by S. M. Stirling, Harry Turtledove, Jody Lynn Nye, John Ringo; Michael Z. Williamson
“Forward!” the talonmaster shouted.
The horde came on fast, and there were more ripples, and he realized one significant problem. The chanting of the Dancers drowned out the encouragement and orders from the drillmasters. The formation was more ragged than he liked.
He pointed, and Gree cropped the arogar into motion. Together they hurried down to the front line of warriors.
The talonmaster shouted as he went, matching the first drillmaster he passed. “Keep your spacing! Keep your spacing!” He hoped to turn that into a chant itself. Gree repeated the command. A couple of others caught on, and it spread.
It worked. Fist leaders within the ranks echoed it, and order improved. Rscil neared the front and hefted his bundle of javelins, then checked the bronze claws at his side. He would be in the battle directly. The front two ranks tossed their first volley of bronze darts. They whistled as they flew and landed among the animals and slaves with deadly effect. The talonmaster knew, though, that their darts and javelins would have more effect against a cohesive force of thinking beings than they were having on the disorganized gaggle of dull-witted slaves being driven into the clan ahead of the Liskash.
Then the oncoming wall of enemy smashed into them, and a fistful of leatherwings dropped from the sky to clap their wings low over the first group of Dancers still chanting behind the front line of warriors.
Instinctively those Dancers hissed, snarled and lost their Dance. A couple of the front Dancers froze; the rest nearby fluffed and arched and poked at things running between their feet and flapping overhead, dancing around in disgust or surprise. One stretched her claws and ripped a tear into a low-flying leatherwing. Two others tore at a small snarling beast that had been driven through the warriors, until it came apart in gobbets of flesh and bone.
That was manageable, but the Dancers’ aggression caused a complete break of the two ranks of warriors behind them. They hesitated, unsure if they should shove their way past or wait. Several tried to rush in front to form a block around the Dancers, leaving a gaping hole in that line behind the unarmored females. Some warriors from farther behind broke ranks and ran to defend the Dancers, exactly as Hress Rscil had feared. They exposed more of the Dancers who were behind them and those too stopped chanting. The sensation of calm that the drums and chanting had instilled was fading.
The slaves and wild beasts were dead or fled. The smell of blood and fear was tangible. Drillmasters shouted, their strident orders almost lost in the din as the first rank now thrust and stabbed the leaping Liskash. They left the spears impaled in scaled muscles and drew swords and bronze claws, as the second rank poked their points between the fist warriors in support.
Well enough, Talonmaster Rscil thought, for a battle. He had withdrawn to a slight hill where he could overlook the field after the first surge had been broken. Despite the chaos among the Dancers behind them the clan was holding its ground. It was apparent the Liskash fighters were less skilled, but there was a great many more of them than the clan had warriors. Already he could see masses of Liskash beginning to flow around the edges of the clan.
“Fifth and Sixth Claw, split and wing! Either Flank!” he ordered, and nothing happened. The chanting was distracting at this point, and didn’t seem to accomplish anything. He heard his order relayed, and long moments later, those units ran to take positions angled back and on both forward flanks.
This wasn’t something they’d practiced enough with the Dancers. Upon seeing those warriors battle run, rather than jog into position, those females with the Seventh Claw reacted in fear, drawing up, fluffing up fur and claws for a fight, and disrupting the last two ranks, which he needed for support. For a moment the talonmaster felt despair, knowing that all was lost. But as he looked about it was clear that nothing had been decided. It took him a moment to realize the despair was not his, but a weapon of the Liskash. A few of the warriors near Rscil looked to him, ears low and teeth barred.
Cmeo Mrist and some others shouted and gestured at the laggard Dancers, pushing the last few into position and leading them in the Dance. Their chanting rose once more, and the talonmaster felt the Dancers’ spell in his mind. It returned with a feeling of exasperation and motherliness, or perhaps big sisterliness. It helped, and he saw the warriors gingerly form back toward some semblance of order. Swiftly, the peace in his mind was restored. With a near obscene hiss the formerly wavering warriors of the Clan of the Three Fangs tore into the Liskash.
Then the talonmaster had more to worry about, as he was in front right of the formation, with Liskash, stomp lizards and a pawful of ragged, sickly-looking Mrem charging at him. Gree was ready as soon as Rscil slapped his shoulder, drew up fast, and grabbed his own weapons. They each tossed four darts in quick succession, and one from the Liskash flew close between them from somewhere, its fletchstring brushing his whiskers and making his fur puff even more.
The flankers fanned around him and chopped their way forward, which was good, as the arogar were crippled and dying in whinnies, riddled with spears and cut by blades. For now, though, it was a platform from which to direct the fray.
They had a good front, and could manage an envelopment, but it was thin, only the two ranks. The Third and Fourth Claws had recovered, and he pointed and shouted for them to be general reinforcements to replace casualties.
The Dancers had pulled back, or rather, Cmeo Mrist had pulled them back. They were a few lengths away, but seemed comfortable enough there, and their chant was in full, deep resonance, an angry snarl of defiance. The drums were abandoned, and it was clear that Cmeo Mrist and three of her senior Dancers were holding the rest together.
The clan’s drillmasters at either end, realizing communication was impossible and seeing opportunity, began enveloping, their claws going from folded back to arcing around. That slowly put more blades against fewer Liskash, and the Mrem clambered over the bleeding green and tan enemy bodies. That also disrupted the lines, but that was for a positive reason.
Suddenly the talonmaster saw more coming. A lot more. On the crest of a hill ten long javelin throws away, another thick rank of spear-armed Liskash waved and shouted in their guttural, hissing equivalent of speech. With every clan warrior already engaged, there was nothing left to stop these new enemies from sweeping behind and trapping the entire clan. Or worse yet, slaughtering those of the clan who were too weak to fight and were waiting in the distant wagons.
“By the flanks arch back and fall back!” Rscil shouted. “Arch back and fall back! First Claw slow backstep!” The talonmaster took a deep breath. This was going to be difficult. “First Claw slow backstep. Everyone hold the line!” Others picked up the shout, and with dignified poise, the claws on both ends of the clan drew back, never turning away from the new force of Liskash. This formed a deep V as the center retreated faster than the flanks.
Whoever was commanding the Liskash must have realized what the formation was doing. As they reached the clan position, parts of the new Liskash force tried to get behind the V, but that meant running at an angle through the rush of their own fighters. That helped to disrupt the entire mass of charging Liskash. As they were hit by darts and confused, it became apparent that the Liskash warriors were simply not skilled enough to complete the maneuver. Nearly all turned to fight along the insides of the V.
The clan continued to draw back. The Dancers formed into two clumps, one each side of the point of the V, and moved smoothly back, a good distance behind the warriors.
At least the retreating claws had left a good crop of bodies for the scaly beasts and their lord to consider.
By the time the enemy reinforcements reached the place where the battle had been, the retreat was four hundredlengths back and still moving, still leaving a lot more dead lizards than Mrem, and stable in movement. The second force of Liskash attacked. It halted before even reaching the battlefield. Those who had been attacking the claws hesitated and desultorily retreated, just turning and bumbling off. A few darts and javelins took
a few more in the back, until the drillmasters ordered a halt to it.
“Hold javelins!” The First Claw’s drillmaster shouted. The cry was immediately taken up by the others.
“Why?” a warrior yelled back. “There’s more of these overgrown pests to kill!”
“We’ll need them for another battle, lad!” the drillmaster bellowed.
The warriors shrugged. One of them stooped to the dusty ground and came up with a fist-sized rock. He heaved that at the retreating Liskash. A lizard caught it in the back of the head and sprawled face first on the ground. The Mrem’s fellows cheered and felt for more stones.
While not as effective as edged weapons, the rocks did cause a certain amount of damage. Several casualties were inflicted before the staggering Liskash were out of range. And, the barrage of stones made the warriors, many wounded and all reeking of Liskash blood, feel better.
It was a grueling march back to the wagons and fort, but the claws were left in peace, for the moment.
* * *
Buloth was delighted, lounging on his comfortable bed in the fading light. He’d lost slaves, yes, but he’d beaten back this force of individuals. Most amusing that they thought lining up in rows would match the power of his mind. It organized them, but they gave up some of their vaunted independence. More than his own slaves gave up; all he cared was that they attacked the enemy. How they chose to do so was their problem. These creatures, though, had voluntarily crippled themselves, and relied on shouted voice orders.
It might take several battles, but the outcome was inevitable. The stronger mind—his—would win and acquire more slaves.
Thinking of that, he tried to tally old slaves, new slaves, and any casualties. He could feel the latter whimpering and hurting, but lacked the strength to twist them into death. They’d just have to suffer, so he shut them from his mind. Surviving slaves were down a bit. That was annoying. Buloth wondered if it were possible to count casualties in the even lines of the mammals. He’d remember that for next time.
Meanwhile, he should regroup his force, feed them enough to carry on, and then advance on the furry beasts again.
This whole venture of developing his own godhold was quite exciting, and very informative. He shivered in anticipation that once done with his he might even be on terms with his father.
Mutal wouldn’t matter, nor even hinder, if Buloth managed to absorb his father’s holding. When the old Liskash died or was frail, his slaves were Buloth’s for the taking. Then a simple advisory to his younger brother that he was assuming the minds should do it. There wouldn’t even be a need for fighting. Yes, that was a good plan.
With that settled, it was time to quickly crush these encroaching creatures and secure as much space and as many minds as possible, both for the prestige, and for the practice.
But first, dinner. He’d vowed to roast a Mrem. Now would be the time. He called his cook.
* * *
Hress Rscil’s tent was imposing in presence, even being no larger than the others. Perhaps it was the finer weave of the russet-colored fabric, or the small but comfortable and beautifully carved benches. Perhaps it was the guests, or just the presentation, but those within felt a sense of awe.
They had much to discuss. They were alive, with some casualties and low morale. That was first. Cmeo Mrist, Rscil and Scout Hril were all dusty and worn, but alert and waiting.
“I will start with my assessment,” Rscil said, not ungently. “It was bad, but to be fair, not terrible. The Dancers panicked when battle joined, recovered somewhat and stayed out of the way. Obviously, we could not practice real combat beforehand. Cmeo Mrist?”
The priestess looked somewhat embarrassed. Her whiskers slicked back and her ears lay against her skull. The tip of her tail twitched back and forth.
“Yes, they were scared and are. I saw the warriors stuck behind them, but couldn’t move fast enough to help clear the way. It did not go as we had hoped.”
“What do you suggest?”
“More practice is needed,” she said without hesitation.
He was impressed. She asked no respite, but was eager to press on. Was it safe to do so, though?
He said, “I don’t dismiss the idea, but I insist on proven tactics for future battles. Let the Dancers be close to the rear—they proved comfortable in that position—and let my warriors have their cohesive mass.”
Cmeo Mrist said, “Hress Rscil, I understand your caution, but we are less effective further away. We must make this work.” She gripped her tail to avoid fidgeting, and her ears betrayed agitation. She felt that strongly about it.
“With respect, I saw no effect to speak of. Morale was higher than normal, but much of that was taken away in the confusion. Then a number of warriors rushed to worry about the females instead of the fight, exactly as I warned.” He finished and braced for the return.
Cmeo Mrist was remarkably calm in response.
“Hress Rscil, how many did we lose to the thought stealing of the Liskash?”
“Why, none, that I’m aware of.”
“Very well, it has worked that much,” Cmeo Mrist concluded.
Rscil said, “That was with Dancers in the rear, as I propose.”
“I prefer that they stay with the warriors. We will train them not to hamper the battle.”
“We will see,” Rscil said.
Hril said, “I have a little favorable news to add.”
“Yes, Hril Aris?” the talonmaster asked, his ears betraying his curiosity.
The scout stood and paced, tail twitching. “Talonmaster, Priestess. First, let me offer that this godling of theirs appears inexperienced. He let his warriors loose enough to retreat, with no thought for gleaning or the wounded. I have other scouts and a few teamsters recovering javelins, swords, harness, and there are some wounded we can treat. We have mercied several, and there will be more. When convenient, we also mercied the Liskash wounded, regardless of their condition. I feel pity for them as slaves, but have no desire to friend such creatures. Their javelins, also, are being taken to the bronzewrights to be straightened and sharpened. We will use them. Some arosh and arogar have been butchered. I included yours, Talonmaster. With no disrespect to fine animals, but they are meat.” He bowed slightly.
Hress Rscil said, “Of course. I would expect no less.” A fine scout, and a potential Master of some kind. Hril Aris’s pupils swelled with the compliment.
“Thank you. Also, just before this council, we sighted eight and four Mrem who were held by the Liskash. They fled west and slightly north, back toward the New Sea.”
“They broke the mindbinding?”
“Yes, apparently when our retreat started.”
Cmeo Mrist said, “When our voice was surest. As I predicted.”
Hril twitched as Rscil leaped to his feet, but it was not a threat.
Instead, the talonmaster said, “Cmeo Mrist, we will drill our warriors and our Dancers so that we do better next time.”
Rscil knew it would not be quite so easy, but he would take the risk. He, all of them, would be remembered for generations once this was done. He only hoped it wasn’t as spectacularly brave failures.
Cmeo Mrist raised herself tall and said, “Talonmaster, as if things are not complex enough, it seems the Dancers can fight if they must, without weakening their voice, as long as they are in the formation.”
“Yes, we have agreed,” he said. What was she leading to?
She seemed a bit hesitant as she said, “How many javelins have we recovered from the Liskash?”
That was a striking notion.
“I see we must drill the Dancers as well.”
* * *
The warriors were not entirely happy with the decision to continue with the Dancers. They let it be known. Drillmasters reported hearing angry comments from their fists of warriors, and voiced their own complaints.
On the one fist, Hress Rscil understood both their need to release anger after the battle, and their frustration at
a formation broken, with fellows left dead. Some two eights had been succored and would probably live, though many would never be fit to fight. Eight other eights and three had either died, or needed mercy. There would be other battles, and they were only two thousand and a few.
On the other, it must be driven to the haft that they were bound together.
Hress Rscil called the claws to order. “If you are unhappy, you may walk back to our steading in defeat. The warriors will remain for our glory. We’ll wait to begin practice until those who wish to leave have gone.”
The complaints quieted to mutters, and there was much shuffling, some bristling, and flattened ears. None wished to abandon the others, nor bear the shame attached. It was also clear there was no retreat, except as a whole. Individuals wouldn’t manage the trip, except a few hardy scouts, all of whom stood with Hress Rscil. They could form parties, but what if they were attacked, to then die unknown in shame and ignominy? And if this campaign were successful, what chances would they have of mates and land?
He and Cmeo Mrist watched from his chariot, led by two precious replacement arogar. The practice, no doubt spurred by the threat of disgrace, was much more vigorous, and the Dancers moved with urgency.
A drillmaster shouted, “Step aside!” and the Dancers gathered in pairs, leaving gaps for supporting warriors to use. It was also hoped this would be their default movement if agitated, with enough practice.
Gree took over, ordering, “Advance!” and the supports flowed through the Dancers, who resumed their normal spacing.
“Retreat!” “Flank right!” “Flank left!” “Envelope!”
Rscil watched with satisfaction tempered by caution. They knew the moves, and with better relay through the fist leaders, the orders propagated across the field in heartbeats. It was going much better since they understood the faults of the first attempt.
Cmeo Mrist said, “I am more confident, now that they’ve seen battle.”