Free TODAY IS TOO LATE by Burke Fitzpatrick Page B

Despair replaced his longing for the old days. He had devoted a lifetime to guarding the royal family and failed them when they needed him most.
    “Free will, Tyrus; salvation is yours to earn. Azmon was tricked by the overlords of the Nine Hells, yet he continues to murder and conquer in their name. He has sealed his fate. This is your chance to renounce the demons, your only chance, or you choose to side with them for all eternity. Protect the child. Guide her out of the shedim lands. Only then may we help you.”
    The voice faded away, and the grayness blackened, closed in on him. It felt cold, like dying, and unlike the thousands of times he had cheated death in battle, he had no opponent to fight. Hopelessness clenched his throat as he sunk into a black pool of goo. He flailed for purchase, gasped for air. Not like this . Let him face a stronger warrior. Let him die a natural death.
    He did not want to drown in the dark.
    Tyrus awoke with the word “Ishma” on his lips. A slick layer of sweat covered him. He reached for his sword, determined to protect her before he realized he was alone. His weapon, sheathed, leaned againt the cot, and he gripped the handle, ready to lash out at an attacker. His pulse, his breathing, it felt like he had been fighting, and he scanned the tent for danger. Quiet canvas walls stood there, peaceful. He blinked and fought a yawn. It felt so real, but details slipped away as he tried to remember the bizarre dream.
    “Ishma?”
    She should be near him, as though he needed to defend her—from something—but the images faded. A red tower, the Red Sorceress, a threat against the heir, he stood, sword in hand and no opponent to attack. He knew he looked foolish, but his instincts screamed danger.
    A clamor of bells shattered the night.
    He moved without thinking, heading for the tent door, sword raised, and the questions came. Who had raised the alarm? Some new resistance? A counterattack from Dura and her knights? Elmar and a few of his clerks found him before he left the tent.
    “There is no attack, but something has happened to the empress.” Elmar held his men back. “I was the one who raised the alarm, milord.”
    Tyrus gathered himself. Elmar was right to be fearful. Tyrus had hurt men before when he was excited and rushing around. His runes made pushing through a crowd a bone-breaking assault.
    “Ishma?”
    Tyrus stopped himself from saying more. The coincidence chilled him. He remembered more then: the angel’s blue glow, the heir in danger. Less than memories, and more like emotions, tinged with dread. He had failed the empress.
    “The emperor summons you and the whole court.” Elmar gestured at his assistants, who bore the plate armor. “I don’t know anything else.”
    Tyrus put on his costume again: a black-armored enforcer. A part of him wanted to sprint to the empress and avenge her but knew the bone lords would mock him for overreacting. He must be cold, distant, calculating. As the plates were fitted and buckled down they seemed to weigh more than usual. He had performed this role before, policing the nobles for the emperor, and suspected dark work needed to be done. The emperor would ask him to find whoever had hurt the empress and make them disappear, but before he made them talk. The suspicion triggered a dozen faces of other nobles who had schemed for the throne and found Tyrus’s knife instead.
    The last of his armor in place, Tyrus took a deep breath and left his tent. Azmon needed his enforcer, and Tyrus must play the part.
IV
    Tyrus wore an ugly grimace as he marched to the throne room. He was not acting. The dream kept pulling his thoughts to Ishma, and he remembered a detail. The voice said she had betrayed the empire. Goosebumps ran down his arms. He might have to execute her.
    Everyone scuttled away from him, opening doors and giving him a wide path, refusing to make eye contact. Something bad had happened. The bone lords he found, making their way to the