Cory Herndon - The Fifth Dawn

“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.