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
