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.
