Clan of the Claw

Battle’s Tide
MICHAEL Z. WILLIAMSON

And on the thirtieth day there rose before the clan a great mass of demons. And Rau wondered at their number. The Claws gathered and they too saw it was too many, but Aedonniss entered Hress Rscil and spoke to them, saying go this way and that and to strike as I instruct so that my own legions can join in the battle. So those in the claws took heart and fought with courage. But this was still not enough, for the most evil Sassin was powerful and his minions countless. Warriors fell and there was no one to fill the ranks. Then the Dancers came forth and stood with the warriors and everyone wondered. So the claws once more took heart and both fought on even as many more fell. Seven days and seven nights they fought, warrior and Dancer side by side, carving their way through a numberless horde. And finally when those who remained were exhausted and unable to even raise their weapons Aedonniss caused the sea to come forth. The waters rose and with them came a roar of vengeance. In the foam could be seen the face of every Dancer who had fallen and rising above the water on a silver chariot rode great Cmeo Mrist, priestess and lover. And the demon’s minions were torn asunder by the waves. But the warriors of the clan were touched by not a single drop. And so the way was once again open. – The Book of Nrao, verses eighty-four to eighty-six

N rao Aveldt liked his wagons and his spies.

In the colder lands to the north he had been an upstart. But here the Clan of Three Fangs was powerful enough to have even torn land from the Liskash. Times had been hard, still were, but the clan leader did not regret his decision to take his people south. At least he hadn’t until a few weeks ago, when the waters came.

He sat under the broad shade of his residence in a wicker chair, enjoying a drink of grer, fermented arosh milk. It refreshed the body and let his mind think clearly. He had much to think about. So did his advisors, seated in a ring with him on carved wooden chairs. His son Nef Esnrao benched quietly attentive off to the side, learning actual rulership along with the parchment lessons he took. The boy looked distracted, his long tail twitching impatiently from side to side, but Nrao understood that was partly an exploitation of his age. He was wiser than many suspected. He was tawny and handsome, certainly his mother’s son as well as his. Nrao’s warm, golden coat was striped with black on cheeks, wrists, tail and ankles. Distinctive markings, the seer Ingo said, for a male of distinction.

Nrao Aveldt’s neighboring Mrem sometimes mocked his taste in politics. They preferred decorated Dancers and large warriors. His corral of wagons, the extended wall and defense works around it, the shapers who maintained all, and the monies spent on distant rumors amused them.

He had Dancers and warriors, too. His warriors knew several fighting styles and tactics. His Dancers studied a variety of dances and incantations. When a fight came, the wagons moved his warriors rapidly, and he could place them in superior position to the enemy.

That was why his steading was larger than any within knowledge, and why he was amused at the mirth sent his way. Hidebound traditionalists would fall by the wayside. His clan was one of the first to take southern land from the Liskash. The ancient enemies were still licking their wounds. This meant he had some of the best water and grazing. They held a large if dusty savanna with three large rivers and numerous wells and oases. Clan herds beyond count browsed the tall grass. So it had been for over five years, an ideal home for a growing clan, but now…

When the sea broke through to the Hot Depths, he’d dispatched scouts, diplomats and spies to draw maps and tell him all they saw. They were here now, to counsel him on all they knew.

Nrao Aveldt began, “I would like updates on each aspect. Talonmaster Hress Rscil?”

It would be hard to miss Hress Rscil, the talonmaster, with his oiled fur looking darker than its natural tan tones, worn and abraded harness he seemed never to remove, and flat but heavy muscles. Next to him were spear, javelin, battle claws and knife, neatly leaning against the bench. He had come directly from fighting practice.

Hress Rscil spoke in his deep, confident voice. “The refugees continue to gather and approach. One large band has gathered the remnants of several clans. Few are a threat directly, but all need food and water. I still suggest guiding them west and then north to the cool streams and woods. It is not long before we will have to do the same. Isolated there is no question that eventually we will fall. We must also keep the way open until then for others who are farther in. Their strength will be needed.” One ear twitched as he finished.

Nrao Aveldt said, “While I bear them no ill will, sending them ahead provides useful information, and has some effect on the cursed Liskash.”

“Yes, Clan Leader.” The talonmaster was practical, of course.

“Seer Ingo?”

His elder philosopher, aged but spry, his fur tufted and ticked in white, leaned against one arm of his bench and said, “Land itself, the Hot Depths, was taken from the earth. It was not prime land for anyone with fur, but all of its dwellers must find a new place to live. The weather is still changing, and more than we expected. The sun will draw much rain from this large new sea, and drop it to the west. This will improve growth, but will also cause new rivers and erosion.”

Nrao Aveldt nodded acknowledgment. “Will that cool things enough to hinder those annoying Liskash?”

“I don’t know yet.” Seer Ingo did not lower his ears in shame. It was safe to be unsure around Nrao Aveldt. He knew not all answers were cast in bronze. “It may enable or hinder them.”

“Can we use that land?”

“We can. It could prove rich eventually, but it would take development of grass, then scrub, and repeated burnings to make a rich soil. We’d need to transport earth borers, naked tails and goats to provide dung and dig it in with claw and hoof. Also, the Liskash will object.”

Nrao Aveldt smiled and said, “They’ll object, but it might not be an issue, if the climate is not to their favor. Watcher Tckins Mestri?”

His head spy leaned forward slightly. The Mrem was slim and very average looking. His dull gray coat was healthy but ordinary. He wore harness of a trader, the pouches stuffed with items and valuables. It was a suitable disguise for his comings and goings.

“Nrao Aveldt, there is much going on between the Liskash and other Mrem. People fled the flooding in all directions, some to be captured by Liskash, others crowded and displaced. They caravan and fight, as the talonmaster has said, to seek homes farther north, and west around the New Sea. Liskash fight with them, and each other. I can’t speak to the long term of the region, but movement west is our only option. East is desert and sea, south is Liskash, north is the New Sea.”

The clan leader said, “That is certainly an issue. Do you believe it’s worth it to move now, though?” Tckins Mestri trembled slightly at the question.

“I believe we can find a good position early, run wagons to small strongholds to keep them supplied, and build a solid steading. The Liskash are fighting amongst themselves. We might find a defensible position north of the hills, without needing to fight our own kind.”

“That would be good, but is not the only consideration. We must have enough people to occupy and hold the land against violent Liskash and displaced Mrem. Priestess Cmeo Mrist?”

The only female present, the priestess had the circling symbol of the Sky Lord around her neck. The bronze of the medallion stood out against her glossy black fur. She stretched out a hand. The very grace of it attracted the attention of all the males, but it was what she said that mattered. Her round, gold eyes were sincere with concern.

She spoke, “Aedonniss does not speak directly. We must infer. If this is to be a new, rich land with a broad sea to fish in, and has caused much distress for the Liskash, it is clear he is offering us an opportunity. He does not guarantee it will be easy, or successful, but I feel he wants us to try. Challenge is what makes Mrem great, over those indolent, lazy Liskash.”

Nrao Aveldt saw it, too. There was risk, though it was manageable with preparation and forethought. There was also the chance of great expansion. Rich territory, plentiful food, and perhaps a secure border against the scaly Liskash.

“Then first, I will have the wagons checked, and meat dried.”

Oglut was excited and nervous, though he’d never let the underlings know that. His fathers had built this palace of carved marble and scented wood through the power of their minds to control others. His limits had always been those who could also force others to their will. Now some of those who had lived in the lowlands were gone, or had lost their slaves. He sat on his throne and thought.

There seemed no end to the water. Where there had been rich holdings now there would be nothing. His own lands had been considered too high and cool. But now his holdings were intact and the riches he had coveted lost. Where he had once ruled at the edge of the lowlands, now he would control the far side of a new ocean. At least if it stopped rising before the whole world was flooded.

There was potential for great expansion, with Sassin and Ashala dead and their holds in tatters. Then, those accursed Mrem who had challenged them in the warm jungles were also fleeing ahead of the New Sea. Most went north to the cold lands they had been spawned in. The few heading directly west would be easy to incorporate as they reached the range of his mind. It was a silly game they played, but what could one expect of semi-sentient mammals with no mindpower? They weren’t good for much, but could serve as a buffer against other attacks, rather than waste more valuable lives.

The New Sea would also bring rain and growth. More food meant more slaves, and a finer godhold. He needed to move quickly, to secure it before someone from far south did so, or it got overrun by those accursed hairy Mrem from the north.

He pondered it all while sitting on his favorite throne, comfortably fanned by slaves, caressing the new female he had recently acquired, and occasionally sipping from a golden goblet of wine. He enjoyed his godhood. He put that aside and chose action. Yes, it was time the boys grew up.

Oglut wished for his servants to appear, and shortly they did.

“I am moving to secure the empty godholds of Sassin and Ashala, to claim the slaves and resources that they abandoned. I need my chariots and guard ready. My sons will lead the campaigns.”

Then he called his sons.

Mutal arrived, young and eager with trappings worthy of himself. He had had his scales gilded and painted in handsome colors to resemble a mosaic. His garments had been woven of the finest cocoon strands and dyed regal purple. Behind him, dull-eyed Mrem servants carried his gilded weapons and armor on plush pillows. Buloth didn’t appear at once. He was big enough now to be a slight challenge. That was another issue for Oglut to address.

He waited for Buloth, who arrived with hints of incense and sage smoke. His costly blue and yellow raiment was askew. Had the boy been breathing dimweed again?

Oglut spoke to him first.

“I have decided to annex the lands left vacant by our departed neighbors, all the way to the coast of the New Sea. Once this is done, there will be a large godhold for you, so you need not wait for my demise.”

“Thank you, Father.” The boy, now grown, didn’t seem appreciative, but smug.

Oglut frowned. Perhaps Buloth did not understand the gift he was being offered. “Rather than you fight me for control, you can have a new holding, and larger than this one. Mutal,” he said, shifting his gaze and his power to the younger male, “you will have my holding, or a large part of it, what you can control, when I am too old to rule. If we expand further, it may be larger as well.”

“Thank you, Father. It is a great offer, but I wish you long life.” The younger one, at least, was sincere.

Oglut dismissed the comment with a wave. “Of course I will live long, but I am older than you. We will plan now to secure our new lands. I will have Buloth ready at the east with an army, to expand as far as possible along the new coast against the furry pests as the weather warms. Mutal, you will go south. Success awaits us. All we need to do is be ready for it.”

His sons smiled in approval, as did he. No backstabbing or mind-forced retirement as a helpless elder needed. They could have three large holdings now, and his sons would expand after he died. If one of them died in the process, it would just mean more for the other, and for himself.

Oglut was pleased. Some of his hatchlings would die. Those who survived would have lands of their own that would take them many seasons to secure. They would have no time to turn on him and try to claim their inheritance early. And by the time they were strong, he would be much stronger.

“By the end of this season you will all be lords of your own lands,” the Liskash finished.

No need to offer them his already stable holding. He hadn’t lived this long through trust. They could create their own. Their triumphs would reinforce his own borders and set them up as shields for his realm.

If the Mrem and their beasts showed up after things were secure, they’d just make useful slaves.

The massive hide tent that served as both the residence and command center for the clan was nearly full. None could twitch their tail without hitting another. There was a strong scent off the moist fur of the nervous Mrem as those Nrao Aveldt had summoned stood and sat inside, sheltered from a light rain. The two dozen Mrem waiting were of every size, color, and type. They seemed to have nothing in common; none carried himself like a warrior. But then that was the idea. Most appeared to wear the tools of merchants or tinkers. In reality they were the eyes and ears of the clan.

All were strangers to each other. Nrao Aveldt had never before called in so many of his scouts and spies at one time. Ears and tails twitched as the normally solitary and cautious Mrem watched each other with calculating eyes. None were armed, but all labored to keep their claws sheathed.

The clan’s spies usually sent messages in code, or brought reports back after a tour of merchanting or as envoy. Rarely did they report in person and always in private. Just being known to the other put them at risk. Nrao Aveldt had ordered them all in quickly when the full extent of the water’s rise became apparent, sending replacements with the call. Those Mrem were not as experienced as the existing spies, but this was how they learned. Those who survived. Nrao Aveldt and the clan needed every fact now, but still had to keep up their guard, even at a cost.

Also, Hress Rscil’s scouts were on a steady rotation, to map the New Sea and watch for migrations. Nothing but Liskash had lived in the very bottom of the Hot Depths, but the river courses were lush and fertile, to the point where they evaporated. With the flood, a few tribes had moved north, more south, an unknown number west, where they would be massively outnumbered by the Liskash.

Every eightday, he met with Hress Rscil and the incoming scouts personally, and received updates from his advisors. He would not move until he knew conditions were right, but then he’d strike like lightning to exploit the opportunity.

Today, he had both a spy from Afis’s domain to the west, north of the Liskash, and the scouts from the coast. He waited on Seer Ingo, while Nef sprawled on his bench and stropped his claws. Annoyed, Nrao reached out one of his own claws and dug it into the post between the boy’s. Nef flared his ears back, nodded and sat up.

“That is better,” Nrao Aveldt said. “Now, pour wine for the guests.”

“Yes, Father,” Nef Esnrao said. He might be young, but the trappings of courtesy came easily to him. He should make a good leader one day.

Refreshments and a casual atmosphere, Nrao Aveldt found, made information more forthcoming. Some rulers demanded strict formality and adherence to rank. He was first among them, and deserving of respect, without the need to be ego-fluffed. When all were served, he sat among them, his pupils spread wide to show friendliness and interest.

Sicht, the spy, wore well-made harness, as befitted his position as one of the trade ministers to Afis’s holding. He was comfortable enough with Mrem of status, and politely took a drink and a sweetened meat chew, pounded with honey and dried frusk. They were unhealthy, but delicious.

The two scouts were politely subordinate, but their smell and the proud set of their ears said they knew they were trusted to report honestly. Hril Aris and Flirsh Arst brought out their notes, and stood to consult with Seer Ingo. The old male unrolled his larger map, cut from the whole hide of a draft-bred arosh stretched out, and the three gathered to mark it. Nrao sat back enough to let them work, while watching.

Shortly, Ingo glanced up at him. “The flooding of the warm lands is causing more rains, and dampening the hills. They are green with growth. It has drowned many Liskash and those Mrem who were passing through.”

No Mrem chose to stay in what had been stale and hot lowlands. But through that desert had been the shortest route to the rich, open lands in the south. Nrao’s father had led the clan through, though not without losses to the heat-loving Liskash that thrived there.

The scout’s tail flipped with concern, flapping against two startled spies behind him. He seemed to not notice. “The water has come quickly enough that that great lords there are broken, but thousands of Liskash fled ahead of it. They can only reinforce those who were already trying to destroy us.”

Nrao Aveldt let the tip of his tail lash as well. “Obviously we must stop that before it commences.”

Hril, as senior scout, said, “The rise is measured in handspans a day, but it has spread over a huge area, and periodically inundates a depression with great force. Everywhere as it rises and the rains come the land is thick with muck because nothing has time to grow where once there was desert. The water slows, but still claims more land every day. Some days the waters are calm, then it suddenly rises quickly and pushes deeper inland, only to pull away again. But each time it remains over more land.”

The scout’s concern was obvious as he finished. “We searched every direction and route. Deep water blocks every path back to the lands of our ancestors. It would have taken days to run at the narrowest point. But there is no crossing the swirling sea that covers those routes now. To sleep near the water’s edge is dangerous. One scout who ventured too far out into what we thought were shallows was pulled away by powerful, hidden currents. No more clans will come to reinforce us: no one can cross. Those of us south of this new sea are alone.”

Nrao Aveldt had never seen a sea. He would have to correct that. He did understand there were plants that grew submerged, vicious reptiles in the depths, and even primitive animal-like things, fast but edible, near the shore. That was something else to explore. If they lived long enough to explore anything, the clan leader reminded himself, stroking a whisker.

Hress Rscil traced roads and paths on the broad parchment with the tip of a claw. Two disappeared into the new coastline. Three others were very close. All those routes north were broken. That particular bay would have a lot of shore traffic, if they could secure the area. If there were some way to cross it on water…but it was far too broad and stormy.

“Seer Ingo, what about crossing the water at some later time? Can boats be made larger?”

The sage tilted his head in assent. “With heavier timber, yes. We have none now. That might come from the hills as thicker forests grow.”

“I am not worried about it now, but after this campaign, I think it a worthy pursuit for our artificers to ponder.”

“Noted.”

Nef Esnrao, leaning over their shoulders, suddenly pricked up his ears eagerly.

“Father, what of caravans? Should we have more warriors along that route, against conflicts or bandits?”

Nrao was proud of that. “A good question, Nef Esnrao. Most insightful for your age. Hress Rscil?”

The talonmaster nodded and raised his ears. “The caravans can support each other in proximity, and I don’t foresee them fighting, although water could be an issue. But it’s not a bad idea to reinforce the garrison on Steep Slope. They can conduct escorts and patrols. Outpost Master Shlom is one I well trust.”

“Please. I will arrange supplies for you.”

Hress Rscil said, “But this is all temporary. All of us must move, and I concur on doing so soon. The later we wait, the more desperate we will be.” His ears showed his agitation.

“Soon, Hress Rscil. We must be prepared.”

By midday, Nrao Aveldt had updated his strategy and plans with the new information. He offered all parties a lunch of fresh roasted mottlecoat liver with salt and ground sharproot, and gave orders for following spy missions.

It was time to discuss stopping the Liskash mind threat.

The clan leader wondered how the Dancer could look graceful even just sitting. Cmeo Mrist was beautiful and moved with a deadly grace that entranced all males. Nrao Aveldt also reminded himself she was also the second most powerful Mrem in his lands. He wondered what she saw sitting there with even her slitted eyes still as she waited for him to speak.

“Cmeo Mrist, the spies bring me disturbing news. Oglut is the name of the Liskash godling in the east. From reports, he is powerful in his mind magic. He bound even Mrem warriors in the fight.”

She stared at him, subtle changes in posture and a twist of her tail showing she was attentive and clearly listening. He realized Dancers rarely engaged in the skirmishes that his warriors had faced as they moved south.

“Once a warrior is actively fighting with an opponent, he should be intent on the task and not susceptible to distraction. So it has been for generations. Oglut overcame that. My scouts saw him enter a battle against those fleeing the waters and bind the warriors to his mind. The Liskash then turned them against their own clan brothers,”

“I see.”

“That means we must bind them back. Priestess, what can we do?”

Cmeo Mrist sat back and stared at the panel behind him, her black pupils spread so wide they swallowed up the golden irises. He let her do so, realizing the meditation for what it was. He often stared while thinking himself. Hers, though, was much more intense, even to watch. She fingered the symbol around her neck and her eyes slackened, then focused sharply on nothing.

Nrao Aveldt sat still also, not wishing to disturb her. These things worked in their own time.

She blinked and said, “We must strengthen the Dance.”

“Very well. How so?”

“If we have more Dancers, and closer to the warriors, they can exert more power. Distance is very important. The power weakens quickly.”

“Closer, you say. That’s awkward, in a battle formation.” The clan leader twitched his ears.

She said, “Ideally we would need to be in the formation.”

That was a striking and uncomfortable suggestion. It made his fur bristle, and he wanted to forbid it at once.

However, he had to consider it fairly.

Mixed with warriors. It hadn’t been done. That could mean there was a good reason not to, or that it hadn’t been thought of.

He took a sip of his drink and said, “I will summon the talonmaster. Return in an eighthday.”

“Yes, Nrao Aveldt.” She bowed respectfully and left.

A messenger ran for the talonmaster, but it took time for him to clear the field and arrive. Nrao Aveldt used that time to consider. A central clearing in the formation for them? Several smaller ones?

Talonmaster Hress Rscil arrived shortly, his fur puffing in sections as the muscles underneath twitched. His face remained calm, but his body betrayed his tension.

“Welcome, Talonmaster,” Nrao Aveldt greeted him. “I want to explore the idea of putting the Dancers into the warrior formation.”

Hress Rscil fluffed and said, “Clan Leader Nrao Aveldt, have I given you cause to doubt my abilities?”

Nrao Aveldt hastened to reassure him. “Not in the slightest, Hress Rscil. I could find no finer warrior. This undertaking of mine seeks to provide you, and the greatest warriors of Mrem, with stronger shields against the Liskash. Do you have doubt in my abilities?” He asked it without rancor, but it was a test. Not of Hress Rscil’s loyalty, but of his willingness to argue against Nrao Aveldt.

“None. My concern is that battle is traditionally a male pursuit due to strength. Females fight well, but are better in defense. Also, Dancers will not be fighting. They will be Dancing. If we lose large numbers of Dancers-females-the entire steading suffers.”

Nrao Aveldt dipped his head in assent. “I agree with that assessment and its logic. However, by combining your strength with their resistance, and with a goodly support of wagon drivers, we can take and hold a deep piercement into Liskash territory. Desperate times may be ahead. Any tactic we can add that will forward our aim is worth exploring.”

“Then I propose we test it as we go, and use known, working tactics if it proves unsuccessful.”

Nrao Aveldt had that exact thought, but decided it made a good bargaining point.

“A sound idea. We will discuss this, Cmeo Mrist and you and I and others, in a few days. For now, I wish for both groups to become more familiar.”

Hress Rscil’s ears perked out and he twisted his mouth. “I will try. It’s an untested concept, and requires adjustment to our formations.”

“We will discuss it now, then,” Nrao Aveldt decided. “Hress Rscil, I offer you some grer.”

“Thank you, Nrao Aveldt. I accept.”

Nrao Aveldt sat patiently. Hress Rscil calmed down as he first gulped, then sipped the cool, tangy fermentation. A scribe stood back, waiting for attention, and the clan leader gestured for him to approach. The Mrem did so, and hesitantly proffered a bark tablet of provision accountings for the pending expedition. It was more than Nrao Aveldt had planned, but a reasonable amount. He marked it, and dipped a claw in ink to make it official, then handed it back.

Shortly, Cmeo Mrist returned.

“Greetings, Nrao Aveldt and Talonmaster Hress Rscil.”

“Priestess,” Hress Rscil said.

Nrao Aveldt nodded. ”Welcome, Cmeo Mrist. Hress Rscil has urgent matters to discuss on our plan, so I moved the meeting. I hope this is workable.”

“I will make it so,” she said. She curled into the bench opposite him and drew her feet up onto the seat. Her tail wrapped up around them.

“Good. This is a private meeting,” he said, and looked over at the recording scribe, who nodded, stood and left the hall. He looked at his son, who stood poised as if to depart, but he looked as though he would like to stay. “Yes, Nef Esnrao, you may remain. Remember this is a most secret meeting, not for discussion even with Ingo or your other teachers.”

Nef was so solemn and earnest that Nrao almost smiled.

“I understand. It is a matter of the steading.”

“It is.” He turned back to Cmeo Mrist and Hress Rscil. “I wish you both to be free to raise objections and offer input. My concern is that the plan work, not that my ego be assuaged.”

His advantage, of course, was that he meant it. He was hard to sway from a course, but did accept reason, and appreciated argument even if it distressed him.

There was silence for a moment, then Hress Rscil said, “Clan Leader, Priestess, with respect, this is what I find: My warriors are unused to the presence of females. This causes them to either loiter as near as possible to the females, hoping to attract their attention, or to cavort and exhibit, for the same. I fear that in battle they will uncontrollably lash out to prove their heroism, or gather around the females to protect them. This means they will not be fighting the enemy in a coordinated fashion. They’ll fight more like scaly Liskash, not like Mrem.”

His ruff was raised in agitation.

Calmly, Nrao Aveldt said, “I understand the problem and believe it. We must find a way around it. Cmeo Mrist, please explain your plan.”

Cmeo Mrist said, “I will assume we can resolve this problem.” She looked irritated, too, however, grasping her tail to stop it from twitching. “As I explained to you, by having the Dancers closer to the warriors, I believe we can provide a stronger protection against spells. This means we need some warriors to protect the unarmed Dancers. I thought it easiest for both to put the Dancers in the middle, surrounded by warriors.”

Hress Rscil said, “The logic is sound, but you are not a warrior, nor are you used to dealing with warriors, and the special mindset they need. It is one of brotherhood, not of a male for his family, or a potential family.”

Nrao Aveldt intended to ask, but Cmeo Mrist beat him.

“Then what do you recommend as a solution?”

Hress Rscil’s ears popped, but he calmed down and replied, “How close must you be? Would behind a rank of wagons be close enough?”

“It might,” she replied. “But my thought was to be close enough for the warriors to hear and be inspired by the chant. There’s more power in it. It’s hard for me to explain, but during practice, I can feel the power of it, and the closer, the stronger, and being part of it is of course so much more.”

Hress Rscil said, “It’s logical. There’s also the logic that warriors don’t do well that close to females.”

Cmeo Mrist cocked her head and her pupils narrowed. “Yet the Dancers don’t have this problem. Are you suggesting your warriors lack this discipline?”

Hress Rscil’s fur brushed up all over and his claws twitched.

Nrao Aveldt said, “Careful! This is a conference, not a challenge.” He eyed them both. Aside, he saw Nef wide-eyed in worry at the clash of wills. The boy was still for once.

Cmeo Mrist’s pupils spread out to normal. She said, “While I meant that to be provocative, the question remains. Are not the warriors disciplined enough to keep their positions?”

“What?” the talonmaster snarled.

Hress Rscil needed a moment to calm down, and Nrao Aveldt allowed it. He sipped his drink and waited, without indication of unease. It occurred to him that his own ability to choke down his instincts might be a large part of what made him so effective. He never rose to a challenge unless it suited his purposes, and ignored jabs and pokes that others dueled over. His neighbors slapped at him hoping for a reaction, but also afraid they might get one, and so kept their distance.

Hress Rscil drank his grer and shook his head. “It is not so simple as it sounds, Priestess. Yes, my warriors will take my orders, well and willingly. What I am describing is their nature to protect females, and to seek mates. This will cause them to shuffle in close to keep the females from harm, and to be aggressive, within the limits of their orders, but not at the ideal level, to show their bravery. Females encourage what is best in the male, but an army is not about one warrior, it is about the whole.”

“Fair enough,” she said. She turned a hand over, the picture of feminine grace. The clan leader understood well what the talonmaster’s concerns were. “Then the question remains, what can we do to make it work better?”

“I don’t know,” he said, with a toss of his ears. “Any concentration of females is going to cause this, I fear. This is why they are used in the defense, while the males campaign in the offense.”

Cmeo Mrist offered, “What about several concentrations, then? It’s not ideal for our trancing, but it might be done.”

Hress Rscil pondered, as did Nrao Aveldt. He didn’t understand the workings of magic, the Dancers, and trance. As a former talonmaster, he understood how to place warriors. This would be complicated. The idea was a sound one, but was implementation possible?

Hress Rscil finally spoke. “It is possible. I advise against it, because it means manipulating each element by itself, or requiring the warriors to manage greater details, and fallback plans if one should take more casualties than another.”

Nrao Aveldt said, for Cmeo Mrist’s benefit, “Yes, it is best they have only their fist of fellows to move and be concerned with.”

Cmeo Mrist drooped her ears and slumped. “That is all I can offer. We will do our best wherever you will have us, but closer is stronger.”

The talonmaster seemed genuinely unhappy to have won the debate. Nrao Aveldt appreciated that. So when the idea hit him, he felt sorry for what it would do to the poor Mrem’s mind.

“What then,” he said, “if we evenly disperse the Dancers?”

Both stared at him. Hress Rscil’s tail twitched. Cmeo Mrist arched her mouth and flexed her ears. They were both too surprised to respond.

He continued. “The original idea didn’t go far enough. Everything Talonmaster Hress Rscil says is true. But, if we mix the Dancers throughout, there’s no clustering, and the warriors can show their best mettle without pressing the formation.”

Hress Rscil said, “It might be the whole formation will surge forward. It also means the females will be exposed to attack, especially by thrown weapons. There will also be arguing for position.”

“Not from my Dancers,” Cmeo Mrist said tightly. “In this context, you must think not of females, but of Dancers. They are as necessary to the fight as warriors, and not all females, nor even more than a few, can serve thusly.”

“Necessary, but not necessarily on the battlefield!” Hress Rscil roared.

Nrao Aveldt held up his hands for calm and said, “No plan is without flaw. Can this be done? Does it solve more problems than it creates?”

Hress Rscil growled a sigh, and untensed his ears.

“It means a great deal of work, and drill, and instruction for the warriors.”

Nrao regarded him sincerely. “I can think of no one more capable, and worthy of the songs afterward, than you, Hress Rscil. Call your drillmasters. Cmeo Mrist, prepare the Dancers.”

“I shall, Nrao Aveldt.” Cmeo Mrist faced Hress Rscil fully and said, “It appears we will be working together.” She extended one claw.

Hress Rscil smiled, propped his ears up, and hooked her claw with his own.

“Thus are legends created,” he said.

Oglut supervised his sons’ preparations in the fenced field outside the keep. They had a tendency to loiter before acting. That was so animal. It was best to keep them a bit hungry, and a bit aggressive. He set Buloth’s forces against Mutal’s in a war game. The young males set up their battle lines for Oglut’s approval. Buloth needed to be ready first. His target was farther away, so Oglut concentrated upon his preparations.

“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 was 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.

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 sea 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 their 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.

The younger warriors used the large bronze tube hammer to set their stakes into the rampart, and the fist leaders followed along, each with their rope and thong, lashing them into a solid defense. The wagons, their wheels blocked, made a defensive inner circle. A large, frontal assault might still overwhelm the post, especially if the attacker was willing to trample his own warriors, but it would give enough time to mount and depart, or at least flee on foot. The wagons were left packed, and items only withdrawn as they became essential.

It was tough, panting work, and might have to be done several times, but it would leave them with a trail of defensible positions. All Nrao Aveldt’s group would have to do to augment it was drive their own stakes in the existing rampart.

That done, watches were set, well-hidden firepits dug for food, and latrines cut to drain downslope, rendering those areas even less approachable. If there was time, more earthworks and stakes might go in. It was not nearly as good as a stone castle, but stronger than the natural terrain.

Once done with that, they rested a day. Progress would be slow. Clan Leader Nrao Aveldt’s neighbors would laugh at this, as they had at many of his practices in the past. They’d prefer to rush headlong. Nrao and Rscil preferred to minimize risks. Those left in camp would be charged with reinforcing it daily until no longer needed, starting with more earth, then adding any rocks or timbers they found.

Buloth took great delight in the acquisition, or near-acquisition, of more slaves for his army. He was somewhat nervous, and fought not to let it show in front of his senior servants. Ahead were the Mrem escaping from the Hollow Lands, numbering some two hundred. He cautioned his lead slaves to restrain themselves, and they simply trudged over the landscape, like the mindless beasts all non-Liskash were. He prodded his drivers and beasts to move ahead, to give him range. He sat back in his padded seat aboard the trunklegs and patted his hands together in gleeful anticipation.

One hundred and ninety was his improved estimate. A little closer.

It was exciting. He could feel their minds, feel them becoming distinct entities, and knew they were unaware of him. They were beyond that next ridge. Some suggested they were on watch, but they were not atop it yet. He knew of them, they not of him. He grinned.

Suddenly it clarified in his mind, like melted sandglass. One hundred and eighty-eight exactly. Three of them approached the crest of the ridge. He continued to approach but focused on them. They were near the peak, he could feel their unease and then…he had them. He felt for the symbols, but could make nothing of their harsh, unorganized language. He pushed what he needed, though, and one of them turned and signaled below. Then they began back down.

A little while later, he felt the minds of the others in his circle. He stretched out, felt a mass shriek of panic and fear, then a huge swell as their minds fell under his. It was almost sexual, the warm flood of power and anguish, and then they were his. They could not withstand him. They must see their new master!

His beasts topped the ridge, he looked down on his new vassals. The dull eyes of the Mrem refugees stared up at him. It was not the welcome he would have liked, but he loved the sensation that all the creatures he could see belonged to him. With a casual hand, he suggested his army build its camp for the night around his new charges.

To drive home the point, he set the filthy furbags to work digging cesspits.

Buloth could feel his power growing day by day. It was a combination of practice and distance from his father. That made sense and also proved the need to set his own godhold a safe remove from Oglut’s domain. They could be allies. They could not be cohabitants. The weaker Liskash didn’t matter; he could control them if he wished, or ignore them to their peace. Only a few were worthy of godhood, though, and while they must mate to keep the lines pure, otherwise, distance was needed.

He’d been directed northerly, and there were allegedly Mrem that way. He wasn’t keen on north. North was cold, and hard on people. However, it was now a lot more moderate, and humid, than the previous time he’d been here with his father. It seemed to be true the weather was changing with the New Sea. He’d have to make sure to see it, after he secured a godhold. He’d have to go to it to assuage his curiosity, he thought wryly. Creatures would take his orders. The sea would not.

A few more gis of distance should be enough for now. That would put him beyond the Low Mountains, and create an easy border at a safe distance. He could always relocate his capital at a later date. The labor was free, after all.

He pondered the power his mind gave him, to take peripheral information from entire gis away, if one of his slaves saw something, and then to integrate it into his plans. The future belonged to Liskash.

It was at that moment that he saw a flash of a Mrem wagons, well within the borders of his godhold. Buloth growled and grew tense, and sought the source of the vision. There. That one, and through it he saw the filthy creatures had even constructed a crude fortification, of sticks and mud. Somewhat like ants they were, but far too clever for stupid beasts.

He flicked a finger in their direction. That excrescence would have to be dealt with at once.

He directed the slaves to abandon their digging and walk. If he was satisfied with their progress, they could eat tonight.

In a crack in a grassy hillside littered with fractured rocks, Hril Aris felt the vile punch of Buloth’s mind. He focused on the grass in front of him, absorbing its smell, its color, its springy coils, fighting to be one with the grass, not that mind. It worked. He wasn’t enslaved.

To his surprise he realized he had gained information from that brief but intrusive touch. He knew that mind was sending a large army toward them, based on something seen by a creature in thrall to it. That spy had to be one of the browsing pebbleskins they’d passed earlier, or even one of the leatherwings drifting overhead in lazy circles, may Aedonniss curse them. Given all that, it would be best to wait for dark for him and Flirsh Arst to move. The reptiles were not only slow and cold, they couldn’t see in darkness, either.

He gestured to Flirsh, and they both crawled deeper into the crevice to await the night.

It took all their training not to panic. Their fur fluffed in fear as well as for warmth, and they huddled like kits. Hril listened and felt the thud of footsteps. He lost count of the number of reptilians who came past, from little scavengers to herd beasts to adult, armed Liskash in singles and small groups. Even a trio of bedraggled, half-starved Mrem caught in the spell wandered not far enough away for comfort. He and Flirsh didn’t speak, but he knew they were both terrified of winding up just so-brainless, pitiable slaves of a scaled monster. He wasn’t sure if it would be better to rescue those Mrem or kill them in mercy. All he and Flirsh had were knives and hand axes, though, for food and shelter.

Eventually, dusk gave way to darkness. They eased themselves out of the crack in the rock, and he led the way, fur stiff and heart thrumming, in a low, silent slink between rocks and tufts, toward the distant fortification, which didn’t feel as safe now.

After a few hundredlengths of aching muscles and grueling fear, he deemed it safe to rise and walk erect. When he was sure there were no other creatures about, they ran.

Hress Rscil received two panting, dirty scouts, and served them bowls of water and a plate of soft meats at once. They guzzled and lapped the water, and smacked down the meat between comments.

Hril Aris said, “The Liskash approach, or at least their slaves. Too many reptiles to count. A trio of starven Mrem. Eights of small beasts, with that look of mindless focus.”

“How far away are they?”

While Hril Aris drank some more, Flirsh Arst said, “Over the next hills. They will arrive within two days, if they continue this way.”

“You didn’t feel the spell?”

Hril nodded. “We felt it. We avoided it by thinking like plants. It felt angry, focused. I believe he knows we are here. He intends conquest.”

Rscil flattened his ears.

“That was inevitable, but perhaps it’s a little early. Still, the world is what Aedonniss decrees. We will get to try our new tactics soon, it seems.”

It was then that a distant shout was relayed by a closer watch. “Liskash are sighted on the hill!”

The scouts rose, but Hress Rscil gestured for them to stay. “Drink, eat, sit a few breaths. Your bravery is needed again, but I would have you in best health.”

He turned and stepped out of the tent to give orders.

When Hress Rscil shouted “Form up!” Cmeo Mrist shivered in thrill and fear. This was it. They were going to test her belief that Aedonniss’ dance and chant would protect them from reptile mind magic. If she was wrong, they would all be filthy slaves of a filthy lizard. If she was correct, they only had to fight for their lives against them. She gathered her females together, waking a few from sleep.

Many of the Dancers were agitated, and their smell, fur and ears reflected that. A few even lashed their tails in fear.

“Hurry now!” she cajoled, urging them toward the sound of the talonmaster’s voice. “The warriors need us in place.” She didn’t say “Depending on us.” That seemed too heavy for the moment.

Warriors sprinted past her, with shields, javelins and swords, some with daggers and pouches, a handful with stiff leather visors against sun or stones. They fell into line surely, and with a few shuffles were in perfect formation. Despite eightdays of practice, the Dancers didn’t look nearly as neat or skilled. It was nerves. That, and perhaps Hress Rscil was right about the different ways males and females fought.

They looked it, too, with their fur and ears like that. A few warriors betrayed eagerness, or trembliness. The Dancers, though, were nervous or afraid. Cmeo Mrist had to stop that.

She waited for the initial orders from the drillmasters to echo down, then called out herself.

“Dancers, now is the time to be put your trust in Aedonniss and Assirra and the Dance. We are here to fight as warriors, to make the males even more powerful and sure. We act as their shield against the filthy mindrape of reptiles. Stand fast and ready.”

It wasn’t a bad speech, though not entirely what she’d wanted to say. Rscil had coached her carefully in how to phrase it so the warriors wouldn’t be offended. It increasingly was obvious to her that the warriors were rather sensitive Mrem, and needed constant reassurance. Still, they were expected to wade into battle and perhaps die. She would hold her tongue and phrase it to honor them, if it helped.

It did seem to work. The eldest and youngest Dancers steadied a bit, and that spread throughout the troupe. The eldest of them had some experience with violence, but the youngest had no grasp of it. In between were the many with enough knowledge to know fear, without the practice to handle it. Together, though, they had their years of training, and the eightdays of practice they had with the warriors. It might not be enough, but it would have to do. Cmeo Mrist nodded to Hress Rscil. They were ready.

He nodded back.

Buloth sat at the peak of the hill and looked below. He had an excellent vantage point of the entire valley. The terrain here was drier and coarser than farther south, due largely to this being out of the old cloud line before the New Sea. His godhold would end not far from here. Still, these filthy furred things were in his territory, and would never go away of their own accord. They were intruding now, from the desolate wastelands they spawned in.

He sat under the awning of a comfortable tent, with a bed stuffed with fluffpods and dressed in trunkleg hide, tanned to supple softness. He had a fine clusterberry wine, delicious shoots and tubers, and a delicate stew of some fast running bird his domestics had brought for him. Nothing could be finer, if he could only eliminate the rotten mammals.

It was amusing to see this stronghold of theirs, all mud and sticks and rocks. No carving, no hewn stone, no buttresses. They showed the sophistication of savages generations past, as he’d seen on a hill near his father’s capital, that had been a Liskash holding lost in the dawn of time. That was all this kind could aspire to.

Still, they might eventually learn to build, and that would be problematic. The time to eliminate a pest was when it was first found. That meant now.

He could see them frantically running around, and forming neat little squares. They really were like birds or insects in their simplicity, unable to work independently and lacking the mind to control others. He smiled faintly and pushed his army forward.

Upon boarding his chariot, Talonmaster Rscil first made sure his warriors were arrayed as they should be, then that the Dancers looked right, with Cmeo Mrist nodding approval from the ground. After that, he checked that those defending the followers on the redoubt were on the ramparts with arrows, stones and javelins, and the gates ready for instant blocking. Only then did he turn his gaze to acknowledge the enemy. It was a thought out policy, and it was also a visible display of his respect for his own and contempt for the scaly ones. He checked his own weapons by touch. He had a fistful of javelins, a heavier stabbing spear, and the bronze gripclaws he’d use up close, if any lizard survived to reach the chariot. It wasn’t wise to wish for that, but he’d enjoy it if it happened. In front of Gree was a box of heavy, weighted darts.

Up the hillside were creatures. He couldn’t tell precisely what type since they wore enveloping leather armor and helmets with spikes or crests, and clouds of dust surrounded them, but their arrangement made it clear they were organized, and therefore hostile. They were either Liskash or controlled by them.

He knew he had the best scouts because he was not surprised, knew the approximate terrain, and already had his warriors ranking up. Against that was foreign terrain with a much easier supply line for the enemy, but he’d maximized his chances.

Hress Rscil watched his warriors stand unmoving in formation, and the Dancers hold their now familiar places among them. The terrain was clear, but uneven, with rills, dunes and rises, occasional patches of scrub and a bare fistful of trees. As battlefields went, it was excellent. However, it would take maneuvering, and besides the usual unblooded warriors, there were the Dancers. He was concerned, but they could not be his first priority.

The talonmaster watched the attackers’ movements to determine their strategy. Quick was good. Planned was better. They were a loose formation, but steady at the low end of a charge as they advanced down the hill. Probably, they were at a brisk walk, and their weight and the slope pulled them forward. Loose, though, and not a proper square of ranks.

“At the pace, advance!” he ordered. Gree heard him, and tapped the chariot’s fast-running arogar into a trot. They were valuable beasts, and could speed him anywhere. These two were well-blooded and as experienced as any old soldiers.

Hress Rscil decided they might as well take the fight to the enemy. There was no advantage to waiting further, and he hoped to disrupt the obviously less well organized Liskash formation, if it could be called that. The enemy came forward in clumps and groups, but not in lines. He had to resist the urge to underestimate them, rabble but with twice the warriors he commanded. And if their lord was on the battlefield, all would be of one mind.

The talonmaster was concerned that some of the force he faced might be Mrem. There appeared to be some familiar shapes. They had fought a few of their own kind before. The enslaved Mrem all had shared the same expression of pain and horror. Most had also fought to the death. In a perfect world, Aedonniss would let those be captured alive in this battle. But to do that the clan would have to hold the field against a determined, often suicidal foe and have the time to subdue those Mrem controlled by the Liskash lord. Rscil sighed and flicked a claw. In this world, they would likely have to be killed. There would likely be no choice. His best and most veteran were in front, and some mixed among the rest. He trusted them to do what was necessary.

Still, it would not do to underestimate that force. More dust rose as they advanced, and they were on higher ground for now, coming down from the mountains. They would be motivated by whichever Liskash styled himself their “god.”

The Claw drillmasters kept up a steady, encouraging shout as they advanced, until Cmeo Mrist started her chant. In moments, the other Dancers voiced with her, and the thump of the claw’s drums soon matched those of the Dancers’ footbeats.

It was an inspiring sound. It looked…odd. Even after long practice, to see the Dancers twisting forward between paired ranks of warriors was disconcerting, and felt slightly wrong, and even unmasculine. Better than being enslaved in mid spear thrust, Rscil reminded himself. If it worked…

There were some slight ripples in the ranks as the enemy became visible. Liskash in plenty, some mounted on several eights of beasts, behind a charging wall of literal meat-herdbeasts including mottlecoats, pests, scavengers and some lupins, anything the ruling Liskash could stir up and control enough to drive forward. Yes, there were Mrem approaching too, with their body language and fur showing extreme distress. Poor creatures.

Behind them was a mass, not really a formation, of scaled Liskash. Most were spear armed. Many held round shields made of some sort of plant. The fighters stood a bit taller than the Mrem, with thick legs ending in splayed toes. Their scales were mottled, tending toward shades of gray, green, and tan. The Liskash warriors’ reptilian heads were long and ended in a long toothy mouth that on most sagged slightly open. Yellow and white teeth, sharp and longer than a claw, were visible even in the distance. Few of the Liskash wore any armor and fewer held swords. Those who rode were better equipped, carrying long lances with bronze points, backed up by two long, curved knives in leather belts.

Then the smell of the enemy mass hit him. The reeks of fear, anger, despair, anguish and the stench of unwashed bodies from enslaved Mrem and uncared-for animals all rushed up his nose. He winced, sneezed, and shook his head. The Liskash didn’t care about their slaves so their slaves did not care for themselves.

“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.”

“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.

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.

It was good that he did so. It helped keep the pace even. Stragglers would be at risk, though he did urge them to greater speed.

“Dancer, I saw you fight. This is but a walk. You are well up to it!” “Wright, you hammer bronze all day. Move that strength to your legs.” “Warrior, you don’t want to be late for the glory.”

They were in good spirits, just fatigued. A long march could do that. He kept up the encouragement and had Gree at the van slow their pace slightly. Faster was preferred, but arriving all together and fresh to fight was more pressing.

Before night, a message came from ahead. A watcher sprinted back through the lines of wagons, slowed for the approach, and came alongside Rscil.

“Talonmaster,” he said, “we have sign. Drag and trail of an army, and fresh filth marks of Liskash scouts.”

“Thank you, Arschi. I will note both and send all the scouts out.”

Indeed he would. This was almost the end.

Oglut was very, very annoyed. Mutal had been unable to secure the south against the remains of Ashala’s godholding. Several offspring warred for position, leaving the entire area a shambles of discord and starvation. It would take time to resolve, and would have to be rebuilt from the bottom. However, Mutal had marshaled his creatures and brought them back largely alive. His report indicated that much fighting went on between the new aspirants and the stray Mrem. That was something that should be left for now. They could kill each other until Oglut was ready to move on them.

It had not been a great campaign, but it hadn’t been the disaster that Buloth’s was. There were now reports from his distant eyes of two Mrem mobs near the New Sea, south of the hills and moving north. This was after the ridiculous behavior of moving west. The new environment was prime for reptiles, not the steaming, stinking furries. If he didn’t know better, it seemed as if they’d meant to conquer his territory, and now were fleeing north. There were tens of thousands of them.

If Buloth had done his job, at least one of those packs would be slaves, scattered savages or slaughtered now. Instead, there were two, and he’d have to deal with them personally. One son was a former incompetent and now corpse, the other competent but untrained.

What annoyed Oglut most was it was his own fault they lacked in such skills. Still, there’d been no way to trust them with that power until there was expansion room. Between the cool continent to the north swarming with mammalian vermin, and the two strong, warring factions to the south, there’d been nowhere to go. Now there was, but it was a mess.

He called for his beasts and handlers, and pushed the army and loose auxiliaries into movement. This would be an excessive slaughter.

Hress Rscil pushed the army on into the night. They grumbled and snarled under their breaths, but he could tell they were at least as excited about meeting with Nrao Aveldt’s force. That would make them stronger.

The original plan was for Hress Rscil to drive around the hills, north of Oglut’s city, drawing that army along. He’d have the advantage of speed and a good map they couldn’t know he had, and that would free Nrao Aveldt’s force, with the civilians, to move north unmolested. With river, sea and hills, they’d have all the terrain advantages.

Now, they had to guard Nrao Aveldt’s rear, and challenge the approaching Liskash. He hoped it would work. It had to. They still had terrain, and from scout reports, the Liskash were heading to meet them.

It was profound how this sea had changed the world. The filling of a ditch, albeit a large one, was destroying entire kingdoms not anywhere near the Hot Depths.

Shouts from ahead roused him from his musing. They’d run into the tail of Nrao’s army. Warriors sent up cheers and yelled greetings to their mates. Drillmasters had to shout them back into order, but they had smiles on their faces as well.

It took most of an eighthnight to actually find the clan leader. There were that many warriors, and Dancers, and wrights and drovers. Add in the dark and few lamps, and it was a chore. Eventually, though, he heard Nrao Aveldt’s gravelly voice nearby.

He called, “Clan Leader, I greet you.”

The golden-coated male turned suddenly, and a smile spread across his face.

“Talonmaster! Well done!”

Hress Rscil bowed his head as the failures of the last several eightdays rushed into his mind. “Not so well. We are forced to an alternate plan.”

Nrao Aveldt put a hand on his shoulder. “Still within our plans. I have your reports, but would share grer and hear first hand.”

“Certainly.”

It felt good to sit on a bench in Nrao Aveldt’s tented wagon. It was big enough for four to talk or one to sleep. The grer drove the damp and chill from Rscil with its fermented warmth. Nrao Aveldt waited patiently until he was ready to speak.

Comfortable, and with big slabs of fruit-laden dried fat at hand, Hress Rscil told his tale. Their body heat warmed the small tent, though the humidity clung to their fur.

Nrao Aveldt sipped his own drink. He was polite and attentive, and seemed eager for the upcoming fight. When Rscil finished his story, he spoke.

“I am pleased by this. You have found a tactic that will work well in this position, even better than we planned. The Dancers have proven their worth. We can beat the lizards’ mind magic and their army. I am sympathetic to the former slaves, but I agree they should be offered the chance to die bravely, or win through. It is the only way for them to be free.”

“Thank you.” Rscil replied.

“It is only days until this comes through.” Nrao Aveldt warned.

“Then a new home?” Hress Rscil hardly dared consider it, it was so far out of his plans. Nrao Aveldt understood. He smiled.

“Yes, then a new home, but I will need you behind until we are out of danger. Then you will build a fortress. Do you still prefer Outpost Master Shlom?”

“I do. He commands well without supervision, and I will leave seasoned drillmasters with him.” Hress Rscil assured Nrao Aveldt.

The clan leader’s throat hummed with approval. “Excellent. Our welcome in the north will be better if we leave a strong position here, I believe. Then let us rest and prepare for the fight.”

Nrao Aveldt stretched, shifted and curled again on his bench. He tilted his cup and drank thoughtfully.

“You do realize, Hress Rscil, that we could have left in small caravans and likely been unseen, most of us, spreading out across the north. We would sacrifice our steading, perhaps half the clan, and our past, but our bloodlines would continue. My son suggested it, in fact.”

Hress Rscil was uncomfortable with the idea.

“A bloodline is more than just blood,” he said.

“Yes, that is why it is only a desperate last plan. We must remain a people.” Nrao Aveldt emphasized his words by slapping the wood. He raised the crockery bottle for a refill as shouts came from outside. He placed it on the table and scooped up a javelin. Rscil followed suit, and both were outside in moments, with Nrao Aveldt’s guards and servants falling in around them.

There was a Liskash present, but only one, looking somewhat bruised and worse for wear. Two scouts held him by his scaly arms. He was greenish yellow, and well concealed in darkness.

Nrao Aveldt spoke at once to his talonmaster. “Do you have anyone who speaks their oily tongue?”

Rscil said drily, “I rather hoped one of your spies did.”

“They are busy elsewhere,” Nrao Aveldt said, without elaborating.

Rscil thought. “Then no, but wait.” Possibly…He turned to a scout. “Send for Trec, among my camp.”

Nrao Aveldt said, “Ah, one of the escapees you spoke of. Good.”

The Liskash didn’t fight, and his expression was creepily blank. No ears, no smile, little way to tell what they thought, if they thought. Though at least some of them built castles. He did seem to twitch whenever the grips on him were lightened, pondering escape.

“Hold him well,” Rscil said.

The warriors nodded and all but sat on the cold-skinned thing. He struggled a few beats, then seemed to accept his position.

Trec arrived in short order. Despite the long route and field rations, he looked fitter and fuller than he had when he’d dragged his worn self into their camp. That said much.

“Greetings, Trec. Are you skilled in the tongue of these creatures?”

“Talonmaster, and you are the lord?” he asked, turning that toward Nrao Aveldt.

“I am. I greet you, Trec. I will meet with you later.”

“Understood, lord,” he nodded and turned back. “Talonmaster, no one I known speaks language this. Do not the commoners project thoughts. They only hear, and not much.”

“That is unfortunate. I am reluctant to kill him in case he is expected. He may also prove useful to send a message back, as well, if we knew what to say.”

Trec said, “I can translate you thought hearably, I think.”

Clan Leader Nrao Aveldt didn’t want to think overly on that. The poor Mrem had had those disgusting creatures in his mind. That by itself helped color his response.

“Tell him this: ‘Go tell the slimy lizard we await him.’ ” He gestured, and the guards hauled the lizard upright.

Trec strained, gripping his head and shivering until he drooled. He sank slowly to his knees. Suddenly, though, the Liskash stiffened and recoiled, whipping around and reacting in horror, even while on the ground.

Trec stood and said, “I did my best.”

“For us?” It was harsh, but a valid question.

Trec nodded and took it like a Mrem. “I did, Talonmaster. My mind is breakable to rulers of they, but not here, and not of things like that.” He pointed at the now panicky Liskash.

The sentries looked to Talonmaster Rscil for assent and, receiving it, prodded the creature with the butt of a javelin. The Liskash trotted unsurely away, before increasing to a run into the damp, foggy darkness.

Rscil smiled and said, “Aedonniss and Assirra willing, we shall meet this Oglut in a day or so. For the first and last time.”

Nrao Aveldt said, “I hope that optimism is well-placed, Talonmaster.”

“It is. You will be impressed.”

The clan leader observed, “It’s near dawn. We may as well awake and on with it now.”

Rscil was exhausted, but concurred. The sooner they arrived on their chosen terrain, the sooner they’d be ready for battle.

The next day, they reached a wide, shallow river in a loamy plain, and Hril Aris assured them it was the one he and Flirsh Arst had observed. It flowed steadily over the rocks, and they certainly did look disturbed. They were wet, as the tide retreated.

“On this side we have a wall to stand against,” he said. “Across, we have a barrier against attack.”

Hress Rscil nodded. Though it was more than that.

“For half a day at a time, yes. It is as you describe.” Timing was critical, though. “We will bivouac here,” the talonmaster ordered. “I want stakes and pits.”

Then they’d await this creature who styled himself a god. In this terrain, they had a steep hill to east and lapping water to the west. With a river as a third side, they’d pin him down regardless of his meaningless slaves, and eliminate him.

Oglut was in his tent at a meal when his servants brought a messenger to him. The creature was worn, abraded and weak. He also seemed reluctant to speak.

“Out with it. I am in a hurry,” he said. The roasted trot bird was most tasty. He belched up its essence and inhaled it.

The Liskash trembled. “Great Oglut, the message is unpleasant.”

Tell me.

“The message was…speak to slimy reptile of our presence and impatience.”

Oglut grew cold. His entire body grew still from that comment. It has been a very long time since anyone had spoken to him thus.

The messenger cringed and huddled, awaiting a terrible backlash. Oglut stared down at him.

“I will not kill you,” he said. “That is the message. If the furry filth wish to meet me, they shall.” He ripped the location from the scout’s mind, enjoying his flail and gasp as his mind was violated. “I must go to the New Sea anyway. I will do so to drive their broken bodies into it.”

To his servants he said, “They are at the steep mountain creek, above what used to be the cataract. We go there now. Toss scraps to the slaves and get my carriage.”

He looked down at the nervous, hesitant creature before him.

“Stand. Get ready to march with me.”

One didn’t kill messengers. One could, however, move them to the front.

“They come!” was the call.

Talonmaster Rscil woke to it. He’d had a couple of eighths of rest at least. It would have to do. It was morning, but he’d been up most of the night, conducting his own reconnaissance, placing stakes to mark key points, and examining approaches.

“Form up!” he shouted as he sprang from his cot. He heard Nrao Aveldt shouting, and Cmeo Mrist, Gree, several other drillmasters calling out their orders in response.

Once out in the sun, he checked its position. If the chart the scouts had was correct, it was a full eighth and a quarter until the river filled. Behind them was a wide, muddy flat, strewn with rocks, deadwood and debris, with a shallow river splashing leg-deep down the middle. It was poor protection, though harder for the enemy to cross while under defensive fire. If the Liskash came down from the heights, though…

The scout Ingo’s report had detailed times based on the position of the moon, and a prediction of eventual depth. This narrow beach would soon be a shelf under the sea, probably within a month. The hardscrabble cliffs above and west would be the shore then.

The warriors were well-blooded, and all his Dancers too. Nrao Aveldt’s claws were somewhat less so, as they’d marched straight here. Between them, though, it should be fine, he told himself. They were side by side, filling the beach from cliff to water, as the drillmasters had been instructed. The line between them was apparent to him, but probably not to a reptile. It was a weak spot. One of several.

Several fists of scouts scurried up the cliff, to hold high ground against a flank. Nor had a force come around the mountains. South was the distant, dusty mass of a Liskash army, led by some godling or other, hopefully Oglut himself.

Whoever it was approached slowly. Rscil realized they might be standing a long time. Given that, he ordered, “Rest in place!” and indicated to the nearest drillmasters to give Mrem turns to relieve themselves, drink water, grab a chunk of meat, even if they weren’t hungry.

It was almost a stately advance, of a formal meeting. Except neither the Mrem nor Liskash cared about dignity or formalities with each other, only about killing the other as a threat.

Dust in the distance informed him that the enemy was close. Here they came, in the advance, moving to a faster walk. They were perhaps five hundredlengths from the south bank.

“Watch for leatherwings and attacks from the cliffs!” Rscil ordered.

It was none too soon. There were leatherwings all over. High above, the scouts shot arrows and slung stones at them, but the enraged beasts stooped and dove at them. That kept many away from the army on the ground, however the flocks seemed endless.

Several soared down the cliff and over his formation, only to be slashed by warriors and Dancers. They quickly gave up and retreated, cackling and cawing in pain. The warriors on the cliff kept up a barrage to speed them. Sending a prayer to their bravery, he turned back to the approaching Liskash.

“Steady!” the talonmaster commanded loudly, trying to sound assured, as a stampede of wild animals bore down on them, ahead of the approaching Liskash army. It was large, mostly lizard and all ugly, until the lead beasts piled into the narrow angled trenches they’d cut across the ground. Shrieking and stumbling, they piled up in a wreck of bodies and dust, flinging grass and debris. It was an abattoir of legendary scale, with the smallest animals racing through to be speared, the half-sized game lamed and injured in the pits, to be smashed under the hooves and claws of the tumbling, trumpeting wall of large meat.

If they survived this battle, the Mrem would all eat very well indeed.

Oglut seethed. These too-clever furballs did seek to challenge him. He gurgled gleefully as a soarer flung one of them from the rocks to dash to its death below. He sent them to gang up on the cliff-scaling creatures one at a time, if that’s what it took.

But ahead, madness. The stampeding animals were to smash this neat little box, crush the stinking beasts under claw and foot, and leave only scattered, panicked individuals for his army to finish off.

Some had made it through near the water. There, the Mrem slashed and fought, their proud formation broken into groups who could only prod at trunklegs with their bronze spears. Oglut had his mind and the trunklegs’ weight.

Farther inland, though, where those pits were, was a shambles of broken, screaming things. If he could kill them with thought he would, not from mercy, but to shut their wails. They were beyond distracting, they were painful.

However, the mammals numbered a few thousand, and he had tens of thousands. They cared for their lives; his slaves did not. All that was necessary was to advance past the blockade of dying meat, then charge. If they could be stuffed into the river, they could be drowned.

The beasts were actually in advance. He laughed to himself.

He would not fall for the tricks his worthless son fell for. For one thing, they couldn’t get past the crippled stampede or their own traps.

He gave his orders slowly and carefully.

Talonmaster Hress Rscil, now aboard a wagon, which was sturdier if slower than a chariot, studied and planned while the advancing army wove cautiously between and over dying, kicking beasts. That said all that was needed about this godling. Death and pain of others were tools for him, with no compassion at all.

But Aedonniss and Assirra had brought them here at this time. They guided their Mrem.

He raised his loudcone and shouted to Nrao Aveldt. “Now, as we agreed!” Then he raised it to his drillmasters. “Slow retreat!”

This wasn’t a fighting retreat. This was a maneuver for position. They maintained line and spacing, though it was awkward while stepping backward on rough ground.

It was unnerving to see thousands of Liskash moving cautiously, slowly, across the beaten ground, under the mesmerizing spell of their master. However, that made it clear it was Oglut they faced, not some lesser lord.

Next to him, Cmeo Mrist raised her cone and said simply, “Dancers, now!”

Their wailing, resonant song rose instantly to full volume, with a tight chatter of drums that resolved into a strong beat. The borrowed baghorners sounded off, punctuating and reinforcing the song.

Oglut gritted his teeth. First the shrieks of the beasts, now the wauling song of those cursed Mrem. Was it their death song? He hoped so. Even here, it hurt his mind, made concentration difficult. It must be horrible up close. A quick check into the mind of a forward warrior indicated it was so. Ugh.

His army made it through the obstacles, and had only a quarter gis to go reach them. Soon enough he’d hear them make other noises, ones no more pleasant, but much more enjoyable for him.

Now the fuzzy things changed direction and advanced again. Whatever they were doing, it wasn’t going to help them. With these gone at last, he’d solidify to the north and send Mutal south. It might be time to sire a new brood for the future.

He took a gulp of a good wine for fortification, rose up on his carriage’s dais, and ordered a charge. He’d follow right behind them to enjoy the view.

Talonmaster Hress Rscil had told Clan Leader Nrao Aveldt he would be surprised. Indeed he was.

The band advanced with precision, for these were not slaves. Each one was a willing, trained Mrem, their minds and actions linked in a joining that could only be called magic.

The Mrem kept the pace and the beat, in a steady, mesmerizing thump of left feet. The warriors advanced in identical, perfect pace, their rows as straight as an engineer’s string. In and among them, the Dancers moved in their own special way, arms punching and flailing at the air in unison, the motions rippling in waves from van to rear. Their unified chant inspired even at this distance. Under it all, the drone of the baghorns buzzed like angry bees, simultaneously adding to the power whilst distracting from anything else.

Those head tosses looked flamboyant and artistic, but meant each Dancer stared down the length of her row every two steps, and did not look long enough at the advancing Liskash to be distracted. For the warriors, the gyrating Dancers were visible peripherally, and gave them reference points for their own lines. It didn’t hurt that they were lithe females, either.

Ahead, the mass of Oglut’s army advanced. They came now in a solid but uncoordinated group, with a little forward swelling in the middle, a dip of less brave or driven to the sides, and a slight swelling at the flanks by those Liskash who almost hesitated. The narrowness of the new beach throttled them into a tighter bunch. They moved well, not hindering each other, and with some shuffling, the braver moved to the front.

The main concern was some flanking maneuver on the high ground to the east. Nrao Aveldt squinted up that way, his pupils narrowing to slits. The slingers, archers and javeliners had been tolled heavily by the leatherwings. He hoped enough remained, though the ground up there seemed inhospitable to most, strewn in boulders and clumps of stalky grass. A few stray beasts and a fistful of Liskash scrambled up, to be shot down. It was the far side of the battlefield, but not far enough.

A good battle was won before it was engaged, by having all avenues accounted for, and good position and movement. This was a good position. The fanning Liskash slipped down the bank and piled up again, sorting themselves out, but wet, muck-sheened and visibly frustrated.

There was always that fear, though, that it wasn’t enough. It only took a wobble in the front to create a gap that became a hole. How would this formation fare? Rscil reported very favorably, but Nrao Aveldt hadn’t seen it in person. Trust fought with insecurity. He gripped his own chariot rim. Oh, to be in the fight. But now as clan leader, he must defer to others. He led them all, not just the warriors. He had the sea flank, Rscil the hill flank. He’d rather they were reversed. The gooey ground underneath hindered the chariot. It might be best to dismount. With a nod to his drover he did so.

It worked well, so far. The warriors in the first two ranks seemed calm, collected, and held the best spacing he’d ever seen. They strode and strode. Diagonally behind them, the Dancers waved those short spears overhead and side to side, keeping a perfect line. Their motion was almost mind magic itself. It drew one in, commanded one to watch. There was good and bad in that, as the enemy approached rapidly, already across the river’s shallows and climbing the bank.

Then it was on.

A wave of leathery reptiles charged forward, swelled out against the Mrem, broke and tumbled and fell. In beautiful, glittering, musical balance, the warriors struck the incoming bodies and tossed them aside to the females. The Dancers’ spears twisted, flashed and resumed their shaking flutters. The scaled beasts thrashed and twitched, their bodies reluctant to release souls already dead.

Forward momentum stopped, each rank pulling up and trying to maintain spacing from the one in front. The ranks stacked up, but kept even for the most part.

With only minor ripples, the Mrem came to a stop and kept a solid, impenetrable front of shields and spears. The oncoming enemy could only advance and try to overwhelm them frontally, past broken bodies and across a pot-holed savanna.

The tactic worked. The reptiles and a handful of sad Mrem under godling control advanced again, as the cajoling demands in their minds fought with their fear. They were many, and directed, but not inspired. They arrived in a ringing clash, and fell in clattering heaps. The Mrem were many, and were inspired and each an eager, thoughtful self building a greater whole. No single death could stop them; were Nrao Aveldt or Hress Rscil to die, the battle would continue. As some few warriors and Dancers fell, others stepped forward. The formation was built of courage, discipline and art.

And magic. Oglut put forth his will. Nrao Aveldt could feel it, a mighty darkness clutching at his mind, his spirit. He shuddered himself, this far away, and watched in fear as a ripple swept through the combined band.

But that was all. A ripple, then nothing. The overwhelming force of a lizard who styled himself a god was no match for the proud minds of cooperating Mrem. His grasp for control evaporated. Then it slipped from those he already held. His entire army could be seen to hesitate, shiver, stop for a moment, then collapse on itself. Some few pressed half-livered attacks. Others cowered down where they stood, trembling in abandonment and fear. Most retreated from a walk to a panicked sprint, ebbing back in a softer, weaker wave than the attack.

The Mrem advanced slightly, but only slightly, holding the perfect dance, the perfect advance and moving forward in step on step across the plain. Hress Rscil shouted, as did the drillmasters. The energy, the power, the motion and sound of the Dance let the bristling spears add to the magic, and nothing Oglut had mattered.

It was time, though. To the west, the lapping waves built, and the gravelly loam between it and the Liskash narrowed quickly.

“Retreat,” Nrao Aveldt ordered the nearest drillmaster, and his flank began to withdraw. Others caught it, and the order flowed forward and through the mass. Hress Rscil nodded and shouted it. The other drillmasters echoed it, and the formation marched through itself, with the lead warriors now holding the face of the V.

It was a struggle to keep aligned as they backed across the river silt. Nrao Aveldt had never been so proud in his life.

Oglut felt a surge and a shift. That was odd. His power felt suddenly much greater. He seized it and pushed his will, urging all his slaves into the attack. He was sure he’d acquired a number of Nrao Aveldt’s warriors, who would sow chaos in that very pretty formation, and bring it to a boiling incoherence the rest could overswarm. His warriors and beasts hesitated, regrouped and charged.

It hit him too late what he’d felt. It was not the sudden gain of the attacking Mrem. It was the recovery of some of his slaves, who had actually broken from his mind. He cursed, and flogged them mentally, demanding they charge or face even greater agony. They slowed, but continued.

That was fine, even for the mindweak, because the Mrem were in retreat. They were pulling back across the river now, and lacked the heart and spleen to face his mind and his warriors. He would press now, then pursue. The muck and water would slow them. Their care for their skins would be their end.

Talonmaster Hress Rscil felt strangely calm, despite hot sun, sticky mud and the sun beating down on him. Then he sloshed into the river and felt chill. He sought gaps between pebbles with his feet. A fall now would be disastrous.

Even though their plan called for abandoning the carts and chariots, temporarily, his guts flopped as they did so. The drovers and javelin throwers dismounted and ran, to fall into the ranks where they could. Many did not make it to that relative safety.

Ahead, hundreds of soulless eyes stared at him from Oglut’s mind-ravished slaves. They took little care as they slid down the gullied bank, from tangled grass to sodden mud, then onto loose rocks. They crashed through the growth and over downed limbs, to splash into the water.

It was up to his waist now, and he looked around to monitor progress. It went well enough, but the lines grew ragged as bodies fought the current. The water was cool, though, and cleaned his fur. That probably wasn’t fair exchange for hindered movement. He was in a deeper, slower pool at the bottom of some cascades hissing above him. Others were ankle-deep in rocky, tickling shallows. Some were in rapids between the two.

The other problem became apparent. He cared about holding formation. The cursed Liskash didn’t. They high-stepped and waded and dove into the current, eager to reach the Mrem because the monster in their brains told them to. They threw themselves against javelins, to die and drag those into the water in their bodies.

“Darts!” the talonmaster shouted, and a flurry of bronze-tipped and weighted points arced from the front rank.

The water ran red downstream of him.

Then he was knocked under and felt a spear point tear past him, slicing his arm. Some of the Liskash had made it obliquely up the hill and across the rocks above. Rscil felt three or more, and he struck out with his spear, while clutching at his waist for his battle claws. Another jab missed, but he was still under and being held. His arm burned and his lungs started to.

The spear was jammed in the riverbed, so he could only use it for support, as cold water shoved at his nostrils and throat, sloshed in his ears and pulled at him. He got a fist in his battle claws, though, and raised them with a grin that he restrained just in time to avoid choking.

With a firm thrust and shove, he accomplished two things. He pushed his head above water, and he sliced the guts of his rightmost antagonist into tatters that leaked and bled in a boiling surge of color.

The talonmaster swung his battle claws gleefully around and watched for just a moment as a Liskash’s expressionless face shredded like a wind-ripped tent. The thing convulsed and thrashed and at last made a squealing sound as its feet kicked and it fell away. That freed Rscil’s spear, but he left it in the chest of the third, that clutched at it and drooled blood as Rscil swam downstream, spitting gory water.

Quickly, Rscil assessed. There were other melees in progress, as Oglut’s slaves tried to overwhelm them by sheer numbers. The live Liskash used the twitching dead as stepping stones, and seemed determined to catch every Mrem point they could.

It would work, Rscil realized. They’d run out soon enough, and then, regardless of claws and teeth, they’d be buried under revolting lizard flesh. He watched one catapult itself over its predecessors, clear a gap in the First where no one had any longarms left, to land amid the Dancers, who snarled and howled and ripped it apart with javelins and claws.

Three beats later the Dancers were back in formation, panting and glazed red, but singing and waving.

But a glance back showed that Claws Eight and Seven were scrambling up the north bank, reaching down to help the Dancers ahead of them. There were holes in the front, where the bravest had died, but Aedonniss-and especially Assirra-willing, the rest would get up that bank, and have high ground from which to stab the disgusting lizards.

We’ll be heading north soon enough, he told himself.

Then the talonmaster ordered, “Quick now, and even! Thrust and block! and thrust and block! and step! and thrust! and step! and thrust!” His arm hurt, but he ignored the pain. Almost everyone near him showed small wounds.

At least the nearest heard him over the din of dying Liskash, and swung their points in unison. It worked, creating a wall of bodies again that hindered the advance until the water dislodged some into the shifting ripples.

Then they were all on the silt and debris of the north bank. Sharp gravel had never felt so wonderful. The talonmaster pulled at the nearest warrior and Dancer, shouting, “Keep position! And keep dancing!”

He could hear left feet stomping as the retreating claw took back its position. Those farther back passed forward their spears, keeping their javelins for themselves.

Rscil hadn’t heard that roar before, but he knew what it meant.

“ Retreat at the double! ” he shouted. “ Retreat at the double! ”

He heard someone echo it before the sound was lost.

If they could only get up that slippery bank…

Oglut saw victory. A sheer wave of dispensable slaves, petty criminals and mindweak inferiors hurled themselves against the lead Mrem. They might hide it from his sons, but he saw that the front rank had all the stoutest and best. Beyond that were lesser-built males and even females. Crack that facade and the rest would flee.

They were moving faster, already, eager to retreat from him. They slipped and clambered backward up the bank, using their spears for support and traction. He had them, and now for the kill, and once he tasted their anguish, he would draw them into his fold and make them his. They would entertain him, clean the herd beasts, scrub latrines, all the lowest tasks.

He urged his trunklegs on, drawing his high-wheeled chariot, bedecked in its glittering silver and bluestone, in a bumpy ride down the bank and across the mud. It wasn’t dignified, but none would notice. With enough speed, the animals managed not to mire, though they did struggle. His wheels sank, but dragged and rolled, and then he was in the river, up high, looking down on the puny victims. A wounded one waved an arm before him, and he steered to crush it under the left wheel, feeling a rise and crunch as he ran over its ribs.

It was then another distraction on the left caught his attention. He glanced over, and froze in wonder. Was it magic? Some trick of a storm? But the sky was clear and blue, and a rushing wall of water roared toward him, brown with dirt and spitting froth and weeds.

Was their damnable god real?

The far flank disappeared under it, others turned to run even before he gave the order, and a handful of Mrem scrambled farther up the bank, as one slipped and submerged. He had no time to balance that small frisson with the searing hatred and disgust welling up inside. The water was easily twice his height as it rose over the chariot, tumbling him with it and bruising him with heavy river cobbles that smashed and burned. He sealed his nostrils and grasped for support, but the chariot was atop him, the trunklegs thrashing upside down and tangled as they drowned, and he knew he was to follow in moments. He recalled he’d wanted to see the New Sea. It had even come to him.

He pressed forth his will for his surviving slaves to fight in reckless, unending abandon, but knew it was pointless. Stupid creatures. Many had run from the far dry bank right into the path of this flood.

He felt them crying, panicking, dying, and a swell of elation from the cursed mammals, then the odd burning of water inside him.

After that, there was only the sighing of the waves.