Marah time. Still, if he died, who would help Ishma? Was she still alive? Considering all the stone and swords between him and the empress, did it matter? This army would tear him apart, and Azmon or the shedim would kill Ishma.

If he could relive the last week, he would have listened to the dream and ferreted Ishma out of her room. Even weak from childbirth, even risking her health, he would have dragged her from Shinar. She deserved better. He knew it, had known it for a long time, but did nothing to stop Azmon. Why hadn’t he done that? If he had, he might have saved both the mother and daughter.

“Ishma,” he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Rather than despair, he set his anger free, and rage helped mask his fear. No sane person would walk into that clearing.

“Do you see those two in black robes? If they talk to me, do nothing. If they look at me funny, shoot. You need to drop them before they work their spells.”

“Right. No, wait. What do you mean, ‘talk to you’?”

“Stay here. Watch the big flyer.” Tyrus stood. “Kill her, and the battle is over.”

“What are you doing?”

Tyrus strode into the clearing. Not long after, a bone lord saw him, stumbled backward, pointed, and the shouting began. The soldiers waited on commands, but the black robes spun to each other and bone beasts flexed their claws. One of the lords sent two Wall breakers at Tyrus, but the beasts weren’t running, not yet.

Tyrus shouted, “What is the meaning of this, fools? Call them off. Your real enemy is behind me.”

Tyrus hoped they had control of their beasts. He saw five of them, more than enough to rip him apart. He needed only a moment more, and his voice carried a lifetime of command. He marched forward, angry and insulting as always. The bone lords leashed their monsters, and fate teased Tyrus. His plan might work. He should be dead.

“We have orders to kill you, Lord Marshal.”

“That wasn’t me. An impostor. Elvish sorcery. The elves stole the heir and forced us to kill each other.” Tyrus pointed behind him. “They will attack from the river. Set up a skirmish line here. Spears here. Swordsmen there and archers there. Now.”

“But—what?”

“Question me again, and I’ll flay you. I don’t care how powerful your house is. Who is in command?” Tyrus scowled at the confused Roshan. Murder played across his face, and his infamy went to work. “Who is giving you orders? What fool left your flank wide open?”

Lilith coughed on brown smoke, her greatest advantage, a bird’s eye view, stolen by a forest fire. No point hovering over a battle if she could not see. The elves traded their trees to destroy her beasts. Scouts reported a large army with an organized attack and firetraps for beasts. They found tunnels leading from one part of the forest to another. Since when did elves dig tunnels? Lilith knew one thing. She needed a bigger army.

Tyrus had chased the heir into hardened defenses and veteran warriors. Her men blundered into the trap without thinking.

A glance east told her that more troops were marching into the woods. What was Azmon thinking, sending so few? An entire forest fought her, and the emperor sent light foot and a dozen beasts. At least he did not come in person. She could not return disgraced with no traitors and no heir and hundreds of dead soldiers. She pushed down doubts about her brothers, hostages, and the price of failure. Where had Tyrus taken the child?

Where?

Mount Teles pierced the clouds. She saw the elven city on one side with its white stone spires and glittering gold. If Tyrus found sanctuary in the city, he would be safe for years. The idea twisted her stomach in knots. More likely, he ran away. The elves would hate him more than they hated her, but he could not have engineered a better distraction. She had to admit he could be brilliant, fleeing close enough to the elves to provoke them. The man started a war to cover his tracks.

A scout flew to her. “Milady, the Lord Marshal is taking command of the ground forces.”

Lilith sputtered. “What?”

The scout pointed at a lone figure, standing outside the marshaling area. Lilith couldn’t believe her eyes. Beasts stood near him, guardsmen stood near him, and no one attacked. The bone lords stood there wringing their hands.

“Tell them to attack.”

“Milady, he says it was an elvish trick and they plan to attack. He wants skirmishers to protect the southern flank.”

Lilith hesitated. The elves were clever, and he was Azmon’s favorite. No. His own man had branded him a traitor. And if he was innocent, killing him opened a path of advancement. This was nothing but a stunt. Her handpicked servants had been fooled by a clever bluff, and she had a dozen things to say all at once. Bewilderment and anger warred within her.

“Idiots. Kill him.”

The scout looked unsure. Lilith pulled her flyer’s reins and flew toward Tyrus. She yelled commands. As her flyer dove and picked up speed, the roaring wind pulled the words out of her mouth. Her throat cracked and burned but she didn’t care as she screamed harder.

“Kill him!”

Klay listened as Tyrus gave away their strategy. His mouth dried. Had the Butcher played him for a fool? Tyrus told the Roshan exactly where the elves would strike from. He ordered them to send skirmishers to the riverbed.

What was he doing?

Klay nocked an arrow and aimed at the back of Tyrus’s neck. One thought stilled his shot. The damage had been done. Killing him now would not protect the rangers. He relaxed the bow. And Tyrus never mentioned the rangers. The Roshan seemed confused. They didn’t know what to do with Tyrus. The flyers had taken notice, but they did not come near the clearing.

Klay studied the trees. One was large enough with few branches for climbing but plenty of thick vines. If the flyers would not come to him, then he would go to them. He slunk toward the tree and climbed, hoping his green cloak hid him from the Roshan.

“The elves are coming from the riverbed.” Tyrus repeated himself, growing angrier each time. “We are wasting time. You need to pull in the eastern flank and reinforce the south.”

The lead bone lord stayed back. He exchanged furious whispers with another lord. The two waited on a signal from the sky.

Tyrus fought back a grin. The truth confused them more than any lie could. Why would he tell them where the attack came from? They worried about the other flanks more than the south but waited on the flyers for orders. He understood their situation. What if Lilith had lied to them? Would Azmon punish them for hurting the Lord Marshal? And that assumed the Damned could be hurt. With effort, he kept a stern, commanding face. Watching a bluff work made him feel young.

“Lord Marshal, we have orders. Drop your weapon. Surrender, and we’ll sort this out.”

“I don’t negotiate, boy. I am the Lord Marshal of Rosh.” Tyrus acted outraged. “We don’t have time for this nonsense. Orders change.”

Tyrus saw Lilith diving for him. His ears caught her furious cries: “Attack him, kill him, you idiots.” He tried to guess how long it would take before the lords heard. Would she be in range for an archer before they attacked? She charged straight at him. He fell into a fighting stance. The beasts became agitated, and the leader gasped.

Tyrus smiled and lunged.

Lilith raised her dagger, fiery orbs crackling in her hands. Tyrus attacked a beast, severing a knee and dodging a massive set of murderous claws. The lords shouted orders as Lilith’s hellfire exploded on the ground. She struck all around him, consuming men and beasts alike. A beast ran through a plume of fire, and its leathery skin blistered and boiled as it attacked.

The explosion shocked the soldiers as though Tyrus had summoned the fire himself. The beasts did not care, and he focused on avoiding their claws. Dancing with four of the monsters, he was faster, but only just. The men had open mouths. Their hesitation kept him alive as his legend fought beside him.

Klay strained against his bow, guessed at the wind, and waited—and waited some more—for the flyer to drop lower. He knew the wind would be different above the trees, and his odds of hitting something in flight were slim but improved with each passing second as the flyer dove to the ground.

He exhaled, waited for his heart to beat once, and released. The arrow leapt through the air, and Klay held his breath, but at the last moment, the flyer twisted, and his shot punched a hole in the wings.

He cursed himself—drew again—almost fumbled, aimed and released. The arrow darted toward the black wings.