Talonmaster Rscil woke to it. He’d had a couple of eighths of rest at least. It would have to do. It was morning, but he’d been up most of the night, conducting his own reconnaissance, placing stakes to mark key points, and examining approaches.
“Form up!” he shouted as he sprang from his cot. He heard Nrao Aveldt shouting, and Cmeo Mrist, Gree, several other drillmasters calling out their orders in response.
Once out in the sun, he checked its position. If the chart the scouts had was correct, it was a full eighth and a quarter until the river filled. Behind them was a wide, muddy flat, strewn with rocks, deadwood and debris, with a shallow river splashing leg-deep down the middle. It was poor protection, though harder for the enemy to cross while under defensive fire. If the Liskash came down from the heights, though…
The scout Ingo’s report had detailed times based on the position of the moon, and a prediction of eventual depth. This narrow beach would soon be a shelf under the sea, probably within a month. The hardscrabble cliffs above and west would be the shore then.
The warriors were well-blooded, and all his Dancers too. Nrao Aveldt’s claws were somewhat less so, as they’d marched straight here. Between them, though, it should be fine, he told himself. They were side by side, filling the beach from cliff to water, as the drillmasters had been instructed. The line between them was apparent to him, but probably not to a reptile. It was a weak spot. One of several.
Several fists of scouts scurried up the cliff, to hold high ground against a flank. Nor had a force come around the mountains. South was the distant, dusty mass of a Liskash army, led by some godling or other, hopefully Oglut himself.
Whoever it was approached slowly. Rscil realized they might be standing a long time. Given that, he ordered, “Rest in place!” and indicated to the nearest drillmasters to give Mrem turns to relieve themselves, drink water, grab a chunk of meat, even if they weren’t hungry.
It was almost a stately advance, of a formal meeting. Except neither the Mrem nor Liskash cared about dignity or formalities with each other, only about killing the other as a threat.
Dust in the distance informed him that the enemy was close. Here they came, in the advance, moving to a faster walk. They were perhaps five hundredlengths from the south bank.
“Watch for leatherwings and attacks from the cliffs!” Rscil ordered.
It was none too soon. There were leatherwings all over. High above, the scouts shot arrows and slung stones at them, but the enraged beasts stooped and dove at them. That kept many away from the army on the ground, however the flocks seemed endless.
Several soared down the cliff and over his formation, only to be slashed by warriors and Dancers. They quickly gave up and retreated, cackling and cawing in pain. The warriors on the cliff kept up a barrage to speed them. Sending a prayer to their bravery, he turned back to the approaching Liskash.
“Steady!” the talonmaster commanded loudly, trying to sound assured, as a stampede of wild animals bore down on them, ahead of the approaching Liskash army. It was large, mostly lizard and all ugly, until the lead beasts piled into the narrow angled trenches they’d cut across the ground. Shrieking and stumbling, they piled up in a wreck of bodies and dust, flinging grass and debris. It was an abattoir of legendary scale, with the smallest animals racing through to be speared, the half-sized game lamed and injured in the pits, to be smashed under the hooves and claws of the tumbling, trumpeting wall of large meat.
If they survived this battle, the Mrem would all eat very well indeed.
Oglut seethed. These too-clever furballs did seek to challenge him. He gurgled gleefully as a soarer flung one of them from the rocks to dash to its death below. He sent them to gang up on the cliff-scaling creatures one at a time, if that’s what it took.
But ahead, madness. The stampeding animals were to smash this neat little box, crush the stinking beasts under claw and foot, and leave only scattered, panicked individuals for his army to finish off.
Some had made it through near the water. There, the Mrem slashed and fought, their proud formation broken into groups who could only prod at trunklegs with their bronze spears. Oglut had his mind and the trunklegs’ weight.
Farther inland, though, where those pits were, was a shambles of broken, screaming things. If he could kill them with thought he would, not from mercy, but to shut their wails. They were beyond distracting, they were painful.
However, the mammals numbered a few thousand, and he had tens of thousands. They cared for their lives; his slaves did not. All that was necessary was to advance past the blockade of dying meat, then charge. If they could be stuffed into the river, they could be drowned.
The beasts were actually in advance. He laughed to himself.
He would not fall for the tricks his worthless son fell for. For one thing, they couldn’t get past the crippled stampede or their own traps.
He gave his orders slowly and carefully.
Talonmaster Hress Rscil, now aboard a wagon, which was sturdier if slower than a chariot, studied and planned while the advancing army wove cautiously between and over dying, kicking beasts. That said all that was needed about this godling. Death and pain of others were tools for him, with no compassion at all.
But Aedonniss and Assirra had brought them here at this time. They guided their Mrem.
He raised his loudcone and shouted to Nrao Aveldt. “Now, as we agreed!” Then he raised it to his drillmasters. “Slow retreat!”
This wasn’t a fighting retreat. This was a maneuver for position. They maintained line and spacing, though it was awkward while stepping backward on rough ground.
It was unnerving to see thousands of Liskash moving cautiously, slowly, across the beaten ground, under the mesmerizing spell of their master. However, that made it clear it was Oglut they faced, not some lesser lord.
Next to him, Cmeo Mrist raised her cone and said simply, “Dancers, now!”
Their wailing, resonant song rose instantly to full volume, with a tight chatter of drums that resolved into a strong beat. The borrowed baghorners sounded off, punctuating and reinforcing the song.
Oglut gritted his teeth. First the shrieks of the beasts, now the wauling song of those cursed Mrem. Was it their death song? He hoped so. Even here, it hurt his mind, made concentration difficult. It must be horrible up close. A quick check into the mind of a forward warrior indicated it was so. Ugh.
His army made it through the obstacles, and had only a quarter gis to go reach them. Soon enough he’d hear them make other noises, ones no more pleasant, but much more enjoyable for him.
Now the fuzzy things changed direction and advanced again. Whatever they were doing, it wasn’t going to help them. With these gone at last, he’d solidify to the north and send Mutal south. It might be time to sire a new brood for the future.
He took a gulp of a good wine for fortification, rose up on his carriage’s dais, and ordered a charge. He’d follow right behind them to enjoy the view.
Talonmaster Hress Rscil had told Clan Leader Nrao Aveldt he would be surprised. Indeed he was.
The band advanced with precision, for these were not slaves. Each one was a willing, trained Mrem, their minds and actions linked in a joining that could only be called magic.
The Mrem kept the pace and the beat, in a steady, mesmerizing thump of left feet. The warriors advanced in identical, perfect pace, their rows as straight as an engineer’s string. In and among them, the Dancers moved in their own special way, arms punching and flailing at the air in unison, the motions rippling in waves from van to
