The Fifth Dawn (12 page)

Whatever her proclivity for fanciful stories, her advice had
never steered him wrong. Raksha placed his paw over Shonahn’s. “I have already considered it,” he said. “But I cannot return to Taj Nar. They drove me back there once.”

“But they had help, did they not? These artifact creatures? Please, Kashi,” Shonahn pleaded, “Think of your wounds, and your recovery—and the omen.”

Raksha bristled slightly at the childhood nickname. “You were right, Shono,” he growled, responding in kind and lapsing into less formal speech, “Our people can’t afford to lose me. That means I can no more return home than leave this world. Our survival will be decided on these plains, under my watch, though I give immediate control of the troops to Yshkar. Nothing else is acceptable.” He added, “As for the omen, you said yourself the seers hadn’t been able to determine whether it’s even an evil one.”

“My Kha,” Shonahn insisted, “how could a new sun be a good omen? The very world we stand upon is coming apart!”

“I don’t think so,” Raksha said, shaking his head. “I can’t explain why, but the presence of that green sun—it feels right. The world feels right. Like a great weight has shifted in the sky, bringing everything into balance. I can sense it in my bones. It can only be an omen of victory. It is no disaster.”

“Really, that’s what you ‘feel in your bones,’ is it? With all due respect, my Kha, I think it’s tied to that Viridian elf girl. The sun did emerge from the Tangle, the elves’ homeland.” Shonahn made a noise halfway between a growl and a snort. “Has it occurred to you that Ushanti may have been right about her? That this new sun is just the beginning of the end?”

“If it is tied to Glissa, whom I remind you we have called friend,” Raksha shot back, “then it can only be a good omen. And Ushanti no longer has my confidence. You know this. We allow you to speak freely, Shon, but we are the Kha. We guard
the temple of light and the secrets of the Great Deep. We will fight, and we will survive. If anything, the green sun is a sign that should bring us renewed hope.”

The healer sighed. “So should Yshkar begin writing his coronation speech? I can only do so much against this nim necromancy, my Kha,” Shonahn said, sidling to the closed tent flap. “You will not heal if you do not rest for at least a week. If you do not heal, you will die. It is that simple. Need I remind you that you have not produced an heir? Your cousin is a noble leonin but proud. He is not ready to rule, but he is ready to lead.” The healer crossed her arms across her chest, straightened as best her age-racked body would allow, and locked eyes with Raksha.

The Kha was silent, lost in contemplation. Shonahn stood her ground, cocking her ears curiously. “Very well, Shon,” Raksha finally said, “We shall stay off the field. You are right. Yshkar is ready to command them.” There, he’d said it. He felt curiously exhilarated and more relaxed, which might just have been the vedalken bandages working their magic.

“He’s been ready for months.”

“Maybe so. And he’s desired command for even longer. But unless our warriors trust his command, it doesn’t matter how ready anyone thinks he is,” Raksha said calmly as the soothing curative magic diffused through his body. “His performance in this campaign has earned that trust, and that is why he is ready for field command. But this must be taken slowly. If the Kha retreats to Taj Nar and leaves Yshkar in command, morale suffers. You know how soldiers are. The rumors about the ‘horrible wounds the Golden Cub suffered at the hands of the fearsome nim’ will be back to Taj Nar before we are. And the nim will have won.”

“What do you propose?” Shonahn asked expectantly. Raksha could tell that she was beginning to think along the same lines as he was.

“The nim press forward every day. Every hour, the damned Mephidross swallows another few acres of the Glimmervoid. Every minute, another blade of razor grass rusts away into that rot.”

“The corrosive properties of the Mephidross aren’t exactly something you can change through sheer will,” Shonahn said pragmatically. “Nor is Geth. We were mistaken to think he wouldn’t raise another army sooner or later. He was only cowed for a time by the elf girl. You have enemies, my Kha, and he’s more mercenary than necromancer. He could be working for anyone.”

“Unless he’s finally acting independently,” Raksha said. “The new moon, the leveler attacks, these damned vedalken … they’ve thrown everything up in the air. But it is no matter. If it is him, we shall take his head personally. The more immediate concern is how to stop the things that are spreading the Dross. We’ve slowed them down, but it’s still been one long retreat, ever since the resurgence.”

“You don’t think Geth is in charge anymore, do you?” Shonahn asked.

“Something’s different about them now. They’re more organized, they’re—they’re smarter. A tangled mob of zombies is one thing, an organized army is another matter. This isn’t Geth’s style.” Raksha began to pace slowly in front of the healer, oblivious to the way Shonahn winced with every step he took.

“That still leaves you with a war to fight. This new leader, if he is someone new, will reveal himself in time,” Shonahn said. “But if it is the one who sent the machines against you, a change of command may not be enough.”

“Shon, we may need you to pull ambassadorial duty again. See if you can get help from any of the human tribes, starting with the Caravaners. If you can find them.”

“Yes, my Kha,” Shonahn replied. “By your leave, I shall assign my finest apprentice to tend to your health. But what shall you do?”

“The men need to see we’re fighting back with our brains as well as our blades. Starting tonight, we stop retreating. We are establishing a field command post. A den away from home where we can plan strategy and house troops, as well as stockpile supplies, weapons, and armor.”

“Can you really spare the resources? The men?” Shonahn looked doubtful.

“We don’t have a choice. It’s either draw the line here, or lose the Glimmervoid to the nim. Taj Nar will never fall,” he added with a toothy grin, “but we’ll be damned if we going to lose any more of the ancestral plains.” Raksha walked gingerly to the tent flap and drew it back slightly, allowing the clamor of battle to suddenly burst into the tent. The Kha’s ears twitched, listening to the night. His whiskers detected nothing moving in the blackness. Greenish-silver mist, a foul blend of the dust of the plains and the necrogen atmosphere of the Dross, obscured the distant fighting, but the howling nim and roaring leonin fighters sounded just a little closer than when he had gone into the tent. He twitched his ears and focused his sharp hearing on a particularly violent fight that he should have been leading.

Raksha’s ears snapped forward. For a moment, he could have sworn he’d heard a human voice chanting. He vainly scanned the night with feline ears, but the voice, if it had been there at all, was lost in the din of clashing blades and dying warriors.

Despite his promise to Shonahn, he instinctively rested a hand on his sword hilt and waved in one of the guards at the door, a young leonin named Jethrar. The inexperienced warrior somehow simultaneously straightened to attention and ducked awkwardly into the tent, careful not to jab the Kha with the silver
battle-scythe clutched in his hand. The warrior was new to the Raksha’s guard detail, and was painfully and obviously anxious at being called into an audience with his lord and master.

“Y-yes, my Kha?” Jethrar stuttered.

“We need to speak with Yshkar. Fetch him immediately.”

“My Kha, sir, Commander Yshkar is on the front line.”

“We know that, Jethrar, we sent him there.” Raksha grinned. “We have every confidence in you, warrior.” The Kha slipped a slim dagger from his belt and offered the hilt to the youthful guard. The small dagger had been a gift from Yshkar, and carried a moderate morale-boosting enchantment. It would help the young guard’s confidence, he knew. “Show him this, and he’ll understand the urgency. But do not give him the dagger. That would be an insult. Do you know why?”

“Presenting a weapon to a field commander in the field, even if his life is threatened, symbolizes a lack of confidence. A commander must rely on what he brings with him, for he leads alone,” Jethrar said crisply, falling into the military discipline of the well-trained leonin warrior.

“Correct, Jethrar,” Raksha said. “But remember also that only a fool refuses an ally. You want to know a secret?”

“Er, of course, my Kha,” Jethrar stammered.

“The prohibition against giving weapons to field commanders arose long ago, before Great Dakan united the tribes of leonin,” Raksha said.

“Yes, my Kha.”

“Be quiet and listen. It started as a competition among the strongest fighters of tribes at war, who led those tribes. Our people knew the futility of waging all-out war against their own kind even before Dakan, and these leaders, these champions, settled disputes between tribes one-on-one. It saved a lot of lives.”

“Yes, I imagine so, my Kha.”

“Any leonin champion who accepted help from anyone in such a contest was disgraced. The fight would end immediately, and the rulebreaker would forfeit. But not only did he lose the fight, he dishonored his tribe. The only way to redeem themselves was to tear their own champion apart with their bared claws,” Raksha said. “It was a fine system. Do you understand why we tell you all this, Jethrar?”

“To, er … educate me, my Kha?”

“Yes …”

“In the history of our people?”

“Not exactly,” the Kha said, smiling. “We tell you this for two reasons: First, you must realize that some of our proud traditions have a reason very different from what you have been taught.”

“And the second, my Kha?” Jethrar asked nervously.

“Traditions are made to be broken,” Raksha said. “Yshkar adheres rigidly to our traditions, but if you ever see him surrounded by nim without a weapon in sight, toss him a scimitar.”

“Thank you, my Kha,” Jethrar said. “What should I do after delivering your message, my Kha?”

“Well, sticking that dagger into the nearest nim would be a good start,” Raksha replied. “Point the sharp end away from you.”

“Yes sir!” Jethrar said, eyes flashing, and he turned to leave. He opened the tent flap and promptly collided with a blonde human female clad in silver and aquamarine robes. Her skin bore a metallic tinge of cerulean, and she carried an air of authority. The strange human stepped calmly into the tent as if it were her own.

Raksha, stunned by the intrusion but not yet feeling threatened, placed a hand on his sword hilt. “Who dares enter the our presence? How did you gain entry to our camp? Are you a friend, or an enemy?” he asked.

“A friend of a friend,” the human woman said. “I am Bruenna, I have traveled here by magical means. Glissa needs your help.”

Raksha had not expected to hear that name again soon. Glissa had left Taj Nar a friend of the leonin, but he could not help but blame her in part for Rishan’s death. Still, the elf was courageous, and the Kha did not give his friendship lightly or retract it without an honorable reason.

“First, tell us how you got here,” Raksha said. “Then we shall hear what you have to say.”

“Magic. I used a teleportation spell,” the woman explained. “Your perimeter is secure, I assure you. I regret I don’t have time to greet you with the protocol due a regent of your stature, Raksha Golden Cub, Kha of Taj Nar. But my business is of the utmost—”

With a roar, Jethrar leaped to his feet and stepped between Raksha and the newcomers, battle-scythe at the ready. “You will leave at once!” the guard bellowed. “The Kha’s presence is invio—”

The robed woman raised a hand and traced an ornate pattern in the air. Jethrar froze in mid-sentence. Raksha opened his mouth to ask what the mage had done to his guard, when he saw that Shonahn, too, was completely still. In fact, neither she nor Jethrar appeared to be breathing. Only the human moved as she calmly advanced on the Kha.

Raksha’s sword was in his hand in a flash, causing the robed woman to stop short. “What did you do?” he demanded.

“Stopped time, briefly,” the mage explained. “Forgive me, but I must speak to you without interruptions.”

“You claim to know Glissa? Why should we believe you, wizard? Why should we not cut you down where you stand?” Raksha snarled, brandishing his sword menacingly.

The human woman stood her ground. “Bring her in,” she
called over her shoulder, and the tent flap parted to reveal a young elf girl wearing a patch over one eye and an ornate slagwurm breastplate carved with intricate runes. In her arms she held a still, familiar form. The girl’s resemblance to the unconscious woman she held was unmistakeable. Sisters, Raksha guessed.

“Glissa,” the Kha whispered. “What happened to your eye?”

“This is Lyese, Tel-Jilad Chosen and Glissa’s sister,” Bruenna said, and raised her hands, palms upward. “The unconscious one is Glissa. I was able to magically retrieve her from … a perilous situation. But I am no healer. I got her out, but I don’t know if I can keep her alive.”

Raksha sighed, and sheathed his weapon. “Very well. But you shall have to let time commence, human. The finest healer in the Glimmervoid is standing right over there, but she can’t hear a word you’re saying.”