by S. M. Stirling, Harry Turtledove, Jody Lynn Nye, John Ringo; Michael Z. Williamson
“Only a little,” he said. “I wonder what will happen the first time one dies.”
The Dancer hesitated. Her lovely eyes turned sad. “I don’t know.”
“Pardon me if I seem brusque. There’s some increase in resentment, given that the Dancers were in some part a hindrance, while suffering no harm. Even the benefit of spells is hard for a warrior to grasp and see.”
“I understand,” she replied. “How did the retreat go? It seemed to me to be orderly.”
“Surprisingly so. The Dancers moved well enough, and the warriors were busy focusing on line and fighting.”
“I felt the Liskash was happy with it. We retreated from him. It built his ego.”
He felt rage fill him as it had not at the end of the battle. “Is this something you see as a positive?” he snapped. “Because I don’t feel the benefit.”
Cmeo Mrist laid a long, very soft paw on his arm. “Please bear with me for a moment, Hress Rscil. I need information.”
“Go on,” he prompted, corralling his temper.
“How did our casualties do in retreat?”
“If I understand your question, we gave a lot more than we took, but there was very little succor for those we had to leave.”
“Would a further advance have meant more?”
“For us? Yes. For the enemy? It’s hard to say. Cursed Liskash don’t retreat as they should, and killing them seems to only lead to more of them.”
“What if we planned to retreat?”
He flared his nose, ears and eyes at that, then considered the question as a matter of strategy.
“I think I see,” he said. “We face off, take a smash, fight an orderly retreat killing as many as we can. We stay cohesive, and the scaly godling believes he is doing well.”
Cmeo Mrist’s eyes danced eagerly. “Could we repeat it?”
Rscil considered. “Possibly. If we could fake an actual panic…”
“How often must we do it, or can we do it, to even the odds?”
It shook him from his pondering. He took a breath of the rich, fresh air and remembered the story he had heard.
“Oh, that. That’s not the goal. The goal is to get near the godling and kill him, which destroys the entire army’s will to fight. Our task is to protect the clan as they move along the shore. We will all meet up in good time.”
“Does that mean a concerted thrust?”
He tensed and felt his fur fluff. “There is a specific plan for that, but it is not for sharing. I require that you not try to read it from me.” He bristled his whiskers and hoped she’d comply. Now was not the time for any such intimacy.
“I understand your caution. Of course I would do no such thing.” Rscil chided himself for not trusting her. She was diplomatic, and honest, and a fine companion.
He said, “So let us continue to improve the legend.”
Upon next daybreak, the warriors were in much better spirits, and slivers of sweetened dried fat for breakfast boosted their morale. They’d worked hard in attack formation, and been praised.
That changed when drill started. The first few practice retreats were accepted and went well. Obviously, it was important to be able to disengage.
However, with each iteration, the fidgeting and fluffing of fur increased.
Between the fourth and fifth, one of the drillmasters, Chach, approached the chariot, sought assent, then came close.
“Talonmaster, with respect, when will we return to practicing attack? The warriors feel they are being punished.”
He shook his head firmly. “No punishment, Chach. We will practice attack shortly. The Dancers need more drill than the warriors to ensure things work. At least one retreat is likely, and significantly important if we are to save our fellows. Attack will follow. We need an orderly retreat, and we can fight as we do so.”
“Mrem warriors are not much for retreating, Talonmaster.”
Hress Rscil acknowledged his warrior’s brave soul. “We do when we must, and we do so well. In this case, think of it as a planned strategy to bring us more lizardlings to kill. We will kill as we advance, and again as we retreat.”
The Mrem grinned, and reached to flick his whiskers. “That I like. I don’t like, and can tell you the warriors don’t, having to leave wounded fellows behind.”
Rscil nodded. “It is a terrible burden. However, we lost fewer in retreat than in advance, and less than in a prolonged clash. Remember, our enemy is the godling. His slaves are nothing without him, and merely obstacles.”
“It’s a hard idea, Talonmaster, but a bold one, in its twisted, backwards way.”
“You may spread the word that I am confident in our ability to attack, but want to make our retreats equally painful to the scaly pests, who are twisted and backward themselves.”
“Thank you, Talonmaster. I shall.” He nodded in respect and strode away.
Rscil kept the exasperation from his ears. He didn’t care for it either, but it had to be done. As they moved north, they’d certainly be attacked from behind.
The warriors were most disgruntled at the idea, even in acceptance. Rscil, with plain harness, loitered upwind of a fist campfire that night. An honest appraisal of one’s support was necessary.
Someone grumbled, “I don’t care if it does inflict casualties. Retreating is just unMremly. Do we retreat the whole way north, guiding them with us, leaving our fellows in a trail for the rest to follow?”
Another replied, “We’ll advance as well. We just have to draw the damned things out. Remember they have no endurance.”
“They have numbers. We should be striking through their mass like a spear, to destroy this godling.”
“Well, Talonmaster, why don’t you tell us how it’s done?”
“Hish,” the second Mrem said dismissively. “I don’t need to be a talonmaster to know that hurting enslaved lizard things won’t win this. Poor, disgusting bastards. Lesser animals and not even the dignity of being themselves.”
Yet a third offered, “Well, honestly, I don’t like it much either. It’ll be a sad day if our proud claim is that we retreat better than anyone. But if we win that way, I suppose eventually that will be the respected thing to do. At least when fighting Liskash.”
An older, raspier voice said, “It’s like that always. My mentors lamented the loss of individual bravery into this cohesion, but we beat everyone with it. Theirs lamented the longer-ranged javelins as cowardly, and detested slings. Styles change and advance.”
“But do you like it, Frowl?”
“No, I don’t. But while I’m fist leader, we’ll do as the drills and the talonmaster say, and do it well. Forget that we’re retreating. Just plan on being the smoothest, neatest, proudest fist, with the highest pile of lizard bodies.”
“Urrr, I guess a pile of dead lizards rather proves the point.”
Rscil smiled. A snarling warrior was a happy warrior, and would do as he was ordered. As the old timer had said, this wouldn’t be possible with the styles of Nrao Aveldt’s grandfather.
At two other fires in other areas, the grumbling was the same. The warriors didn’t like it, but they’d do it.
As he returned to his tent for another late night council, there was a hissed alert from a sentry.
In moments, warriors rose, clutched whichever weapons were closest, and dropped low to spring lightly on all fours. They moved quietly, more so than untrained people in daylight. Seasoned warriors, good warriors. Rscil was proud of them.
In moments several impromptu fists formed up. The warriors might not be of the same fist, but they would make it work. Some moved to the edge of the embankment. Others prepared to defend the gate.
At the same time, a drillmaster took several other fists to the far side, and as other warriors were apprised, they filled in around the perimeter. A noise could be nothing, or a threat, or a feint.
A warrior awatch on the rampart gave signals. Past each side of the guard post a fist flowed through tunnels made for the purpose,
and sought to envelope the gate.
Rscil watched the signs while seeking a spear himself. One of the warriors recognized him, stiffened silently, and offered his spear while drawing his claws. Rscil took the spear, twitched eyes and ears at him, and turned back.
Several warriors were atop the traps, prepared to block the zigzag entrance with tumbled rocks.
Rscil was talonmaster, but the sentry on the rampart was the Mrem in charge. It would be foolish to step into the middle. He watched and waited for a signal. A secret part of him hoped for a small scuffle in which he could be only a warrior. He missed that part of his life.
Then the sentry raised his hand for a hold, while gesturing with his javelin for a foray. The two fists in the tunnels scurried from sight. Beats later, they returned through the gateway, leading and surrounding eight and three prisoners.
They were Mrem. Scrawny, scraggly, unkempt, but Mrem, carrying Liskash-style spears and very crude rawhide harness. They stared around in nervousness and fear, tinged with a scent of despair and shame.
One of them acted as spokesman for the rest.
“We tank you of our rescue. I be Trec.”
The fist leader asked, “You were held by the Liskash?”
Trec nodded nervously. “Liskash, yes. Held in bond and contempt.”
“How did you escape?”
He opened his hands and gestured at the others. “At battle ending mind helding break. I gather we and walk, intent normal.”
“Are there others?”
“Might so. I hope.”
The fist leader said, “I must take this to Hress Rscil.”
“Hress Rscil will come to you,” the talonmaster said, coming into the open. “I am still a warrior, after all.”
The fist leader—Ghedri, if Hress Rscil remembered correctly, nodded in respect and stepped slightly aside. He addressed the newcomer.
“Trec, I am Hress Rscil. We move to conquer the Liskash, and occupy this territory.”
Trec looked wistful and sad.
“If we can only live to see that.”
Rscil knew what he was asking, and it fitted his needs to have insider information.
“You might. Will you serve under me, as we smash them?”
Trec looked him up and down. “How addressed you, leader?”
“I am titled Talonmaster.”
Trec extended his hands, palm down toward Hress Rscil.
“Hress Rscil, I accept as Talonmaster mine.”
The others held hands forward in agreement.
“I welcome you,” Hress Rscil said. “Mrem, see that they are fed lightly but often, clean water, help them bathe, and find them rest. We will march again tomorrow.”
He turned and walked back to his quarters.
On the whole, it had been a good day.
* * *
Buloth threw a copper pitcher at one of his senior attendants. The Liskash picked it up without a word and took it away with him. The young noble wasn’t happy at losing slaves. The stress of battle had to have done it; he was not as strong as his father yet. That was a good lesson for him. Not just the mind magic, but the ability to retain it in harsh conditions. That would come with practice. Today, he meant to get practice. His gold flecked eyes narrowed with determination. Those retreating Mrem would not find him so easy this time.
He wanted to pretend he wasn’t concerned about the escaped Mrem. He didn’t need to pretend. No one here was aware of it, nor concerned. He enjoyed this lone power. How would he manage that with mates and children? That would be something to think on later.
For now, he didn’t have to worry about the nasty creatures, and he found his mind focused sharper when it only had reptile brains to manipulate. They were cleaner, more advanced, less chaotic. He could control them better, and it felt as if he had more. That might be something to examine, too. If he could select the best, most tractable slaves, he could do more with them. The rest would have to be used for more menial tasks until they broke properly to his control, or be used where they could die heroic deaths for his greatness. Yes, he liked that notion.
There was much to explore here. First, though, he would flank and crush those nasty little vermin.
He selected a wine for his victory, and had his handserver put it aside.
He also decided Mrem did not taste good. No amount of seasoning made that gamy meat palatable.
* * *
Hress Rscil had doubts about his strategy. His warriors didn’t like retreating. He had new, untested weaklings, to be honest about it. He had most of the clan’s Dancers and warriors and their lives or independence to lose. There was no par, no gracious drawing of lines. Either he crushed the helpless slaves of this Buloth, and that creature himself, or he and all his people became mindless shit-handlers for the thing.
Still, it had worked once by accident. Hopefully it would work again by design.
The warriors were drawn up, with the eight and three new recruits mixed among them, and the Dancers. The warriors looked more concerned about the newcomers than they did about the Dancers. Rscil found that a relief.
This time Cmeo Mrist rode with him, with a spear to defend herself in need, and a loudcone like his own for directing her Dancers. All knew it would be a retreat. None yet knew the whole story on why.
It started as before, with a steady march toward the encroaching force that swarmed down the hill at a run.
This time, though, the clash did not cause the Dancers to snarl and panic. Many flinched or fluffed in aggression, but all kept their positions. The line held, and worked, and hordes of enslaved fighters fell squirming in reptilian death. It took so long for them to die. Eights of beats they’d thrash and twitch, long after their blood and their life had left them. Did they have no afterdeath to retreat to? Was that what kept them tied to the dead flesh? Was the mind magic grip that powerful?
He was almost distracted by those thoughts, but a javelin whipped past again, the bronze scarred from edge to edge combat, and bright as it missed his eye. He swore, and Gree galloped them closer to the line as a taunt to the enemy and a salute to his own. He would be closest during this retreat. Cmeo Mrist chittered slightly from nerves, but gripped the bound edge of the chariot and stayed still.
Then his divided attention returned to realize another mass of Liskash was spreading to flank them. Advance, retreat made no difference. There were thousands of them. Possibly an eight of thousands.
He raised his cone and shouted, “Drillmasters, divide the claws at the middle and retreat in two elements! Divide at the middle and retreat in two elements!”
The talonmaster burned and cringed inside. This was a complicated maneuver they’d never trained for, but it might give them enough frontage to save themselves. This was not to be a winning battle. He must just hope that the clan survived this one.
It worked to start with. Claws Five and Six, and Seven and Eight spread out to match the flanking forces. Three and Four split in two and clustered behind the lead ranks. The Dancers stepped aside, and then formed two shallow arcs that deepened into broad Vs. Once again, the slaughter started, a short backstep leaving clumps of twitching bodies for the attackers to maneuver around. That broke their advance and slowed them, and the Mrem butchered them as they came.
It worked so well that there was an even chance to advance, slightly. Hress Rscil flared his ears. That was useful. Perhaps that could be developed. Instead of a flat front, a dagged one.
Several Dancers broke from the mass and dragged wounded warriors to the rear, where a wagon waited to haul them far back. Some of them might survive, with herbs and washing and fire.
Then the retreat started in earnest, and it didn’t look as if the warriors were faking fear. They were massively outnumbered, but laying about with claw and shield at any limb offered. Not many Liskash died, but eights of eights were crippled or maimed and would never fight again. He watched a leatherwing beat down, attempting to disrupt the movement with its wingtips. One warrior slashed off
a tip with a keen spear, and a Dancer hurled her javelin just right, into its breast. It screeched, beat away just far enough to collapse into the Liskash lines.
Cmeo Mrist hopped down from the chariot and ran toward the formation, leaving him to wonder what had taken her. She didn’t act bespelled, and she ran toward the battle, so he waited to see what happened.
He shouted for more reinforcements on the right flank, which was taking the brunt of the assault directly in front of him. The fighting had pushed close to where Rscil stood. He and Gree hurled their barbed darts into the encroaching mass in rapid succession, scoring an eight of wounds each.
The retreat suddenly erupted, with those cursed refugees turning to strike defending Mrem marching beside them. Hress Rscil snarled. Once a slave, always a slave. His warriors responded instantly to the attack. The refugees were no match for warriors on guard against them. He watched one smashed in the head from behind, another stabbed, others beaten and driven to the ground. The damage was done, though. Brave warriors had been outflanked and died, and the formation damaged. Some claws fought with but a single line of Mrem now. Too many of his warriors’ snarls had turned to pain and fear instead of anger and challenge.
The Liskash were winning, and looked ready this time to press the attack all the way back to the fort. He sensed this was their end, and determined only that they’d all die before being turned into plants waving in something’s mind breeze.
“Shallow the Vs and retreat!” he shouted. That would expose a wider, thinner front, but there was no choice. They couldn’t make it narrower. The nasty Buloth had seen their maneuver and planned to defeat it. He was not so stupid as he seemed before.
“Reinforce the Vs in twos!”
They would also leave many brave warriors wounded or dead on the field. Those who survived would be enslaved. That was too much to think about.
At that moment he felt Cmeo Mrist’s presence.
Courage, warrior, it said, and he felt it directed at him. The snarling song, the waving javelins, the shifting dance, gave him a calm measure of strength.
He heard her again, giving orders through their minds. Yet it was not unpleasant.