The Fifth Dawn

by Cory Herndon

  “I saw vedalken in the interior, when we went down the lacuna hunting for Memnarch.”

  “I believe they returned to Lumengrid after Memnarch had his way with them. He reshaped them into killing machines, Glissa,” Bruenna said. “They lead the construct beasts in endless attacks against our defensive positions, and they’re chipping away at us faster than the nim. Some of them have taken to patrolling alone, too.”

  “Why not turn the nim and the vedalken against each other?” Glissa asked, but feared she knew the answer.

  “Lumengrid and the Guardian apparently have maintained some kind of truce with Yert,” Bruenna replied. “There’s a loose border running between the Dross and the sea, but it’s remained stable for the last few years. And there’s something else that suggests an alliance—the vedalken and nim often attack us on two fronts simultaneously. That’s happened too many times to be a coincidence. And of course, there’s the temporal sigil. That’s vedalken magic. Yert couldn’t have done it alone. As for why Yert has yet to spread the Dross to cover the plains, let alone the Tangle, that’s still a mystery. I believe Memnarch is holding Yert back for some reason. I just haven’t figured out why yet.”

  “Yert’s a fool,” Geth’s head interrupted. “Just look at that swamp! The necrogen! If I had access to that kind of power—”

  “But you don’t, so if you don’t want me to stick you on the top of one of those spires, you’ll butt out,” Glissa snapped. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” she continued, turning back to Bruenna, “But do we have a plan? Did you just miss me?”

  “We all thought you were lost after months passed without word,” Bruenna said. “It took me years to identify the sigil that had frozen you, and you were taken almost immediately. After what we had seen that day, I had to assume the worst—that Memnarch had you, or you were dead. And there was no way to get back into the interior to find you, with the war.”

  KRARK-HOME

  “I’ve lost them,” Glissa said, scanning the sky behind them. “Looks like they gave up.”

  “Very likely,” Bruenna agreed. “Such a small force wouldn’t last long against Krark-Home.”

  They followed a familiar path into the foothills from the plains that led to the long, narrow canyon where Alderok Vektro had ambushed Glissa days before—from her perspective. It had not changed much, except for the occasional silver needle spire. There was more tree growth, but not much else.

  She couldn’t say the same for Taj Nar. They had purposefully avoided flying too close to the fallen leonin city, and even from miles away it had been easy for Glissa to see why. The gleaming silver and white parapets of the city walls looked as if they had been melted by some great heat, and from a distance resembled grasping claws clutching at the distant moons. What was left of the city interior was little more than a burned-out shell of mangled leonin architecture. The palace was entirely gone, reduced to a mountain of rubble in the center of it all. Curiously, one of the odd needle spires punctured the rubble to pierce the sky above.

  The mystery of the spires played in the back of her mind. They reminded her of something, and she couldn’t quite pin down what.

  Instead of dwelling on the needle towers, which Bruenna had already said she knew little about, the elf girl asked the mage why Yert had not pushed the Dross forward to swallow the ruins of Taj Nar as well. Bruenna admitted she wasn’t sure. For some reason the mage was tight-lipped about the fall of Taj Nar or the details of how she found Glissa. Too much to go into, the mage told her. Later, when they got to Krark-Home.

  “We need to drop down into that draw up ahead,” Bruenna said. “Helps keep the spy eyes from finding the exact entrance we’re using today.”

  “Right,” Glissa said and followed the mage as she swooped between the steep iron walls lining the canyon trail. Bruenna pointed to a few specific greenish shrubs clinging to the sides of the walls. Glissa examined one more closely and saw a goblin in mottled green armor perched within the leaves, holding a short-bow trained on the Bruenna.

  “Get down!” Glissa shouted and launched herself forward to push Bruenna out of harm’s way. The pair nearly crashed into a needle spire that appeared abruptly in front of them as they rounded the bend to avoid the goblin’s shot, but Glissa dodged the smooth silver surface at the last second.

  “Are you crazy?” Bruenna shouted.

  “Goblins,” Glissa gasped and reached for her sword.

  “Those are the guards,” Bruenna replied as they floated slowly up the canyon, the urgency to reach the base momentarily forgotten. “I told you, the defenses keep us safe for now. And the guards are part of the defenses.”

  “But they were getting ready to attack,” Glissa said. “This is where Vektro ambushed us—”

  “I didn’t know you had a problem with goblins,” Bruenna replied.

  That stung. Suddenly Glissa recalled where she had been going when she was originally diverted to rescue the Neurok mage. “Slobad,” she whispered. “Five years … is he—?”

  “I’m sorry,” Bruenna said. “Glissa, after we lost you, entering the interior to save one lone goblin—even Slobad—was deemed far too dangerous. You haven’t seen these beasts Memnarch has unleashed on us, Glissa. And from the few scouting missions that have been able to get down there, we know the interior is crawling with even more of them. He’s got an army just waiting to replace every construct that falls on the surface with three more.”

  “So Slobad … he’d dead,” Glissa said simply. She didn’t voice the thought, but a part of her hoped he was dead. The alternative—five years of endless torture as the poor goblin waited for a rescue that could never come—was too horrific to consider.

  Slobad hummed to himself as he worked. His primary awareness currently occupied millions of tiny, insect-sized constructs. The scuttling brickbugs were each no bigger than a fly, but had no wings and crawled over one another in a thick, tangled pile. From a distance, Slobad knew (since he could also look at the scene through the eyes of any one of a billion other artifact constructs on the surface) the pile of brickbugs looked like a writhing silver blob. With surprising speed, that blob began to narrow at the top to a point, which slowly rose out of the central silver mass, like a plant yearning for the light. But this was no plant. Thousands of brickbugs effortlessly piled up, one on top of the other, as the mass took on the distinctive unnatural shape of a long, straight, silver needle spire.

  With a thought, Slobad ordered all the brickbugs in the writhing silver needle to lock their tiny claws together simultaneously. He sent a surge of serum energy along the great skeleton of the web, of which the needle spire was about to become a part. The effect was not particularly dazzling: The spire shimmered for a moment then became completely smooth and solid. The brickbugs were still there, but the Guardian’s artisan had fused their exoskeletons into a solid, near-impervious material that was over forty percent stronger than darksteel.

  The web was nearly complete. Soon the master would emerge from hibernation and take his place on the ascension platform, and Slobad would be rewarded.

  Rewarded? Slobad’s a happy slave. A machine. He’s gonna change your oil, huh? Or were you gonna just walk out on your own two—oh yeah, never mind.

  Slobad ignored the voice. He’d gotten quite good at ignoring things over the last few years. Pain, for one. A part of his mind, a clinical subdivision now permanently connected to a nearby myr, knew that his body was practically useless. His arms and legs had long since been removed to prevent fatal infection—something he had been forced to handle himself with his memnoid builder constructs and no anasthetic, thank you very much—and his sagging grey skin hung over a distended, malnourished belly and jutting ribs. His head looked like a skull covered in melted rust. His deformed jaw, repeatedly battered by Malil whenever the metal man felt the urge, hung open and rested at a twisted angle on his sunken chest.

  A dozen pink crystals pressed against his skin, sending thin, steady streams of serum energy into his
withered form and his still-vibrant brain—the only part of Slobad that had not become a mockery of its former self in the last five years. Fortunately for Slobad, he didn’t need food or water anymore. He now subsisted entirely on a dwindling supply of serum. He had a sneaking suspicion that Malil had been dipping into it lately, but he had yet to catch one of the metal men, even with the myr linked to his mind. Whatever the case, the serum would keep him going until the last strut was fitted into the web, and then it would run out. The great structure now spread from the rebuilt Panopticon to fill much of the open space in the interior, and lacked only a few key connections.

  Once those were in place Slobad would rest, at long last.

  Die, you mean, the voice sneered inside his head. It sneered a lot lately. He pulled his attention away from the pipefitter constructs and let his subconscious take over their basic operations, which didn’t require his full attention. Instead he focused inward on something he’d almost forgotten about.

  A bitter, black little ball of self. The goblin he used to be, before the Guardian made Slobad his creature. You know where this leads. Been ignoring me too long.

  No, Slobad thought, done what I must. The master—

  Listen to yourself, huh? Sound like elf. Or vedalken. Or nim. The master, the master. You do not serve the master! Slobad’s old self raged. You are Slobad. You are no servant. You not remember, huh? He did this to you. Crab-legs. You got worms in the noggin. Little worms that spread your mind all over the world. Worms stringing you up to those memnoids, and myr, and who knows what else? Memnarch turned you into a toolbox. And turned your brain to mush, huh?

  I don’t know, Slobad confessed, and he felt unfamiliar painful twinges on either side of his temple.

  Trust me, the goblin’s old self said, It’s true. But I waited, huh? Waited for things to get close to the end. Hid myself in that big, messy, spread-out mind of yours. I knew she’d escape before the end.

  Escape? Slobad asked. Who?

  Glissa, his old voice responded. This thing Crab-legs has got you building—it’s gonna kill her. And you. But killing you might not be so bad, huh?

  Glissa? Slobad’s splintered mind asked. Who that?

  Glissa, as it had turned out, overshot the entrance to Krark-Home when she charged off in a rage. After a confusing, unnecessary chase, Bruenna dragged her back to the hidden door.

  “Mother,” Bruenna said, placing her hand against a typical oxidized iron outcropping that looked a little too typical. At Bruenna’s touch and the spoken password, the rock had shimmered and disappeared, revealing a long tunnel carved from solid copper ore lit by erratically spaced goblin flame tubes that sparked and crackled in their sconces. They had landed at the threshold and walked from there. Bruenna informed her that Krark-Home was protected by several magical dampening auras for security, and Glissa didn’t question her. She’d had no doubt the mage knew what she was talking about.

  Geth’s head had been mercifully quiet. Probably for his own protection. Glissa kept telling herself she had a good reason to keep the thing with her, and indeed maybe he would be useful. And besides, the Geth was the only other being that had been stuck outside of time along with her. It was a weird bond, but Glissa wasn’t ready to sever it yet. Part of her was still having trouble trusting that this was all real, and Geth’s head was a grisly reality check. She’d found a few old rags lying about and stuffed them over the zombie head to smother the odor a bit, and so far no one seemed to notice it. Either that, or none of the goblin guards they passed were willing to tell her she smelled like a corpse.

  Now, the elf girl was going to learn if the long journey had been worth it. She wasn’t sure what to expect from Dwugget. Bruenna had been extremely evasive about who else she could expect to see in the closed chamber before her. Glissa wondered if she wouldn’t have been better off just heading for the Tangle. She imagined what five years of growth around the lacuna would have done to the place. The hunting would be fantastic.

  “Glissa,” Bruenna said, indicating the pack holding Geth’s head. “Are you sure you want to bring that?”

  Glissa nodded. “He’s with me for now.”

  “Up to you. You’re the Chosen One,” Bruenna said. “Ready? We’re on.”

  “Will you stop calling me the—” A metallic scraping that ended in a loud click interrupted Glissa, and the heavy clockwork lock on the double doors slid open. The elf girl straightened and shrugged her shoulders in an attempt to make the pack on her back a little less conspicuous. With a rush of equalizing air pressure, the bronze doors swung inward, away from them, with a clang that rang like a gong.

  “Presenting Glissa of the Tangle,” bellowed a goblin crier, his voice sending tinny echoes resounding throughout the throne room. “And the Lady Bruenna,” the crier added, almost as an afterthought.

  Glissa stood in the archway of a huge cavern. The rusty red walls were coated with centuries of smoke residue from burning flame tubes. Dozens, maybe hundreds of the tubes lined the jagged walls, and smoke from the flames rushed up a wide central shaft that opened overhead. Glissa couldn’t see the end, but the smoke was going somewhere. Cool air also rush in from both sides through vents carved into the walls at floor level.

  She wasn’t sure what the cavern had once been, but it was now rearranged into a throne room. A path hewn from the rough copper floor ran straight out ahead of her, watched on the right side by a line of twelve armored goblins carrying spears and shields. Along the left were an equal number of leonin warriors in glittering gold and silver plate. The leonin warriors, all males, clutched battle-scythes and stared straight ahead, chins slightly raised, matching the rigid attention stance of their goblin counterparts. The path ended in a short set of wide stairs leading up to a platform that looked like a small mountain of iron ore the the top sliced neatly off.

  Atop the platform sat three ornately carved thrones. The largest, in the center, was plated in gold and held an alert but relaxed leonin male Glissa immediately recognized. A short male goblin was seated to the leonin’s right, and on his left, once again wearing the engraved slagwurm armor of the Tel-Jilad, was an elf. And elf with one eye but a face that was like looking at a mirror. So that’s why Bruenna had mentioned her sister and refused to go into details. If she hadn’t seen it herself, Glissa wouldn’t have believed it. She clenched her jaw to keep it from dropping open.

  “Yshkar? Dwugget …” she gulped and forced herself to finish. “Lyese.” When none of the three responded immediately, Glissa followed Bruenna’s lead and bowed deeply.

  “So, what’s new?” Glissa asked. “I mean, besides everything.”

  BRIEF HISTORY

  Lyese rose from her throne—her sister was sitting on a throne—and walked with unusual dignity and grace down the hewn steps. The elf girl didn’t say a word, but when she reached Glissa, she stopped and stared long and hard into her older sister’s eyes. Glissa returned the stare, but after a moment she arched an eyebrow and asked, “Looking for something?”

  Lyese straightened and called up to the platform, “It is Glissa.” She returned to the older girl and swept her into a hug. Glissa held her sister tightly, tears suddenly welling in her eyes. “Lyese,” she said, “I’m so sorry. Sorry I’ve been gone. I was trapped.”

  “I know,” Lyese said, smiling through tears. “We had given up all hope, but then Bruenna found a way to get through—Glissa, you’re alive!”

  “So why are you—”

  “I’m the Khanha!”

  “What’s a Khaha?”

  “Khanha. I’m married to—”

  “You’re married?”

  “Yes, I’m the—”

  “Khanha. You said that. You mean you’re married to—”

  “The Kha,” Yshkar rumbled, striding purposefully down the steps. “We welcome you to our … temporary home. You have come at an opportune time, Glissa of the Tangle.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Glissa said, poking a finger into Yshkar’s chest, stoppin
g the surprised leonin in his tracks. “Lyese, you married Raksha?”

  “Er, no,” Lyese said, and her eyes fell to the floor. “Raksha is—Glissa, Raksha is gone. Yshkar and I …” Her sister shrugged.

  Glissa was floored. Lyese had displayed a crush on Raksha Golden Cub, but Yshkar? It was unexpected, to say the least. “Raksha’s dead? Bruenna, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “We asked her to bring you here without delay,” Yshkar said. “Once you’d been detected, we could do nothing else.”

  “Explaining about Raksha would have just slowed us down,” Bruenna explained sadly. “It is not a tale I enjoy relating. Truthfully, he may not be dead, but he is no longer with us.”

  “Yes, but all say Glissa should know everything, huh?” Dwugget growled, hopping down from his own throne to join the impromptu discussion.

  “Thanks, Dwugget,” Glissa said the wizened little goblin. “I think. Hey, why did your men attack me last—uh, decade?”

  “You full of questions, huh? Just like the rest of us,” the old cleric said, nodding sagely. “But there is much to tell, from many angles, and much arguing, that always fun. And we have some time, huh? All talk over dinner. Then, action.” He winked. “All friends now, huh?”

  “If you say so,” Glissa sighed. She didn’t know what to make of Dwugget’s presence, but he had helped her long ago, when her life had first gone crazy. And Slobad had trusted him. Still, the old goblin seemed filled with tension under his jolly demeanor, shifting on his feet a little too much. She would have to keep an eye on him.

  Her belly rumbled. The goblin’s mention of food reminded she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, but knew it was at least five year ago. “All friends now.” Glissa nodded. “So let’s eat.”