Free TODAY IS TOO LATE by Burke Fitzpatrick Page A

many men reached for power, and the runes were heartless things, killing as often as they blessed.
    “I will speak for you. The decision is Azmon’s.”
    “Thank you, Lord Marshal.”
III
    Tyrus had an old soldier’s talent for finding a scrap of sleep wherever he could; a short nap became a deep sleep with little effort. He had returned to his command tent, half dressed, on his cot, snoring, when the dreams began.
    From the start, he knew the dream was wrong. A growing sense of unease felt like a trap, and the back of his neck tingled as though he were being hunted. He heard whispers and saw lights, bright shapes, bluish, darting in his periphery. He reached for a sword, found nothing, found himself in white robes, but this did not slow him. He raised his fists and waited. Let whatever hunted him find him. Many people talked about fighting the Damned, but few dared.
    He noticed his shadow growing, a strange sight because he seemed to be walking in a gray mist. The place was empty, vacant, but he had a shadow. He turned. A figure, womanish, blue and ethereal, floated above him. He wanted to attack, but something told him he couldn’t touch her.
    “Rest, Tyrus. No one will hurt you.”
    Her soft voice echoed in his skull. He struggled to talk, knew he wanted to, moved his mouth, and tried to force the words, but in the dreamworld his actions took forever, and he found himself standing there, openmouthed like an idiot.
    “There is a child that needs you, Tyrus. Ishma’s child. The child must be saved from Azmon. The child must flee the Court of Bones.”
    “Treason.”
    He glared, trying to force more words. The words wouldn’t come. Air caught in his lungs. He struggled to breathe. The gray ground grabbed his feet, rooting him.
    “Not treason, Tyrus. Salvation. Your sins will be forgiven. No one, not even the Damned, is beyond salvation. Ishma needs your help.”
    “Seraphim. Shedim. Liars.”
    “For Ishma if not for yourself. The beasts have killed enough children. Ishma’s child should be spared, Tyrus. You must save Ishma’s child.”
    The voice repeated Ishma’s name and her child’s, over and over, until emotions flooded his memories. Moments came to him in flashes: Tyrus standing guard as Azmon courted Ishma; Tyrus escorting Ishma from her home in Narbor to Rosh; Tyrus guarding their wedding; Ishma summoning him to talk to Azmon for her; Tyrus, the intermediary when the emperor and empress feuded over Narboran taxes. So many moments, so much of his life spent in service of the royal family, Ishma’s face flashed in his mind. He lost control of his memory.
    No.
    The seraphim did this, unmanned him with Ishma’s beauty and those unnatural green eyes that bore into him. He had spent so many years trying to find another woman with green eyes like that, but Ishma was unique, the Face That Won a War, and the seraphim used her as a weapon. A thought struck him, and he peered closer at the blue presence. Did they assume her likeness to confuse him further?
    “No.”
    “Tyrus, you do this to yourself. You remember the way things were. Your power has a high price. The shedim debt will be paid in blood. Continue down this path, and you will truly be damned.”
    An image formed in the grayness. A tower of red stone perched on a tall mountain overlooking creation. An immense view stretched out from the mountains, distant plains and forests. An old woman in red robes stood on the battlements.
    “Ishma’s child must be taken to Dura Galamore of the Red Tower.”
    “Treason. Will stop.”
    His mind swam in mud. He knew he reacted too slowly, and that created a sense of dread. Panic threatened to overwhelm him when he needed to focus. Concentrating in a dream was harder than fighting with a sword. His attention kept slipping away. He shook his head.
    “The child is already gone, Tyrus. Never to return. The child must be protected. For Ishma, Tyrus, protect the child for Ishma.”
    “Gone?”
    He had failed Azmon.