“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.
