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.”
