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

thousands of soldiers.
    No one spoke of the weeks he had spent with Azmon and the surgeons, recovering from his wounds. His eyesight took days to return. His own champions thought he should have died, but he walked out of the surgeon’s tent with few scars, all his hair regrown. The smooth skin made men fear him. The Reborn hero and his spells had not scarred the Damned.
    None of his men understood because none of them had as many runes. No one had listened to him beg Azmon for death. The torture of those runes tugging at his skin and bones, repairing him, keeping him awake, forcing his body to heal when it wanted to die. He had begged for death.
    Azmon said, “You will survive this.”
    “The sword burnt my insides.”
    Talking hurt. Words scraped his lungs. His eyes rolled into his head, and he gasped, unsure of what he said and struggling to get words out between whimpers and moans.
    “You are hard to kill, a survivor.” Azmon patted his arm. “You are the stone.”
    “It hurts to breathe. I can’t do this. Kill me. Please, please, make it stop.”
    “You will win this battle, Tyrus, just like all the others. You are a survivor.”
    Tyrus hacked and coughed. The coughing fits were the worst part, an involuntary reflex that left blood in his mouth and tore at his chest as though another sword were stabbing him. He couldn’t do this. The pain robbed him of his senses, but he knew he asked for a mercy killing. Why was no one listening to him? Cut off his head. End this torment. Someone must care enough to kill him.
    “My insides are blistered.”
    “Focus your mind.” Azmon grabbed his face. “Focus. Do not lose yourself. Your mind is stronger than your body.”
    “Please. No more. Kill me now.”
    Tyrus didn’t remember much. He had little sense of time, only agony as his burnt body fought off infections and fevers. Azmon hovered at his side; despite the siege and all the politics of the court, Azmon had nursed him back to health.
    For what?
    Tyrus stood on the wall, studying the ground they had fought for. No marker. No monument. A Reborn was a rare gift, only a handful born each generation, and he had killed Edan before he had grown into a man. He had survived the only way he knew how, but all people would remember was a hulking thug beating a boy to death. Edan deserved a cleaner death. Warriors should die in a test of skill, steel against steel and strength against strength. Instead, Tyrus had smashed his skull apart. If he could take it back, he would. A clean thrust with a blade offered more dignity.
    Another couple of years, and Edan might have challenged Azmon. The boy possessed real talent. Tyrus had never fought a Rune Blade with half as much strength, and Edan had years to grow stronger, but that was one more reason for Rosh to conquer Shinar—no sense letting the boy become a man. Tyrus had earned his honorific by being more of an assassin than a champion, and that bothered him the most.
    He watched the blue star and wondered if it meant the birth of another hero. If he lived long enough, would he kill another one? He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was no way for a Lord Marshal to think, brooding like some drunk when his men needed him.
II
    The maze of winding streets confused Tyrus, but from the height of the walls, he saw the bridges near the tunnels. He should be in those tunnels, leading those men as their champion. Marked for death. Marked for glory. But his office kept pulling him away from the real work. He paused. To the south, he heard the distant roar of a bone beast, the fainter sound of ringing steel, another roar, and silence. No one should be fighting in the south, but they had never pacified such a large city before.
    By the river, he found one of his generals, Nevid. If anyone might replace him, it would be Nevid, another Etched Man, as large as Tyrus and bearing as many runes as Lael. A veteran, Nevid had multiple scars on his face and appeared grizzled, well worn.