Free TODAY IS TOO LATE by Burke Fitzpatrick

The sight of him reassured Tyrus. Nevid had earned the trust of the men and knew his job well, but one of his arms was slung to his chest, the white cloth covered in blood.
    “What happened?”
    “I’ll live,” Nevid said. “Bastard had a flatbow. Punched through my shield.”
    Tyrus headed for the tunnels.
    “Wait, we won. It’s over.”
    “Have the beasts harmed any of the men?”
    “Not many. They tried to dig down, collapsed a few tunnels, but nothing down there is big enough for them either.” Nevid stretched. “Those bastards over there, in those villas, they were feeding the tunnels. But we destroyed the villas, and the rest broke soon after.”
    “Prisoners?”
    “No. Thought we had them cornered, but haven’t found them yet. Must be a way out, beneath the walls.”
    Tyrus slung his sword, glancing around at the men; everyone watched him. They would need to map the tunnels and find these secret passages, work for another day. These men needed a break. He should arrange a reward with Elmar, extra wine or rations, but he was unsure of their stores.
    “Good work.”
    “A moment, Lord Marshal?”
    They walked off together. Nevid unslung and unwrapped his arm. He described the wound, broken bone, dozens of stitches.
    Nevid asked, “How long do you think, until it heals?”
    “For you? A few days. Maybe a week or two. Talk to the surgeons.”
    “What if it was you? How long would it take to heal?”
    Tyrus hated the fear in Nevid’s eyes. They were both warriors, champions of Rosh, but Tyrus had more runes, which meant he could wear heavier armor, wield weighted weapons that tore through lesser men, and despite those burdens he could still outfight, outrun, and outmuscle Nevid. In another age, a man with forty runes would earn fame and songs and maybe build an empire. Nevid outclassed the foot soldiers, the normal men, and with the right retainers to guard his flanks, he should dominate a battlefield. Unfortunately, Nevid had earned his runes in the shadow of Tyrus. The Damned stood alone among Etched Men, infamous for killing champions as though they were commoners.
    “I’d heal in a few hours, maybe. Depends on how much rest I had and how much meat.” Tyrus helped rewrap the arm. “You’ll send a messenger to Elmar, request the rations. Make sure the surgeons know. They can make it easier on you.”
    “I’ll never get used to the burning. No ice works. Wine does nothing. I can’t stop it. How do you stand it?”
    “Practice.”
    Nevid’s face was clammy, a sheen of sweat on his forehead and cheeks. He blinked at Tyrus. Did he hope for some secret? Pain was simple. You mastered it, or it killed you. Many champions died with the surgeons. Their hearts gave out under the stress, and it reminded Tyrus of the etchings. Earning a rune killed most men, but living with them was just as dangerous.
    “Can I ask a boon, milord?”
    An unusual request, Nevid seldom asked for rewards. He was a quiet man but ambitious and best watched. Tyrus waited.
    “Could you speak to the emperor about another etching? I think I can survive it. I want to heal like you do. Faster.”
    “Healing fast hurts worse.”
    “But the pain doesn’t last as long. I know I can survive another etching. I want to be like you, to survive spells. I want that kind of power, milord.”
    “You want to be the Butcher of Rosh?”
    Nevid backed away. “I meant no disrespect, milord. No one can ever replace you. I have no interest in challenging you.”
    “Easy, no offense taken. The emperor won’t want to risk losing you. You have enough runes.”
    “But I want more.”
    Tyrus sighed and saw his breath. The night would get colder, and he wondered how the Shinari could stand this weather. He boiled when he ate lunch and shivered when he slept. Tyrus watched his breath dissipate as he struggled with Nevid’s request. The odds of him surviving another etching were slim, and Tyrus did not want to lose his most promising general. Too