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.
