TODAY IS TOO LATE (10 page)

“The Prince of the Dawn is upset. His focus should stay on the kidnapper and not the empress or your failings. He might take his anger out on the wrong people.”

“My failings? But I did nothing—”

“No, you didn’t. You did not watch her. You did not protect her. You did not safeguard the heir to the throne.” Tyrus stepped in closer, trying to be reassuring, but his size made the man flinch. “It is important that this freak birth does not distract everyone from the kidnapping.”

The man wiped his brow. “I will do my best to explain it to the court. These things have been known to happen although they are very rare.” He nodded to himself. “Yes, very, very rare.”

“Good. One more thing. No leeches.”

“But Lord Marshal—”

“No leeches.”

“I do not tell you how to kill the emperor’s enemies.”

“No.
You
don’t.” Tyrus poked him with an armored finger. “No leeches. If she tells me she has been bled, I will blame you.”

He wanted to argue—Tyrus could see it—but no one argued with the Damned. His infamy had value at times.

“All right, no leeches.”

On the spiral stairs leading toward the courtyard, Tyrus paused. Who had Ishma meant by “the girl”? Did she beg mercy for the heir or the kidnapper? The thought seemed odd, but he knew it was right. Ishma feared Azmon would kill the child.

That’s why she did this?

He considered turning back but had wasted enough time. He had hoped some noble had stolen the child; now he knew the seraphim meddled with the royal family. Azmon had been right to fear the Seven Heavens. They conspired against Rosh, and Ishma schemed with the angels.

He jogged down the stairs. Would Azmon order him to kill Ishma? Could he kill her after having spent decades guarding her? Azmon would never ask him to do that, he told himself, but deep down he dreaded the truth.

In the command tent, Tyrus listed what he needed, named his men, horses, supplies. Elmar listened with a distant focus, studying the floor, nodding his head, scratching his scalp. He had a talented memory, forgot nothing, and later embellished plans with tiny touches, little details that Tyrus would have forgotten.

“Any reports on nobles leaving the city?”

“A woman headed west, sometime before dusk that matches her description, young, Narboran, rich.”

“No one stopped her? A lady wandering around with beasts on the street, and no one thought that was odd?”

“She might have bought her way out. Impossible to prove with all the looting.”

“Bah.” Tyrus paced. “I want names of everyone in King’s Rest. She should have never been allowed outside.”

“Of course, milord.”

Dawn approached. Einin might have a large lead, and he hated waiting for his orders to take effect. He should be on a horse, not killing time while his men assembled. Doubt set in again. He left the army and the city in Elmar’s care, but Lilith would move against him before he left the gates. They prepared a series of orders trying to anticipate her gambits. How much damage could the woman do while he chased down the heir?

“If I may, Lord Marshal, there is a bone lord who might help.”

Tyrus stopped pacing.

Elmar rushed onward. “I know how you feel, but Lord Biral Seve has beasts that can track better than hounds. I believe they used to be hounds. He volunteered his services.”

“To me or to the emperor?”

“To you, as far as I know.”

“What kind of man is this Biral?”

“He’s a talker, not organized, an academic more interested in testing his constructs, if I had to wager, milord. He does not seem political. But he assures me he can track the girl. All he needs is a personal item for the beasts to scent.”

“Bring him in.”

A few moments with Biral, and Tyrus smiled because Elmar had described him well. Large but poorly formed, too round in the shoulders and belly, his black robes clung to his midsection, magnifying his girth. He had an untrimmed beard that twitched as he talked and seemed more nervous than ambitious, but many were nervous in the presence of the Lord Marshal. Tyrus didn’t buy it. Anyone who wanted to help Azmon was political.

“What kind of a name is Biral?”

“Holoni, milord.”

“I see.” Tyrus remembered conquering Holon years ago when they defeated the Five Nations. Biral would have been one of the traitors defecting to Azmon. That he had become a bone lord spoke to his ambition. “What do you need?”

“Something of the lady’s. A hairbrush. An unwashed garment.” Biral stood a little taller. “I assure you, Lord Marshal, my dogs are better than any breed found in nature.”

Tyrus found one of his clerk’s long swords and unsheathed an inch of it; the edge glinted in the lamplight. He sheathed it and tossed it to Biral, who caught it with ease and feigned surprise. He held the sword outward, as though he didn’t have calluses on his hands or thick forearms.

“You’ll need that.”

“Is it necessary?”

“The remnants of Shinar fled west through some tunnels. So did the girl. We might find a small army sheltering her.”

Biral licked his lips.

“You didn’t think impressing the emperor would be easy, did you? It’s hard work, keeping that man happy. Backbreaking work.”

“I see. Yes, well—”

“Don’t waste my time with games. Your beasts fail, and we’ll both be flayed.” A half-truth: Azmon had never whipped Tyrus, but it was a common punishment in the army. “Next time, word your promises more carefully.”

Biral frowned.

“One more thing,” Tyrus said. “It should be obvious, but I’ve found some of the bone lords need to hear the obvious. If you cannot control your dogs, if they should get excited at a woman running and knock her down or in some way harm the child, you will answer to me.”

“I have complete control.”

“Elmar, how many times have we heard that?”

“Many times, Lord Marshal.”

“How many times has it been true?”

“Not as often, Lord Marshal.”

“I assure you, I took every precaution with my beasts. They are far more intelligent than those lumbering brutes they used on the walls.”

The bone lords bragged about their latest constructs until the unexpected happened in the field. After a disaster, they produced dozens of excuses and promises on why it would never happen again. Tyrus hated the process, but a beast that could track had its uses.

“Elmar, find the man a horse. Where are my men? We should be riding by now.”

“Some of them were mapping the tunnels. Messengers have been sent.”

“I’ll take what we have now and send messengers if we find the lady’s path.”

What felt like hours later, Tyrus trailed three bone beasts that resembled large mastiffs. He rode with a dozen of his champions, Etched Men, not as strong as himself, but a few might have challenged King Lael. The sun crept into the morning sky; the dark horizon purpled.

Tyrus tried not to think of all the things he had to do before the sun set again. A dozen men moved more slowly than one determined rider. So little time—delays slowed everything down. A horse threw a shoe. They had sent a runner for one of Einin’s hairbrushes. The wasted minutes itched like an old scab.

His mind wandered as he let his horse follow the dogs. The mounts of the Etched Men, like their riders, were more comfortable with the beasts than most. He hoped Einin’s mount didn’t startle when it heard them.

They scented Einin near their old siege positions. Tyrus saw the outline of the camp—worn paths, squares of dead grass from tents, latrine ditches and old earthworks—the echo of an army. Westward the plains rose into hills and mountains culminating with Mount Teles, the tallest peak in the world that loomed over everything. Surrounding it were lesser mountains and a vast forest. Tyrus smelled the trees long before they reached them, a green scent early in the morning, fresh with dew, as if a summer rain had washed away the war. He should enjoy it, but the beasts led them to the woods where dozens of his scouts had died.

Biral whistled. They stopped on the edges of the forest. His hounds became still, inanimate except for their smoldering eyes. Tyrus wished for real dogs because the sight of the beasts was offputting. The things had no jowls, and their exposed canines glistened.

The trees were a type of oak: thick trunks, few branches low to the ground but large tops. Near the plains, they stood maybe thirty feet tall, but farther in they became enormous, reaching for the heavens, hundreds of feet high. Azmon said the tallest trees predated Shinar. Ferns and vines and bushes—untamed, unkempt—covered the ground. Despite the blistering sun, they were bright green, bursting with deep colors and smells. Vines wrapped around trunks of trees, hiding the bark in a shaggy coat of leaves, and a vast canopy blocked the sun. The gloom did not invite.

“What are you doing?” Tyrus pushed forward. “We follow the girl.”

Biral said, “But those are the Paltiel Woods.”

“And?”

“The stories of what the Ashen Elves did to our men. We are too few to go in there.”

“We are not claiming the woods for Rosh. Keep moving.”

“But Lord Marshal, their archers are impossible to see.”

“We catch the girl and leave. We are strong enough for scouts.”

Tyrus kneed his mount forward without looking back. His men followed. Biral rejoined them, and his dogs darted into the trees. Tyrus watched them go, so ugly with their stretched leathery skin but also canine-like, noses to the ground, zigzagging across the trail.

No roads into Paltiel. That told Tyrus all he needed to know about the elven regard for Shinar. His men broke into three lines, spaced out. The center, with Tyrus and Biral, followed a small game trail. Their first hint of a scouting party would be arrows peppering Biral. The bone lords always died first. Biral must have heard the stories. He licked his lips and jerked at the slightest sound. Tyrus called a champion closer to his flank.

“Thank you, Lord Marshal.”

“Champions do not require thanks. Besides, elves climb trees.”

Biral ducked at nothing.

Tyrus grew grimmer as they traveled deeper into the woods. Compared to the open plains, the trees hugged him. Branches brushed his arms and legs. Wood scraped his armor. Sounds didn’t travel as far, and he struggled to watch his periphery. The shade, at first a welcome break from the sun, soon felt humid, sticky. Tyrus preferred a dry heat.

Einin had traveled faster than he hoped. If they encountered one scouting party, several more would close on them before they could escape Paltiel. He needed men to establish a foothold, something to fight toward if the Ashen Elves tried to trap them in the forest.

“Keylan, return to Shinar and find Elmar. Tell him I want two regiments sent to me. Spearmen, archers, double march.”

“Yes, Lord Marshal.”

“Lead them here and wait for us. This is the rally point.”

The reinforcements would never reach them before they found the girl, but they might distract the elves. Tyrus felt eyes watching him. He studied all the soft cover. Biral was right. They needed more men.

The chase became dull, long hours in the saddle watching Biral manage his dogs. Tyrus busied himself seeking an ambush, but an attack could come from anywhere. His mind drifted. He had no idea what he would do when they found Einin. Somehow he must rescue the heir, protect Ishma’s reputation, and please Azmon. He dreaded the rest: a fight between the royal couple would force him to choose sides.

What had Ishma done?

She had changed so much from the first time he had met her. Years ago, after Azmon defeated the Hurrians, Ishma negotiated a peaceful union between Rosh and her kingdom of Narbor. Tyrus would never forget seeing her for the first time.

Azmon had sent him to escort her to Rosh. He marched into her throne room. His black armor echoed through the large space of white stone and green rugs and tapestries. The history of Narbor flanked her, images of the kings and queens of the past. A dozen pikemen stood posts around the room, and the royal families eyed him with contempt.

Ishma wore an emerald-green gown and a gold crown. The Narboran fashion displayed more skin than was proper, bare shoulders and a low-cut dress, with far too many gold chains. The green of the room and dress highlighted Ishma’s eyes, as if the monarch must have emerald irises to wear the crown. Tyrus remembered catching his breath, to smirks from the court. This was the woman who befuddled Azmon, the Face That Won a War.

Tyrus knelt. “Queen Ishma, I am Tyrus of Kelnor.”

“A Kellai?”

“I am, your majesty.”

“But I thought the Kellai were laborers.”

“We are.”

“How are you the Lord Marshal?”

“We are also warriors.”

Tyrus waited for the sneer, but Ishma never insulted him. He later learned she shared Azmon’s respect for accomplishment—to a point. Tyrus would never marry a royal, but his talent for war had uses. In many ways, they treated him like a family dog, rewarded if loyal but put down if too old to guard the house. He never forgot his childhood, the squalor, the dirt floors, the empty stomach. He had risen far but would rise no further.

“Azmon gives rank to commoners?”

“Not all of them, your majesty.”

Her smile inspired violence. Tyrus wanted to hurt people for her. Let someone insult her or attack her, and she would see him do what he did best. Nobles tried to bribe him away from Azmon, but he had never seen anything as tempting as Ishma’s smile.

She asked, “Azmon does not come himself?”

“He sends apologies. Affairs with Holon distract him. I bring a regiment of Roshan lancers as escort. I am to be your new guardian, your majesty, a gift from the Prince of the Dawn, the greatest champion in Sornum to guard the greatest beauty in creation.”

“I already have a guardian, Lord Marshal. A swordsman with seven runes.”

“Your majesty, I have eighteen runes.”

The court gasped together, as though the great hall inhaled. Ishma covered her mouth. Tyrus had prepared himself for disbelief. He asked one of the pikemen to assist him with his armor so that he might display his bare chest and back and Azmon’s etchings. The runic tattoos were drawn with a blackish-green ink, larger than most, deeper than most. Tyrus’s power would be evident to a trained eye.