Cmeo Mrist chuckled and rumbled in her throat. Her eyes twinkled.
“This information is a lack of your warriors, and ironic being as we know so much of our neighbors and enemies.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Does any male ever understand a female? Or the reverse?”
“I understand you better than you think, Hress Rscil.” Her eyes bore a flash as she raised a gourd for a lap of water.
Her glint made him most delighted and uncomfortable at the same time.
To cover his confusion, he said, “I will see to the plans for these routes.”
As he left, he heard her growl a much louder chuckle.
Before dawn the next day, Hress Rscil looked over the warriors at morning gathering. Some were stolid, relaxed, attentive. Some were eager and itchy to start. A few looked disdainfully at, or away from, the Dancers who were clustered together at one side of the field. Everyone’s tail twitched with impatience.
Cmeo Mrist stood nearby, a bundle next to her. It was smaller but similar to his, with water gourds and dried meat for meals. She had a dagger and short javelin, to his full panoply.
“Today we march,” he shouted, and the drillmasters echoed him. “Follow me!”
He turned and picked up his bundle, then started at a brisk but steady pace toward one of the well-worn paths of the settlement. Cmeo Mrist matched him and fell alongside, with Senior Drillmaster Gree on the other side. The old, scarred clan drillmaster was just called Gree. No one knew his full name or even if Gree was his taken or given name. Rscil himself was unable to recall and anyone of lesser status knew better than to ask. Gree had counting beads, and a very reliable pace. He also had a very craggy face with claw scars and torn ears. He’d fought in many border raids. Cmeo Mrist looked like an unearthly being in comparison, glossy black, trim, dainty and graceful.
It was early and dark, cool and misty, but would be warm soon enough, from exercise and the sun. His chosen route was south, between several copses that led to the Great Desert, many days’ walk south. There had been forest here, until Mrem had harvested it for building, and to clear grazing land.
Nothing was said for a time. Gree kept count, shifting beads on the string. They were drilled copperstone, the rich blue that became ore when heated. Rscil shifted his pack slightly, to relieve pressure on his back. Cmeo Mrist kept pace well enough. She took more steps with shorter legs, but seemed unbothered by the exertion.
Behind, the lines of warriors and Dancers stepped off, with drums beating a time. The rearmost ranks had to wait in order to move. There were noises of shuffling and shifting, occasional curses from the drillmasters, but shortly, it evened out and they were all en route.
Gree counted aloud as he reached the first mark. “Seventy-six, seventy-seven, one hundred…” Then he resumed a barely audible mutter under his breath.
Hress Rscil said, “Gree can be trusted with all information. So, Cmeo Mrist, did you advise the Dancers on our plans?”
“Only as you did the warriors. A route march, with water.”
His ear twitched acknowledgement. “Very well. I hope it turns out as it should. Though I do wish Mrem had the endurance of arosh. Even a few thousandlengths is barely a morning’s work for them. It would last us all day.”
She said, “In exchange Aedonniss has given us our brains, and not as slaves to Liskash, but as individuals.”
“Indeed. Our tools are our strength.” He gestured slightly with the javelin he carried over his shoulder. It was cast and hammered, ground to a fine, gleaming edge, decorated with etchings and chiselings of praise to the sky god. He observed that hers was as well made, though it had not seen service.
It was a hot day, and dusty, with little wind. Despite that, Hress Rscil could smell the army. The whole didn’t smell too fatigued yet, and he could tell the females by their different scent. They managed. Behind, the arosh hauled light carts for any injured. Inevitably, someone would step in a rut, take sick from the sun, or otherwise need to be carried. The Liskash usually left casualties to crawl or die. Mrem made sure to recover them, both for practicality and in compassion.
Gree counted, “…seventy-six, seventy-seven, four hundred…” The tempo was perfect.
A while later, a thought struck Hress Rscil. He turned to his companion. “Cmeo Mrist, it seems to me that a good route march is a bit like a Dance. Ideally, every warrior should have the same stride, the same speed, and move in an even line.”
“A bit,” she said. She sounded a little breathy, but still fit. “This is another benefit of mixing the Dancers. We can help keep the time, with our drummers.” She signaled behind her to the female drummers at the head of the file of Dancers. They stopped playing their complicated rhythm of worship and changed to a rapid double-beat that matched the pace the marchers were keeping.
Hress Rscil found it lightened his step. “The drums are enticing. Once they are steady, I look forward to them and walk with them.”
“That is part of the magic,” she said. “The Dance, the drums, the chants, all reach the brain, and keep it focused and free from distractions and mind magic.”
She sounded somewhat winded now, as Gree reached a thousand paces. Hress Rscil used that as an opportunity to say, “We are two-thirds to our turnaround today. Yes, I will arrange for the drummers. Let us be quiet a time. I wish to listen to the army and hear for trouble.” Quiet would also save breath.
They strode on, Cmeo Mrist occasionally quickening to catch up. She didn’t fall behind, but she did have to work at it. Rscil made a point not to slow his pace. His warriors knew how he moved, and this was to prove a point.
When Gree counted one thousand five hundred lengths, Hress Rscil stopped and raised his arm. He turned, shouted, “Circle and rest!”
It was obvious the Dancers hadn’t seen this maneuver before. Some warriors broke out of ranks, formed eight points with spears jabbed into the ground, and the rest swarmed through brush and behind rocks looking for threats. In beats only, the area was secure, with watchpoints on a few rises to supplement the defensive positions, and a clutch of small lizards, rodents and eggs piled next to a fire lay and ready for Hress Rscil’s orders.
“In rotation, eat and rest!” he shouted.
One of the drillmasters struck a fire plunger, coaxed out the tinder, and blew it under the lay. The fire caught, and there was a frenzy of skinning, skewering and placing of meat for a quick roast. Someone placed a pot to boil leaves, and the groomer-surgeons dropped tools into another pot to boil clean. There were some blisters and small lacerations to attend to, male and female both.
Across the warm, hummocky field, that scene repeated with other groups, each of eight fists. The Dancers watched with growing admiration. Rscil was pleased.
Satisfied, he sat himself, on his pack. Gree was already comfortably squatting, and Cmeo Mrist cautiously stretched out on a blanket. She stretched the pads of her feet to ease them.
“They will take turns on watch and eating, then?” she said.
“Yes, with a few mouthfuls of fresh meat to improve this harness leather,” he said, holding up a flat, translucent piece of dried mottlecoat meat.
She tightened her face and flattened her ears. “Are some of them eating…those?” The plants the warriors were chewing on looked like weeds, unappetizing weeds at that. The brown seed packets looked very different from the rich crops Mrem raised in more peaceful times.
“Emergency training. Some seed pods contain enough substance to keep one alive a few days. The spies and scouts practice that in case they have to escape without supplies.”
“I see. It just seems so unappetizing.”