by S. M. Stirling, Harry Turtledove, Jody Lynn Nye, John Ringo; Michael Z. Williamson
Dancers, heed the Dance, heed me, and advance.
Then something amazing happened.
The clan’s retreat continued, with bloody precision. The Liskash charged into their formation, were slashed, stabbed and tossed into small heaps that became obstacles. Occasionally, a Mrem fell, sometimes in death, but more often from a crippling but treatable wound. The scouts had recovered some of these fallen last battle, but many had been lost. But then the talonmaster worried it was beginning to look like they were all lost.
Hress Rscil stared in bemusement and spine-fluffing appreciation as the reserve line of Dancers chanted and danced right through a portion of one claw’s defensive rank, which drew aside briefly in surprise, then locked behind them. Two warriors made to follow, remembered their orders, and stayed.
But for whatever reason, the magic worked. The Liskash didn’t notice the Dancers walking right through their mass. They even seemed to step aside for them. The Dance wove taillike through them, twisting past wounded Mrem who were offered two shoulders each. The chant continued, while their Dance disrupted a little, but seemed to hold.
They worked their way across the Vs, then the Liskash parted to let them back at the Mrem line. Two warriors stepped aside for them, and they twirled right back through with the wounded in arms, right past his chariot. Eights of warriors had been saved. Cmeo Mrist, her fur stained by the blood of a Mrem she had assisted, flared her nose and spread her ears as she passed.
There was one tragedy, made worse for its uniqueness, as they finished. The spell weakened as they reentered, and some hulking, green-skinned thing noticed them, enough to jam a blade into the spine of the last, and youngest Dancer. She convulsed and died with a shriek.
Then the Liskash weakened again, and drew back. This time it was orderly. They fought their way out of reach, fell back in groups, hurled rocks and javelins, taunted the Mrem, then ran.
“Let them go!” Hress Rscil ordered.
He decided not to discipline a few eights of warriors who hurled javelins into the retreating masses. A dead Liskash was a dead Liskash.
Hress Rscil shuddered in relief that the battle was won. The line had been so thin, so frail. Any rush from the Liskash would have smashed through and destroyed them all. The godling seemed to know only the crudest of tactics. Advance, envelope, reinforce. He lacked any skill in maneuver or strike. It proved they weren’t particularly bright, just possessed of an evil grasp.
However, it would be foolish to assume another wouldn’t be better. This one might have been a child or a fool. The next might not be.
The message dispatched to Nrao Aveldt with his swiftest runners advised of their situation, tactics, supply level and location. The plan to swing around the hills was not sustainable. Instead, they’d have to move north fast, and try for the river valley the scouts found. They’d have to cross between surges of sea, and hope not to be pinned by it if they were attacked. It was like a gate that opened twice a day, and moved along the fence a bit more each day.
With luck, the messengers would intercept the resupply wagons and have them divert. Even with gleaning, javelins had been lost or broken. Wrighting took charcoal and fine clay. They could hammer damaged ones straight, and treat them in the fire, but there were limits to repair.
With all that done he had to address the aftermath of the battle. The warriors fed and drank, as did the Dancers. He heard the discordant snarls of Cmeo Mrist and her senior Dancers performing rites over their youngest dead, and two others. He gave them credit, though: they’d fought well and bravely when death came to their ranks.
Rewards and accolades would come after one uncomfortable matter. Punishment. Outside, the drillmasters, several fist leaders and a fistful of Dancers awaited as witnesses and advisors for him. He stepped out of his tent into the improvised parade field, where Trec and four surviving refugees waited. Refugees? Escaped slaves? Inadvertent traitors? What status should he give them?
For now he settled on name.
“Trec, you and your Mrem betrayed my warriors in the midst of battle. I will hear your argument.”
Trec staggered and shook his head. “Oh, my Talonmaster!” he shouted, and fell to his knees. “Buloth’s power did us caught, into mind squirming beneath and within. I stabbing one of your warriors ere I knew, then to strain against, tried.” He held forward his left leg, lacerated by his own javelin edge. “Resisted, but not enough. Shamed I survive, that your warriors beat me down alive, not dead.”
He turned to address Trec’s appointed commander. “Fist Leader Chard.”
“Yes, Talonmaster.” Chard was stiff-faced, dirty and twitching in the after tension of battle.
“Tell me of Trec’s fight.”
Chard twitched his whiskers as he took a breath, and said, “He fought weakly due to his health, but with eagerness. I know of three wounds he inflicted on Liskash, and perhaps a death. Then he turned on Cysh, and was beaten down with hafts and fists.”
“Fist Leaders, is this true of the other four?”
Nods and ears of assent said that was so. Fist Leader Braghi said, “This one, Cir, killed three and wounded two. We saw him turn and stopped him before he did more than inflict a scratch.” He held up his forearm. The bandage indicated it was somewhat more than a scratch.
Hress Rscil wanted to be diplomatic, and to encourage others to defect, mostly for the information they’d bring. A few more spears, wielded by half-starved, untrained drifters, whose minds were bent to a lizard, were not of much military consequence. He couldn’t have them near him, though.
“Trec, Cir, Gar, Hach, Leesh, stand and hear my ruling.”
The remaining four of them stepped, or rather, limped forward, and stood proudly. They were scared but determined, and would die like Mrem for their shame.
Hress Rscil said, “Your mind was not your own, and you fought to maintain it. I hold no charge against you. I will move you into the van, however, for your courage. At worst, you may earn an honorable death. At best, perhaps you will turn back to yourselves, and put this false godling beneath you. Until then, you will be guarded by others, with respect and in support.”
Trec spoke for them all. “We will honor in live or die, and thankee for mercy and wisdom.”
He nodded, flared his ears, and said, “Priestess Cmeo Mrist, is there anything that can be done to strengthen their minds?”
She spread her ears and said, “Perhaps. I will work with them.”
“Now I will publicly praise you and your Dancers for saving two eights and seven wounded warriors with your Dance through the battle.”
There was a snarling cheer.
She bowed with a smile, erect tail tip twitching. “Thank you, Talonmaster. It was a proud privilege for us.”
He went on to praise eight and six warriors who’d shown remarkable courage when reduced to a single rank without nearby flankers, fighting with the inspiration of Aedonniss and holding the line. Two had done so when Trec’s Mrem had attacked their fellows. He discreetly referred to “wounded in battle,” not “stabbed in the back.”
“That is all for now. I respect you all for your fight and magic, and you, our drivers and handlers for your tireless work. I must coordinate our withdrawal from this fort, though all things willing, we will return and garrison it, build it and declare it a town before long. All be sure you are prepared to move tonight.”
Cmeo Mrist caught up with him as he entered his tent.
“Talonmaster Hress Rscil, if I may ask, what did you see of the spell this time?”
With only a little reluctance, he said, “The chant and dance broke the spell. It does work.” He waved to the other bench.
“Yes,” she said as she sat.
“I noted that Trec and his cohorts were furthest from you, and ceased hostility as your Dance left the formation, surrounding them on all sides.”
“It does work,” she echoed him.
“You have no more Dancers to add, and we may face larger armies. How will
you manage?”
“Stronger spells and louder songs,” Cmeo Mrist said. “Think of it as complement to your warrior shouts.”
“I see,” he said. He had an idea. “Would more music help?” Cmeo Mrist’s eyes widened with curiosity.
“It might. There are spells that incorporate layers of voice harmony, of horn.”
“We have used baghorns in battle. They are great for signaling.”
She brushed her whiskers and smiled. “I remember those from the route here. Why aren’t they used in battle? You could choose tunes for messages.”
That was a startling idea. Music was more about feel than thought, but of course Dancers felt things differently.
He clamped down on his interest in this shapely, brilliant female, and said, “I will add that to the long list of things to study, after we have won this war.”
“Thank you, Talonmaster,” she said, with a warm lilt that had to be purposeful, and meant to tease him. “Then can you arrange a meeting with your horners? I’m sure we can develop something.”
“I will do so. We will win in our next engagement, I am sure.”
“As am I, needing only my faith of spirit. And in you.”
She stood and pulled the curtain as she headed for her own tent.
* * *
Buloth shivered in elation, riding his bulky steed at the rear of his army. There they were, the hairy mammals, in their crude, dusty, smelly little hilltop camp, and here he was, with a thousand warriors a bare gis away, approaching in foggy darkness step by measured step, each creature in a slow, methodical advance. If he’d got the trick right, they felt pain for making noise, and nothing for proper advance. With practice, he might offer them pleasure, as disgusting a concept as that was, but it would improve motivation with simpler minds. That wasn’t a subject he intended to discuss with Father. He’d save it in case of need.
They approached closer and closer, and he heard scrabbles and voices and movement. He couldn’t read the Mrem, though. There were a few, but not enough. Those cursed priestesses of theirs. They interfered with his mindspells. He’d not only kill them. He’d humiliate them first, in the most carnal ways possible, with the filthiest beasts.
Then the mental fog cleared and he realized he’d been cheated. There were fewer than fifteen Mrem in the camp. He silently and angrily ordered the charge, and flogged his trunklegs into speed. He would be first, and take vengeance personally.
He dismounted and ordered two large stilts to carry him up the slippery slope. Twenty warriors flanked him against attack, and they burst in bounding turns through the back and forth of the gateway.
Rocks crashed and smashed into his guard; he tumbled and rolled to the slippery, sharp ground as the stilts were crippled, and found himself and six guards facing the Mrem. He reached out to grab their minds.
Nothing happened.
They were drunk. Something fermented, something smoked and something eaten. They were wailing, insane, mindless hairy beasts, armed with rocks and javelins and frothing at the mouth as they slashed and beat at his guard.
In moments they were all dead, though one moaned and twitched. Perhaps not dead, but what did it matter? It would be soon enough. Let it enjoy its pain for daring to attack a Liskash god.
Buloth staggered around, realized he’d been hit stingingly in the leg, and recovered his composure, outraged at the events. Then he saw the bandages on the dead Mrem.
These were all wounded, left behind drunk and drugged to fight him, with no purpose other than to kill a few Liskash before they succumbed to their injuries. They lacked even the grace to die with dignity.
But the rest were gone. He could chase them through the dark, but he suddenly realized he was afraid. He was in a furious panic and knew it. Those fuzzy beasts were better than they should be. How could they do this? They were stupid, barely intelligent, with no mindpower. They couldn’t know what he planned, yet were ready for him. They’d retreated and slaughtered his slaves on the way. The second day, he’d spread for envelopment with a massively larger force, and they’d split to match it, then retreated again, and destroyed more. Now they retreated entirely, and with little loss.
The slaves lost in the first bout had come back to him in the second, then he’d lost them again. Were they so mind-damaged? Had he done that? Too much hold, too little? Part of this was Father’s fault for not giving him more instruction. The servants taught him literacy. They could not teach mindholding. Father’s fear had caused him to fail.
The toll in slaves and beasts was terrible. Nor had he acquired replacements. It felt as if he’d lost numbers in the last day. How? Why was his mindpower slipping?
The numbers were so bad he’d even made an attempt at having the wounded bandaged and carried, in hopes they’d heal. Limping slaves might not look the best, but at least they could stop javelins for the others. That he was reduced to this shamed him to a yellow tinge, even without other gods to see him.
His only recourse at this point was to retreat home and beg for reinforcements, and ask for advice on his failure.
He might not be ready to be a god yet. It hurt his ego, but he was a realist, as Liskash were.
He let the servants strike the pavilion and the banners, douse the fire and pack the wagons. He would ride home proudly but without fanfare, and ask Father to help him fix it.
* * *
Buloth reported in his best manner. Father sat on his carved and padded throne, listening in annoyance.
“Father, as I noted, I enslaved a hundred and eighty-eight Mrem, and pushed two strong attacks—”
“And botched them disgracefully,” his father said vocally.
Buloth swallowed. That was not a good sign.
“I tried my best, but I need more counsel,” he said, diplomatically, and willed himself to present that way in mind.
Father snorted and took a swallow of wine. “More counsel? You need more intelligence. Unbound animals outfought you.”
“They did not bind. I tried surely. The ones I had bound also broke.” He kept it as factual as possible, but he was afraid it sounded insufficient.
Clearly your mind is not strong enough, came the reply.
It is, he said. I felt them, counted them, even turned some traitors back once amongst the enemy. There was interference. Their priestesses…
Priestesses? his father roared. Animals don’t have religion. They have superstition at best.
As you wish, but that is how they presented.
Buloth knew it was fruitless. Father would not believe until he felt himself, which hopefully wouldn’t happen, as it would mean Mrem here, in the stronghold. But Father was not finished.
You have wasted my slaves, shamed me in front of the world, and made it necessary that I now do your job myself. Your younger brother will take my place. He has proven worthy.
Buloth had earned his father’s scorn. I abase myself, Father.
You’ll do more than that.
He felt a warm little trickle, then a crushing weight.
Buloth gasped and spasmed, fell to the ground and described a running circle with his feet as his own hindmind crushed his heart.
The last thing he heard was his father’s voice.
“Even a son has a price in slaves.”
* * *
Hress Rscil felt vindicated. He’d pushed hard for them to move north and east, then east along the side of the hills. Ahead, the setting sun reflected off the New Sea and turned the water crimson. That was all anyone talked of, once it came into view. It also kept them moving, too excited to want breaks. He insisted, though. Rest was necessary for good health. They might be in unending battle soon enough.
They camped on a hummock, with a hasty berm reinforced with stakes they’d hewn en route. Those had taken the last four days to gather, with the scrubby trees hereabouts. Hunting parties brought in some game to stretch their salted and dried rations. There were even some tubers that worked adequately in stew, if there was enough frusk and
other fruit to cover it.
They could smell the New Sea, and hear faint rushes of water. At first it was disturbing, but quickly it became familiar and relaxing. The smell was of muck and rich earth, and some musty mold. This would be productive land.
The next morning they were afoot, moving quickly and eagerly to this New Sea, larger than any lake. At midday they reached it. Even seasoned veterans halted in wonder at the sight. Hress Rscil was as awed as the others.
Gree said, trying not to sound too eager, “Talonmaster, I propose we allow a rest and play time.”
Rscil grinned at him. “I agree. In shifts of three, an eighthday each.” Not that he didn’t think it was a fun idea himself, but he recognized it would be a distraction until they all got it out of their systems.
Then they’d move north, and try this most bold of tactics, based only on information from scouts. This was a new way of war, and he wondered how it would be fought generations hence.
* * *
Cmeo Mrist was very beautiful, erupting wet and slick from the water, her glossy black fur clinging to her form. He looked away to avoid being distracted. Perhaps after this campaign he could consider a mate, but could any female compare with one as brave and intelligent as she?
The water was turbid and lukewarm, like runoff from a camp station for watering beasts, not at all refreshing. Bits of plant floated in it, and bubbles of deep decay rose occasionally. It was shallow, except where it dropped off suddenly, this being a plain at the edge of the hills, with the former Hot Depths east and below. It took only a short time for the polish to wear off for Rscil.
He formed them back up, and had the scouts and watchers move out to clear the way. They still had a long way to go on this new route, and at least one legendary battle.
There was surprisingly little grumbling, and the break seemed to have refreshed the Mrem, as well as inspired them, with this mucky, bitter water that lapped at the land. In short order, they were moving north. He studied the narrow but obvious tidal flat. How did one decide where the land ended and sea began? Especially with the sea changing?
Rscil walked, though he could ride. Occasionally he’d mount chariot and patrol around the army, to offer encouragement. Then he’d dismount to walk again. It saved the beasts, and let every Mrem know he walked with them, not above them.
