The Fifth Dawn (14 page)

“Forgive me,” Raksha’s baritone rumbled. As the drink soothed his nerves, he slipped again into a more informal tone. “The last few weeks have been hectic. Violent. I’ve lost too many men, and the leonin need to make a stand soon, before we’re fighting the nim at our front door again. I do not like being cornered. I do not like to lose warriors or friends.”

“Rishan.” Glissa spoke the name that Raksha could still not bring to his lips without breaking his composure. “Sorry, I’d—I’d forgotten. Slobad used to tell me how he thought he’d been jinxed. Thought he was a jinx. But I guess I’m the one who’s really bad luck, huh?”

Raksha turned, wincing as the bandages moved with him and made his chest feel like a pincushion again. “You are not responsible for Rishan’s death,” he whispered, choking slightly on the name of his lost beloved, the seer Ushanti’s daughter. “And despite what you say, I doubt you caused Slobad’s either.” He raised his iron mug. “To the lost. And the missing.”

Glissa lifted her mug in two hands. “The lost. And those who will be found.” They drank, and passed the next half-minute in silence.

The moment shattered with the clamor of scattered skirmishes that still rang in the distance. Jethrar appeared at the entrance to Raksha’s tent. Behind him stood Raksha’s cousin Yshkar, an imposing figure in burnished silver armor plate that like the rest of him was spattered with alternating patterns of green and red blood. The green came from the nim—it was too light to be Viridian. Fortunately.

“My Kha, sir! Reporting as ordered, with Commander—” Jethrar began. Yshkar unceremoniously pushed his way past the young guard and came muzzle-to-muzzle with Raksha.

“What is it, Kashi? I’m needed on the front!” Raksha’s cousin roared.

Raksha’s reaction was immediate and painful for his impertinent cousin. The backhand caught the commander across the right jaw and knocked him back into the hapless Jethrar, who fell backward out of the tent. Yshkar stayed light on his feet and kept his balance, hissing, but the younger leonin turned his ears forward and bowed his head slightly—body language that told Raksha he’d made his point clear to his cousin. Such language from a subordinate was intolerable.

“You, Kyshka, are required where and when your Kha says you are required,” Raksha growled, the menace rising in his voice. “You’re also blood, and that means we trust you, even if we don’t particularly like you. We trust your nature, which is as honorable as ours. You are impulsive. You are headstrong. You are not yet the finest commander in the field, but you will be.”

“My Kha!” Yshkar snarled, and dropped to one knee, head still bowed. “My blood is still hot with battle. Forgive you humble kin. I serve Taj Nar and the Golden Cub. What is it you will of me?”

Raksha grinned. “Don’t overdo it, Kysh.”

Yshkar looked up and noticed Glissa, who watched the scene over her mug with an arched eyebrow. The commander’s fur bristled along the back of his neck, and his inner ears blushed a rusty red. He shoved off one knee and returned to his feet. “All right, we’re even, my Kha. Yet still I stand ready to serve.”

“Good,” Raksha said and indicated Glissa, who set her glass on the floor and made to rise. “No, please, stay where you are. You are a guest in the Kha’s home. Yshkar, meet Glissa of the
Tangle. The human is her ally, the younger elf her sister. Glissa brings news that makes what we’re about to tell you even more important than it was when we sent for you.”

“My cousin, always direct and to the point.” Yshkar smirked. Raksha raised a lip and exposed a few teeth, and the smirk disappeared.

“You’re fortunate we value your independent spirit as much as our blood kinship, commander. That as much as anything is why you’ve earned a promotion to general.” Yshkar’s jaw dropped.

“My Kha, the leonin armies have but one general,” Raksha’s cousin said. “You. Are you—?” The meaning of the bandages wrapped around the Kha’s golden torso finally sank in.

“We have been ordered by the royal physician to leave active duty for at least a week. But just because the Kha cannot fight on the field does not mean he is not fighting. We’re going to hew a line in the grass, and establish a permanent field command that will be our den home fortress until we beat these foul things back into their nests. But you will have to be the Kha’s adjunct on the battlefield.”

“My Kha, I am ready to serve,” Yshkar said.

“Excuse me, your Kha,” Glissa said, “but there are a few things you need to know before you begin planning your defenses.”

“Of course,” Raksha said. “Yshkar, we’ll explain all of this later. For now, you’re free to return to the front. Spread word among the field commanders that we will soon be moving out, but do not make it sound like a retreat.” Then, in a casual move that belied the act’s importance, he drew his sword and offered it blade-first to Yshkar. The younger leonin removed his gauntlets and clutched the blade with his naked paws, squeezing until blood welled up. With a snarl, he pulled the sword smoothly from Raksha’s paws, still holding it by the blade, which was now dripping silvery scarlet onto the tent floor. Without wiping either the
blade or his own paws clean, Yshkar slid the sword into his own belt and replaced his gauntlets.

“The blood drives us. The blood of the Kha unites us,” Yshkar said. The bloodstained blade would leave no doubt about his cousin’s promotion to general.

Raksha felt naked. But he hid it well.

“So tell me about this fortification,” Yshkar said, flashing a toothy, conspiratorial grin.

“Not yet,” Raksha said, showing his teeth in return. “Remain in contact with the runners, and await word from your Kha.” He cocked his head, thinking, and added, “It will not be long. Fight well, General.”

“Yes, my Kha,” Yshkar nodded, then whirled on one padded foot and strode purposefully outside, casting a glance over his shoulder at Glissa as he slipped through the tent flap.

“Charm runs in the family, I see,” Glissa said.

“He is impertinent, and you are lucky you’re an elf and not one of our subjects.”

“Raksha, I know I promised I wouldn’t return until it was safe to do so. But I didn’t know where else to go.” Glissa bowed her head respectfully. “I really thought I was a goner, but they got me out. And now you’re giving us a chance. Thank you for your help.”

“It is good to speak with you again, Glissa of the Tangle. No more apologies. The past is the past. The only part of that past that concerns us is your story, and what we’re going to do next,” Raksha assured her. “One thing is certain, my forces must soon fall back to a more defensible, permanent position.”

“They’ve really been giving you the sharp end, haven’t they?” Glissa asked. “The Mephidross, I saw it from above. Is it bigger? Mind you, I never knew how big it was in the first place, but—”

“You are observant,” Raksha said. “The Mephidross had
consumed our ancestral plains at a pace unheard of since the days of Great Dakan. It hasn’t just gotten bigger—it’s the nim. They’re a disease, spreading the Dross like a plague on this land. They’re not fighting like the nim we know, they’re smarter. Faster. Do you have any idea why that might be?”

Glissa appeared to bristle. “No,” she said, “I don’t.” She gazed upward, remembering. “I thought we’d beaten them back before I left for the interior. But believe me, Golden Cub, we’ve got bigger problems than just the nim.”

“We believe you. Yet they are still a problem,” Raksha said. “Our problem.”

“Look,” Glissa said, getting back to her feet, “I thought the four of—the three of us might get some help here. Maybe the goblins. Or humans. There have got to be some around here—”

“Please,” Raksha laughed. “We get your point. Arguing which threat is greater is fruitless. We must deal with them both. We have been quick of temper these last days, and regret implying in any way that you had something to do with the nim’s resurgence.” He ran a hand through his wiry mane, and growled deep in his throat. “We’ve been on the retreat for weeks. After beating them back only to have them come back so soon, and so strong—this is unprecedented.”

Glissa smiled sympathetically. “Your nerves are shot.”

“Our courage has been tested. Our nerves are steel.” He grinned, fangs glistening in the dim light.

“Right,” Glissa said, and took a pull of the oily not-nush. She held up her mug and examined the bottom. “What’s this stuff made out of, anyway?” she asked.

“Razor grass and thresher oil, we think,” Raksha said with a grimace. “The soldiers brew it when they’re away from Taj Nar. It isn’t practical to travel with a lot of heavy fluids.”

“Not bad,” Glissa said, and coughed. “Don’t know if I want to
make a habit of it.” She shifted her position forward and rested the mug on the woven metal fibers of the tent floor. “Raksha, I know my last visit didn’t end … well.”

“That is the past, Viridian. You must let the matter rest, as we have. Rishan is with the gods, and her mother has fallen out of our favor. Perhaps you did not understand the significance of our friendship. The friendship of the leonin Kha is the friendship of the leonin people. Rishan’s death is not on your hands, nor is it on mine. Nor,” Raksha added with conviction, “is Slobad’s capture your fault.”

“I let him out of my sight. I should never have done that. He’s so—he was so—is so—small …”

“We have known that goblin much longer than you have, Glissa. He is no weakling, and his size is no indication of his ability. Over the years, I have counted him lost several times, and he has always returned to Taj Nar, looking for more work, eager to share tales of his latest misadventure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Raksha growled through a toothy grin, “that you shouldn’t count him out just yet. From what you have told me, that lacuna is very deep. And Slobad, though he is many things, is a survivor above all.” He stood and bowed his head to the elf girl. “Now please. Sleep. You shall have the royal cot,” Raksha said, “and we shall curl up on the rug and sleep in front of the fire.”

“Really?” Glissa said, and Raksha could tell she was forming a mental image of the Kha rolled into a ball and purring like a domesticated tanglecat.

Raksha winked. “No, not really. Spare bedroll. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention. Good night, Glissa of the Tangle. Tomorrow, we will make plans. You shall help us, and we shall help you. But for now, sleep.”

Every bone in Slobad’s body ached. It was a mixed blessing that he was in too much agony to care much about something as minor as aches.

He didn’t know what was worse—being captured by Memnarch, or watching helplessly as Glissa plummeted to her doom. At least she was getting some peace. Slobad wished he’d been able to follow her on that last adventure, and while he mourned his only friend, he also envied her. Death would be preferable to his current predicament. But the goblin’s fierce survival instinct was still keeping him alive in spite of himself. Instinct, and Memnarch’s twisted form of “mercy.”

Now he was on his own again. No one for Slobad to rely on but Slobad. And this time that probably wouldn’t be enough.

The goblin hung spread-eagled in an iron torture rack of some kind mounted on one inner wall of what had once been the Panopticon. The rack had obviously been designed with larger victims in mind. The thing was big enough to hold a vedalken—one of the new, augmented vedalken big enough to go toe-to-toe with a golem. Short chains shackled Slobad’s wrists to the top of the rack, while his feet were bound to either corner. He was left swinging lazily in the chains like a fly in a spider’s web. He’d been stripped of possessions and clothing.

Before him, the Guardian of Mirrodin paced, displaying great
agitation. The bulbous serum tanks strapped to his carapace sloshed noisily, only half full. Slobad noted with bitter pleasure that Memnarch limped and still wore silver bandages over patches of new flesh. Two of his eyes looked milky and half formed.

“It thinks it can resist us, my Creator,” Memnarch said to the sky. “It has much to learn. Malil will show it the error of resistance to the inevitable.” The Guardian’s six eyes—including the two fresh ones—flashed with hatred, and instantly a second metal man stepped into the chamber from the shadows. Slobad recognized this one, too. Memnarch clackety-clacked away, giving his lieutenant room to work. Slobad saw that the smaller of the pair also bore scars of new flesh.

“Goblin,” Malil said, “you will tell me what I wish to know. The whereabouts of Glissa, please.” Without warning, he slammed a cruel backhand across Slobad’s face.

Slobad couldn’t understand what they hoped to achieve, let alone why Memnarch seemed to be having a conversation with an invisible ‘creator,’ but the goblin wasn’t about to dishonor Glissa’s memory with betrayal. He spat warm blood and a rusty tooth at Malil’s feet, and raised his head to meet the metal man eye-to-eye. “You outh of your mind,” he groaned. “Glitha’th dead. You looth. No big thpark for you, huh?” Slobad chuckled, and winced. He had two fat lips, and at least one broken rib. Stupid vedalken, with their stupid gigantic hands. No finesse at all. Finesse was important. If not for finesse with machines, Slobad would have been dead long ago.