Read Online TODAY IS TOO LATE by Burke Fitzpatrick - Free Book Online Page A

strike, casting about for an advantage. Tyrus had the strength to hold him back, but Edan would figure that out soon and go back to his spells.
    “Die,” Edan shouted. “Damn you.”
    Tyrus respected the anger but wouldn’t waste time on a retort. He saved his breath, planning on a long fight. He fell back. Maybe he could wear him down, let him exhaust himself, but then he sensed another spell, a chill in the air—so much for stalling.
    The sword burned, and each slash sent forth a lash of flame. Edan threw multiple lashes at Tyrus. They scorched the ground and ripped past his armor as if it were made of wool. He felt them cut into his flesh, cauterizing as they tore. He tried to parry, but the flame ignored his sword. Dozens of strikes hit his body. The pain sickened him. He wanted to retch and scream, but he refused—not in front of his men. A force knocked him down. He rolled, and the combination of burns, wounds, and heated armor made him scream despite himself.
    Etched Men and Rune Blades always fought like this, pitting the strength of runes against sorcery to see which combatant could endure the most punishment. A Rune Blade could not cast spells forever, and an Etched Man could not endure them forever either. Tyrus had to find a way to either outlast Edan or make him stop.
    Instead, he knelt and held the ground away from his face. That felt wrong. He should have stood but struggled to hold himself up. The boy approached, sword raised. A spell tore Tyrus’s weapon away.
    Edan said, “Take your monsters back to Rosh.”
    The sword point, white hot, thrust at his heart. Tyrus shifted to the side, all the time he had to save himself, but there was no way to dodge, and he took the strike in the lung. The blade ignored his armor. The pain blinded with yellow starbursts, and he tried to scream, but all that came out was a shrill wheeze.
    He grabbed the boy’s sword arm, locked on his wrist. They fought for that wrist. The boy pulled at him, put a foot on his chest, tried to jerk away. He smashed Tyrus with the shield. Smashed him in the face, again and again.
    “Die, damn you.”
    Flames replaced the shield. Edan’s burning hand grabbed Tyrus’s neck guard, and Tyrus tried to turn away but could not escape the blaze. His skin blistered. His eyebrows, his nose hair, the back of his mouth, everything burned. Pain gave him strength, and he stood to get away. The boy couldn’t reach his neck anymore. Tyrus towered over him and punched with his free hand.
    His gauntlet smashed soft flesh.
    Blind, he struggled to breathe. Each gasp seared his lungs. Smoke everywhere. He punched and missed and punched again. He sensed the boy go limp. Tyrus searched for him with his fist. The gauntlet crashed into the boy’s chest. The pain—so dizzy—he wobbled on his feet but kept Edan in his hands. Held him dear. If he escaped, Tyrus was too blind to find him again. He punched and fell and punched some more. Tyrus found his head. Bones broke. All he could do was keep punching and hope for the best.
    Knights screamed. His men answered. The battle enveloped him. Eyes open or closed didn’t matter; the world was black. Tyrus collapsed, limp on the field. A man stepped on him, and someone tugged at his foot. Screaming and dying all around him as he waited for the Shinari to behead him.
    Instead, a force wrenched his feet as hands dragged him from the battle. He had no idea which side took him, and he struggled to pull away. His strength faded. No fight left in him.
    “We have you, Lord Marshal.”
    Tyrus slumped. His own men, of course. The Shinari would have torn him apart.
    Tyrus stood on the wall under the blue star, remembering that battle. He had killed their Reborn hero with his hands, beaten him to death, and earned his new honorific: the Butcher of Rosh. If killing the boy had not made the name famous, then his brutal capture of King Lael had done it a few months later. He had hammered the king into the ground before