by S. M. Stirling, Harry Turtledove, Jody Lynn Nye, John Ringo; Michael Z. Williamson
On his order, the warriors rose, drew in the circle and formed into ranks. The Dancers shuffled among them, and did so fairly quickly. They were learning.
He felt a little stiff himself, being no longer a youth. Still, this was something he could manage, and he led off with a shout.
The day would be pleasant at rest. It was hot for striding, and they all panted and sweated much of the way back, but almost all made it without issue. Before supper time, they were within the low stone walls of the city.
At the warrior compound, fresh towels aplenty waited with clear water for wiping fur and cooling down. Gree immediately acquired a large bundle from the caretakers, and brought them over. He handed a large one each to Cmeo Mrist and Rscil.
“It went well, I think,” Cmeo Mrist said, neatly cleaning dust from her coat. She was most careful to wipe around her eyes and in her ears. “Only three Dancers fell out, and all are older. So did two warriors, both saying they were injured.”
“Yes, some Dancers are older than any of the warriors. An old warrior becomes a smith or farmer. That is something I had not considered.” He scrubbed his face and drew his whiskers through the soft cloth.
“Acceptable?” she asked.
“It is,” the talonleader assured her. “Have the comments lessened?”
She smiled. “From what I’ve heard, they lessened throughout the march. It was my Dancers who had comments. They found the exercise boring.”
“We must do this, as boring as it may be, regularly before we begin the long walk to the war. Though Nrao Aveldt tells me it won’t be many days. He awaits more information.”
“So I was told also,” she agreed. “Do you prefer more practice?”
“I always prefer more time to drill,” he said. “However, there’s a point where it’s more important to get on with the task, rather than boring and tiring the warriors.”
“I understand.”
Once clean, they both walked up the cobbled road to Nrao Aveldt’s broad house. Hress Rscil pondered that he typically ate with the warriors except when the clan leader summoned him. As a warrior himself, he was not mated, and never bothered with a servant. His own house, made to be easily broken down and carried in a wagon, was small, with a sleeping bench, sitting bench and a hearth. Someday, perhaps, he might settle down with a mate and need a larger dwelling. He glanced speculatively at Cmeo Mrist. What would such a one be like as a mate?
* * *
Nrao Aveldt greeted them, and he nodded in courtesy, ears out.
Hress Rscil offered, “Our training goes well. A little more is desirable, but we stand ready to leave on your word.”
“Excellent, Talonmaster. And you, Priestess?”
Cmeo Mrist said, “the Dancers are fitting in better, I think, and there is less unrest with their presence. I will defer to the talonmaster’s advice, but I believe they are ready.”
“I concur,” Hress Rscil agreed.
“I am glad to hear it,” Nrao Aveldt said. “I have word from one of our observers. There are Mrem held captive by the scaly worm’s accursed mind magic. He saw them without harness. They differed in height and face, as well, so two clans. Oglut binds them to his bidding and forces them to the basest of chores.”
Hress Rscil said, “I think Aedonniss speaks to us. Territory, improved land, two Liskash tribes eliminated and the third made easy. Succoring our fellow Mrem from such desolation is the pointing star. How are the preparations?”
Nrao Aveldt said, “Eight eights of wagons threefold, each with five eightyweights of meat, darts and tools.”
The talonmaster did some mental calculation. “It will be enough. If you wish, let us plan to move an eightday hence.”
“I do wish. Aedonniss guide you, Talonmaster and Priestess.” He looked wistfully around at the dusky horizon, dark to the east and mottled pink in the west, his tail flat against his body.
“It will be a challenge to leave our home for new lands.”
* * *
Hril Aris checked the time. The moon was full and almost full high. It took some study, as it didn’t rise as high here toward the north. It should lower again to the far south, if the philosophers were right. They claimed the world was a ball 29,000 thousandlengths across. A huge distance. More than three times that around.
All he knew was that they’d wagoned, walked and now slunk and crawled 650 thousandlengths. They had spears, slings and large packs of dried meat, and would have to return unseen. They would be heroes; no scouts had traveled this far and fast. Spies took their time and sent missives of gathered stories. Scouts watched directly. It was thrilling to be so far, well within Liskash territory, but unseen. Their splotched coats of brown and tan were supplemented with crushed ochre and bark, so they blended with the ground. More importantly, though, were their abilities in stealth.
The river below flowed into the New Sea, helping fill it, ripple by ripple, as the massive waves tumbled in from the far east. Oh, to see that. Reportedly, it was a waterfall two hundredlengths high, four thousandlengths across, acting like a hose for a waterwheel, blasting across the former Hot Depths, flooding villages and driving herds before it.
But the river was their current task. It would have to be crossed on the way north, and they needed an easy ford. The hills were a poor choice, for the thin air, steep slopes and rocky terrain, not to mention being much closer to several Liskash strongholds. Lower here was less predictable, constantly shrinking, but probably the only practical choice.
“River” was charitable. It probably was one farther down, where it was inundated by the New Sea, now only a few thousandlengths away in a pointed bay. Here though, it was a broad stream over rocky shallows, filled with cobbles and pebbles and a few larger rocks from uphill. It would be easy to ford across. He had to decide if they should do so, and explore further, or just record this location and report back.
The rocks were a bit odd, and looked tumbled and displaced. He’d have to consider what had caused that. Large beasts pushing? An army? Earthquake? Recent heavy flooding? Perhaps that. The banks were scoured. The rocks seemed not to match, though.
It was a cool evening, slightly damp, and quite pleasant on the whole. His fur was slowly soaking up dew from the air, but it wasn’t so cold as to be a problem. The wind brought wet, pungent smells from the east.
His musing was interrupted when his fellow scout, Flirsh Arst, whispered, “Do you hear something?”
Hril Aris flared his ears and listened. There was something.
“Thunder?” he muttered back, but it went on and stayed steady, but got closer.
“Earthquake?” Except there was no shaking.
Then there was a little tremor. Only a little, faint and again, oddly even.
“Downstream,” Hril Aris said. He couldn’t believe what he thought he saw.
“It is the sign of Aedonniss,” Flirsh Arst hissed reverently.
The river was flowing backward, in a solid wall of water. It was the new sea pushing up to claim more land.
Hril Aris stared, still outside but shaking within, as a wave six Mrem high rushed below in an almost sheer wall, the air seeming to hold it straight. He saw rocks tumble before it, weeds and branches thrash.
Then he understood, for once he had seen the Great Sea.
The moon called the sea to her, causing it to rise on the beaches. The sea broke in waves, twice a day, retreating in between. But beyond this the new sea filling was still sloshing like a wine cup set too hard upon a table. When both forces joined, the water ate more land.
Here, though, the New Sea narrowed in a long indentation caused by the river’s former valley. It was quite deep further along, and looked like a water funnel. When water was poured into a funnel…
The moon poured all the water of the sea into that small funnel twice a day. It rushed higher and deeper up the long valley, tumbling rocks, disturbing growth, ripping mud from the ground. Nor would it move in waves; there was nowhere for it to go with the weight of a se
a behind it. It would stay here, retreating slowly over a quarter day, gradually releasing back into that long bay. The reeds and grass would look scoured by flood, but the rocks would remain upstream and tumbled, in odd contrast.
He realized that as the sea continued to rise, this whole plain to the mountains could flood. It would become impassable, and make a great strategic barrier against attack.
It was even possible some of these foothills would become islands.
“Let us go,” Hril Aris said with a faint smile. “We have seen what we need.”
If they could move the clan across it soon, they would have a sea to protect their rear.
* * *
It certainly was lush, Buloth thought. The rains greened things up tremendously. They also cooled it down somewhat. Hopefully, that would change once the New Sea was full. For now, he kept a wrap over his shoulders, and ate nuts for the fat. Tonight he’d have another warm fire and tasty meat. He had to eat almost as much as a mammal did in this climate.
The soarers said there were Mrem to the east, and moving west. That was serious. It was his territory, not even mapped yet, and the vermin were moving in. He praised the flying beasts, bid them wait their time, and find out more. There were also Mrem in the south, trying to move into this territory.
Buloth enjoyed the campaign. He could feel his mindpower increasing with practice, and he was grateful to his father for this opportunity. As they advanced, he drew in more animals, a few stray workbeasts, and even the population of a small village by a stream, all to add to his army. At times, he could even feel insects and snakes drawing to him. He rewarded his fighters by causing many rodents and digging lizards to stand up and wait to be harvested. He’d learned that well-fed slaves were happy slaves. He attributed his gains in power in part to that. His father was frugal to the point of stinginess, and kept them hungry. Distractions like hunger, though, weakened the grip on their mind. There was a positive side of that as well, though. He had no desire to be mind-linked to a slave upon its death.
Later that day he did feel the ugly touch of Mrem to the east, scrabbling through the hills. They were refugees from the river valley into the Bottomlands, distressed, tired, sore and hungry. That would make them hard to manage. However…
Yes, they’d eat well on the rats he’d just suggested present themselves. That would settle them down in a camp for a time. He determined where to the east they were, and maneuvered the army that direction. Their camp would make a convenient place for his army to rest, after he incorporated them.
The trunklegs turned in that direction, and he decided to take a nap in the swaying carriage, atop the fluffy mammal-hide mattress he’d brought.
* * *
Nrao Aveldt received the scouts in his home, and made sure they were offered good refreshments, of grer brew, honeyed mottlecoat livers, and less rich, overbearing fare, like the delicate graygull stewed in arosh marrow and water.
They sat at his bidding, drank copious amounts of brew in guzzle rather than lap, followed by even more herbed drink. He didn’t mind. They needed water and energy and salts. Formal manners were for formal occasions. This was about information. He let them make a start on replenishing their withered hides while he called for Ingo and Tckins.
The scouts were eager to report, but did so between mouthfuls of soup and meat.
Hril Aris pointed at the spot on the map with his spoon and said, “The water rises, slower, but steadily. It occurs to me that as the ground flattens and widens, the rise will be slower, but it doesn’t mean the far flooding is less.”
As he limped in the door, Ingo said, “That is correct. I am awaiting an architect with measuring sticks to return from the coast near the Great Flood. That will tell us more.”
The other scout, Flirsh Arst, added, “All is chaos. The sea also comes and goes.” He indicated the movement with his hands.
Ingo said, “That is the tide. As the moon circles overhead, it draws water up toward it. It should be a footlength or so different, but that can matter in the marshes. Perhaps being a new sea the tides are stronger?”
Tckins Mestri said, “It is more than that in the narrow valley here,” he pointed at the map. “This used to be Cracked Mountain Pass. Now it is a stream, as Hril Aris has said, and water beats against the rise twice a day.”
Ingo said, “Yes, with nowhere to go to spread out, the water must splash high, much like in a bathing tub.”
Tckins Mestri agreed, “Any advance will have to work around it, higher up the mountains or around, or time the approach carefully. It’s like a flash flood in the desert hollows, twice each day.”
Nrao Aveldt tapped his chin with a claw. “This interests me greatly. It’s a predictable barricade we can hide behind and sally from, that can’t be removed. It’s intermittent, but impenetrable during that time.” And more than that, he thought.
“We will find more,” Hril Aris said eagerly. He and Flirsh Arst were justifiably proud of the information that they had brought home. Nrao Aveldt nodded.
“Please. An accurate schedule is most desirable,” Nrao Aveldt added.
“At once,” the Mrem scouts agreed.
They drew on the map and told of their observations, then Nrao Aveldt gave them leave to go rest.
“You serve well,” he said, placing a hand on the shoulders of each of them. “We will all be grateful to you.”
Once the scouts departed, the clan leader grinned to himself, and scratched his ear in thought. He sent a messenger for Talonmaster Rscil. It was time. Aedonniss had given them the tools they needed.
He turned to his son, Nef, watching from his favorite bench.
“Do you see what I do, young one?”
Nef was maturing quickly. He’d sat still for most of the council.
“Father, the water has power. If it moves rocks, can be harnessed to move rocks for us, or to cut more ground.”
Leader of the Three Fangs Clan Nrao Aveldt was proud of his son’s insight. “Yes, cutting ground is what I have in mind for now, and moving rocks later.”
Then, with no one around for the moment, he grabbed the boy in a tussle. They laughed and snarled and sweated until the day’s scribe rumbled a reminder. They sat back and recovered their breathing.
“Scribe, you may take a break for an eighth. I thank you.”
“Thank you, Clan Leader. I will return.” The Mrem bowed slightly and walked out.
Hress Rscil arrived, dusty from training. Yet another reason less formality was good. There was no delay while his talonmaster cleaned and put on a polished harness. He took Rscil and led him to a bench in the corner of the enclosure.
“Hress Rscil, this is in private, because I have a most exciting strategy in mind…”
* * *
Talonmaster Hress Rscil was pleased with how the long march was going, given that they were leaving the Veldt forever. He was not a sentimental Mrem, but he had felt a pang turning his back on their home for the last time. From that moment forward, they would be strangers anywhere they went.
They were far north and west, well into the foothills. Drizzling rain and cool temperatures prevailed, which wasn’t particularly comfortable, but was much better than dust and heat.
The first three days involved a lot of wagons interspersed with walking, and some minor coordination problems with replacement wagons. The station masters simply hadn’t believed the numbers involved and had assumed error. Rscil’s presence had been all the motivation they needed to sort it out quickly. They furnished what they could, and soberly accepted the orders that they’d move out with Nrao Aveldt’s large caravan.
They’d passed through the territory of Rantan Taggah and Jask the Long, who were gone leaving ghostly camps and empty keeps. The spies reported their progress as somewhat successful, but desperate and harried. The Three Fangs clan would not be so scattered. Rscil’s warriors would be followed by Nrao Aveldt’s, also heavily supplied and prepared for a long journey. They gathered and hunted to improve t
heir rations, not simply to survive.
Their people numbered fifteen thousand and more, a staggering count. Two thousand of the clan’s best fighters and Dancers were with Rscil, entrusted to break trail for the families, young and elderly. It was good, he thought, that warriors weren’t permitted to mate until older. It was one less distraction. Of course, that was the reason they found the Dancers interesting, even out of season.
Once past the road shift caused by the bight in the New Sea, they’d turned north, dismounted and walked. Days passed eating dried meat and berries, a little honey, supplemented with stew of wild game and chopped tubers. It was nutritious enough, though not satisfying.
The Dancers managed well enough. The warriors bore it stoically. The drovers and others in support made no protest. Each day’s march, though, was a struggle, with some shorter than others to allow recuperation.
Water was the main thing. When it rained, all the wagons opened to let cones gather it into barrels. They filled at every stream and pond. It rained on the third night while they bivouacked, and broad leather sheets became catchments for every container possible. The water would hold.
Which only left how they’d work and fight.
While it was easier to hide in low areas, dispersed, a good high ground was stronger and more defensible. This land was rolling and hummocky, but there were a few viable positions.
Talonmaster Rscil considered the location of his battle stronghold carefully. His force was limited and casualties had to be minimized. That was necessary for Nrao Aveldt’s wishes, and his own survival. He would not waste his Mrem.
He chose a broad hill, not very high, but with steeper sides. It would be hard to approach, hard to attack, except by the accursed leatherwings. Spears would do for those. To counter ground troops, they would construct a fortress, but one with many surprises for the enemy.
Under his direction, the warriors, drivers, haulers and the stronger females went to work. The drillmasters snarled in friendly fashion, indicating placement. Everyone dug, making a low rampart around the hill, surrounded by a now much steeper approach. There were two entrance ramps, one facing the territory ahead, one back toward their holding.
