by S. M. Stirling, Harry Turtledove, Jody Lynn Nye, John Ringo; Michael Z. Williamson
“You place the Mrem at the rear,” he called, seated on a comfortable bed on the back of a trunklegs, a behemoth mammal with leathery gray skin and a prehensile snout. “So they can eat anything that dies on the way, either by falling out, or native life stirred up by your passage. Remember they must eat meat, unlike our more advanced digestion. If a creature is lamed, kill it and give it to them. It motivates the others, and also keeps them aware of the vileness of these hairy beasts.”
Buloth said, “Yes, Father. Also, I will put the mammal herd beasts in front, where they can eat grass before it is trodden. They make good emergency food.”
Oglut nodded. “They do. Not the tastiest, but adequate nourishment for slaves.”
Buloth’s gray tongue darted across his lips. “I have decided I will kill and roast a Mrem before any battle. The smell will motivate them to my desires.”
That was very amusing. Oglut chortled and flicked his tongue. A whiff of breeze brought him the smell of a cook fire at that moment. No Mrem, but something savory. Yes, that was a fine suggestion.
“Very good,” he said.
Buloth said, “I have enough food for me and my assistants. The rest will scavenge as we go.” He sounded most eager.
“They are well fed to start. They will have good endurance and be pliable.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Are you ready to take control of them now?”
“Yes, Father! I am ready and privileged.”
Oglut felt his son probing, enveloping. Buloth was strong enough, but not confident. That would come. He also had mixed feelings to find his son was not as powerful as he. Less of a threat, yes, but also somewhat inferior in mind. He might improve with practice, though.
In a few moments, Buloth had taken command of a two-thousand-creature army, plus a few personal retainers and some stupid beasts who only needed a vague prodding to haul carts. All their wills were bent to his. It was not as complete a command as Oglut would have had, but it would do.
It was time.
He thought rather than said, Go, Son, and teach the furry little turds a lesson. You may start on your holding now.
His son’s mindvoice came back clearly. I hear you, Father, and am grateful. They will be brought into the whole.
He turned to Mutal. “See what your brother has accomplished, and learn.”
“I will, Father,” Mutal said, earnestly. In his mind, Oglut picked up a well-developed sibling rivalry and ambition of his own.
Success was within their grasp. He had bred well.
* * *
The warriors were of two minds. Either the females were a too-welcome distraction, or they were a hindrance. Talonmaster Hress Rscil felt as if he could pluck out every hair on his body in frustration. His tail was constantly moving as he watched his subordinates mediate arguments and order the warriors back into line.
He found himself in daily conference with Cmeo Mrist, starting the first day. They used his chariot, with an erected sun shade, as a platform for observation of the drill field.
“This is not going well.”
“It will. It is a new thing, and will take getting used to.” Cmeo Mrist sounded confident. Her eyes were bright and calm, and her expression serene.
“Indeed,” he said, wiping sweat from his eyelids. “How are the Dancers?”
“I don’t know entirely. I see one substantial problem, though, that must be resolved.”
“Yes?”
She fluffed slightly, and her ears flattened. That was surprising. The Dancer had very good control of her elegant body, usually. It must be significant.
“Several of the warriors have been most condescending to the Dancers. It is not only rude, it will undermine their confidence, and their empathy.”
“Yes, that must be addressed,” the talonmaster agreed at once. Indeed. That would not build a cohesive force, and as she noted, could undermine what they had. “What is the nature of these comments?”
“Several to the effect that females are not suited to battle, only to defending the house. Others that they can’t possibly manage to keep up with such powerful warriors.”
Hress Rscil couldn’t help but grin.
“That first would be from the older ones, the second from younger ones.”
Cmeo Mrist couldn’t suppress a smile in return. “It was.”
“It will be hard to break.” He sighed. “I have some ideas, but you must support me.”
“Of course,” she said with a cordial lay of her ears.
“I’ll start on that in the morning.” He could start now, but he wanted time to think, and it was a hot day, dusty and gusty and more suited for a nap. He’d have to call a break shortly.
Cmeo Mrist said, “Well, I must thank you for your understanding.”
Talonmaster Hress Rscil regarded her evenly. “You are welcome, Priestess, but I must be honest.”
“Yes?”
“I share some of that sentiment myself. However, my clan leader has given me orders, and I will comply as best I can. I expect as much from those I command.”
She almost sighed, and her ears drooped slightly. “I understand. I also will do the best I can. Of course, I’m not happy with such…instinctive behavior.” He knew she’d wanted to say undisciplined, though she did not. “I will trust you to address it.”
“Thank you,” he said. Fair enough, and he’d continue to give her the benefit of the doubt.
He wasn’t sure she’d feel the same way tomorrow.
* * *
Barely after dawn, the training resumed. Hress Rscil watched from atop his chariot as the drillmasters motivated the warriors in the cool air and dew-damp earth.
“Crawl! On your bellies. There are leatherwings overhead, and hurled spears and rocks. If a filthy Liskash sees you, you’ll drool and do his bidding. Now up and run! Run like the filthy Liskash wants you carnally. Down! And crawl!” The nearest leader clapped his hands together to make his warriors move faster.
Rscil had talked to his drillmasters, and by “talked,” he’d told them bluntly what behavior was acceptable to him, and thence to Nrao Aveldt. A general lesson and motivation now would be followed by individual attention to any comments, and further group activity would continue until the problem was resolved. As an additional incentive, he’d spread the snide word that any warrior who didn’t feel capable of marching with females had his leave to return to the herds. That resulted in hundreds of flattened ears, but no desertions.
They might hate him, but they would obey.
Cmeo Mrist looked rather nonplussed at the warriors crawling through sand and brambles, jumping, charging, diving. It was painful and exhausting, and mildly degrading. Still, it would enforce the rules.
They drilled all day, and there was clear resentment, but better response. One side benefit, Hress Rscil thought, was that no warrior would quit if the females didn’t first. Nor was anyone foolish enough to challenge the clan leader, the talonmaster, or even a drillmaster on the matter. He was satisfied.
Two days later Cmeo Mrist reported, “The comments have stopped. Muttering, however, continues. The Dancers are dealing with it, including joking about it. With respect, a warrior of great ability need not boast. His skill is apparent. The boasting only serves to point his insecurity. Especially with Dancers, who can sometimes read feelings.”
“I will relay that,” Hress Rscil agreed. “Some of the warriors will feel put upon, that they have been felt in such a manner.” It struck the talonmaster that he had watched the graceful Dancers, and their movements had inspired the occasional less than chaste thought. Had Cmeo Mrist or the others sensed this? He dismissed the concern and plunged ahead,
“I have a suggestion, a delicate one, if I may,” he said. His proposal was a bold one, and could have repercussions if not taken well.
She raised her brow hairs and said, “It’s necessary that we agree that we are not enemies, and can share sensitive things.”
He hoped the Dancer wa
s referring to what he was about to propose.
“One matter, which I feel is legitimate, is that this will be a long march with stiff battles.”
“Go on.”
“The warriors fear the Dancers are graceful but not strong, and I use that term in the physical sense, and will not be always able to keep up with the claws.”
“I see,” she said. “Yes, I understand the context. And what do you propose?”
“I would like to conduct training routes as well as drill. A few hundredlengths at first, building to greater distances.”
“That makes sense,” she agreed. “To make it interesting, I propose three thousandlengths to start.”
Talonmaster Rscil took a moment to eat that. While not a great distance, it was a healthy route for warriors, and a fair approach to battle. Eventually, he’d like twice eight or more thousandlengths. Cmeo proposed starting at more than an eighth of that at the start. Of course he appreciated the offer. It would speed training, and make a better showing for them. Could they do it, however?
“Are you confident of that?” he asked.
She sniffed. “Warrior, what do you think females in camp or town do? They butcher meat, haul wood, walk herds, fight predators. It has been years since we fought to defend the town, but you’ve heard and seen herding station battles. Besides, I will guarantee none will drop out. If they fall, it will be from exertion, and demonstrate they have the courage to give all. Surely that will serve some measure?”
Rscil admired her assessment of the situation and appreciated the cooperation. “Either will serve great measure. I admit to knowing little apart from war, and I value your advice,” he said.
Cmeo Mrist chuckled and rumbled in her throat. Her eyes twinkled.
“This information is a lack of your warriors, and ironic being as we know so much of our neighbors and enemies.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Does any male ever understand a female? Or the reverse?”
“I understand you better than you think, Hress Rscil.” Her eyes bore a flash as she raised a gourd for a lap of water.
Her glint made him most delighted and uncomfortable at the same time.
To cover his confusion, he said, “I will see to the plans for these routes.”
As he left, he heard her growl a much louder chuckle.
* * *
Before dawn the next day, Hress Rscil looked over the warriors at morning gathering. Some were stolid, relaxed, attentive. Some were eager and itchy to start. A few looked disdainfully at, or away from, the Dancers who were clustered together at one side of the field. Everyone’s tail twitched with impatience.
Cmeo Mrist stood nearby, a bundle next to her. It was smaller but similar to his, with water gourds and dried meat for meals. She had a dagger and short javelin, to his full panoply.
“Today we march,” he shouted, and the drillmasters echoed him. “Follow me!”
He turned and picked up his bundle, then started at a brisk but steady pace toward one of the well-worn paths of the settlement. Cmeo Mrist matched him and fell alongside, with Senior Drillmaster Gree on the other side. The old, scarred clan drillmaster was just called Gree. No one knew his full name or even if Gree was his taken or given name. Rscil himself was unable to recall and anyone of lesser status knew better than to ask. Gree had counting beads, and a very reliable pace. He also had a very craggy face with claw scars and torn ears. He’d fought in many border raids. Cmeo Mrist looked like an unearthly being in comparison, glossy black, trim, dainty and graceful.
It was early and dark, cool and misty, but would be warm soon enough, from exercise and the sun. His chosen route was south, between several copses that led to the Great Desert, many days’ walk south. There had been forest here, until Mrem had harvested it for building, and to clear grazing land.
Nothing was said for a time. Gree kept count, shifting beads on the string. They were drilled copperstone, the rich blue that became ore when heated. Rscil shifted his pack slightly, to relieve pressure on his back. Cmeo Mrist kept pace well enough. She took more steps with shorter legs, but seemed unbothered by the exertion.
Behind, the lines of warriors and Dancers stepped off, with drums beating a time. The rearmost ranks had to wait in order to move. There were noises of shuffling and shifting, occasional curses from the drillmasters, but shortly, it evened out and they were all en route.
Gree counted aloud as he reached the first mark. “Seventy-six, seventy-seven, one hundred…” Then he resumed a barely audible mutter under his breath.
Hress Rscil said, “Gree can be trusted with all information. So, Cmeo Mrist, did you advise the Dancers on our plans?”
“Only as you did the warriors. A route march, with water.”
His ear twitched acknowledgement. “Very well. I hope it turns out as it should. Though I do wish Mrem had the endurance of arosh. Even a few thousandlengths is barely a morning’s work for them. It would last us all day.”
She said, “In exchange Aedonniss has given us our brains, and not as slaves to Liskash, but as individuals.”
“Indeed. Our tools are our strength.” He gestured slightly with the javelin he carried over his shoulder. It was cast and hammered, ground to a fine, gleaming edge, decorated with etchings and chiselings of praise to the sky god. He observed that hers was as well made, though it had not seen service.
It was a hot day, and dusty, with little wind. Despite that, Hress Rscil could smell the army. The whole didn’t smell too fatigued yet, and he could tell the females by their different scent. They managed. Behind, the arosh hauled light carts for any injured. Inevitably, someone would step in a rut, take sick from the sun, or otherwise need to be carried. The Liskash usually left casualties to crawl or die. Mrem made sure to recover them, both for practicality and in compassion.
Gree counted, “…seventy-six, seventy-seven, four hundred…” The tempo was perfect.
A while later, a thought struck Hress Rscil. He turned to his companion. “Cmeo Mrist, it seems to me that a good route march is a bit like a Dance. Ideally, every warrior should have the same stride, the same speed, and move in an even line.”
“A bit,” she said. She sounded a little breathy, but still fit. “This is another benefit of mixing the Dancers. We can help keep the time, with our drummers.” She signaled behind her to the female drummers at the head of the file of Dancers. They stopped playing their complicated rhythm of worship and changed to a rapid double-beat that matched the pace the marchers were keeping.
Hress Rscil found it lightened his step. “The drums are enticing. Once they are steady, I look forward to them and walk with them.”
“That is part of the magic,” she said. “The Dance, the drums, the chants, all reach the brain, and keep it focused and free from distractions and mind magic.”
She sounded somewhat winded now, as Gree reached a thousand paces. Hress Rscil used that as an opportunity to say, “We are two-thirds to our turnaround today. Yes, I will arrange for the drummers. Let us be quiet a time. I wish to listen to the army and hear for trouble.” Quiet would also save breath.
They strode on, Cmeo Mrist occasionally quickening to catch up. She didn’t fall behind, but she did have to work at it. Rscil made a point not to slow his pace. His warriors knew how he moved, and this was to prove a point.
When Gree counted one thousand five hundred lengths, Hress Rscil stopped and raised his arm. He turned, shouted, “Circle and rest!”
It was obvious the Dancers hadn’t seen this maneuver before. Some warriors broke out of ranks, formed eight points with spears jabbed into the ground, and the rest swarmed through brush and behind rocks looking for threats. In beats only, the area was secure, with watchpoints on a few rises to supplement the defensive positions, and a clutch of small lizards, rodents and eggs piled next to a fire lay and ready for Hress Rscil’s orders.
“In rotation, eat and rest!” he shouted.
One of the drillmasters struck a fire plunger, coaxed out the tinder,
and blew it under the lay. The fire caught, and there was a frenzy of skinning, skewering and placing of meat for a quick roast. Someone placed a pot to boil leaves, and the groomer-surgeons dropped tools into another pot to boil clean. There were some blisters and small lacerations to attend to, male and female both.
Across the warm, hummocky field, that scene repeated with other groups, each of eight fists. The Dancers watched with growing admiration. Rscil was pleased.
Satisfied, he sat himself, on his pack. Gree was already comfortably squatting, and Cmeo Mrist cautiously stretched out on a blanket. She stretched the pads of her feet to ease them.
“They will take turns on watch and eating, then?” she said.
“Yes, with a few mouthfuls of fresh meat to improve this harness leather,” he said, holding up a flat, translucent piece of dried mottlecoat meat.
She tightened her face and flattened her ears. “Are some of them eating…those?” The plants the warriors were chewing on looked like weeds, unappetizing weeds at that. The brown seed packets looked very different from the rich crops Mrem raised in more peaceful times.
“Emergency training. Some seed pods contain enough substance to keep one alive a few days. The spies and scouts practice that in case they have to escape without supplies.”
“I see. It just seems so unappetizing.”
“It is, and causes digestive trouble without practice. They eat a mouthful now and then for preparation.”
The females had grouped themselves apart from the males, which he approved of. There was some mingling, but it seemed courteous and appropriate. Two latrine pits were dug, one east and one west, to allow some modesty. Those would be filled as they left.
He allowed an eighthday for food and rest, with light naps in the sun. It was arid and clear in their part of the world, but not too warm. To the north, though, he could see clouds above the New Sea. The sun drew water that would fall to the west. With Gree on guard nearby, he allowed himself to take a short sleep. Cmeo Mrist had already curled up on her blanket to nap.
