A drillmaster shouted, “Step aside!” and the Dancers gathered in pairs, leaving gaps for supporting warriors to use. It was also hoped this would be their default movement if agitated, with enough practice.
Gree took over, ordering, “Advance!” and the supports flowed through the Dancers, who resumed their normal spacing.
“Retreat!” “Flank right!” “Flank left!” “Envelope!”
Rscil watched with satisfaction tempered by caution. They knew the moves, and with better relay through the fist leaders, the orders propagated across the field in heartbeats. It was going much better since they understood the faults of the first attempt.
Cmeo Mrist said, “I am more confident, now that they’ve seen battle.”
“Only a little,” he said. “I wonder what will happen the first time one dies.”
The Dancer hesitated. Her lovely eyes turned sad. “I don’t know.”
“Pardon me if I seem brusque. There’s some increase in resentment, given that the Dancers were in some part a hindrance, while suffering no harm. Even the benefit of spells is hard for a warrior to grasp and see.”
“I understand,” she replied. “How did the retreat go? It seemed to me to be orderly.”
“Surprisingly so. The Dancers moved well enough, and the warriors were busy focusing on line and fighting.”
“I felt the Liskash was happy with it. We retreated from him. It built his ego.”
He felt rage fill him as it had not at the end of the battle. “Is this something you see as a positive?” he snapped. “Because I don’t feel the benefit.”
Cmeo Mrist laid a long, very soft paw on his arm. “Please bear with me for a moment, Hress Rscil. I need information.”
“Go on,” he prompted, corralling his temper.
“How did our casualties do in retreat?”
“If I understand your question, we gave a lot more than we took, but there was very little succor for those we had to leave.”
“Would a further advance have meant more?”
“For us? Yes. For the enemy? It’s hard to say. Cursed Liskash don’t retreat as they should, and killing them seems to only lead to more of them.”
“What if we planned to retreat?”
He flared his nose, ears and eyes at that, then considered the question as a matter of strategy.
“I think I see,” he said. “We face off, take a smash, fight an orderly retreat killing as many as we can. We stay cohesive, and the scaly godling believes he is doing well.”
Cmeo Mrist’s eyes danced eagerly. “Could we repeat it?”
Rscil considered. “Possibly. If we could fake an actual panic…”
“How often must we do it, or can we do it, to even the odds?”
It shook him from his pondering. He took a breath of the rich, fresh air and remembered the story he had heard.
“Oh, that. That’s not the goal. The goal is to get near the godling and kill him, which destroys the entire army’s will to fight. Our task is to protect the clan as they move along the shore. We will all meet up in good time.”
“Does that mean a concerted thrust?”
He tensed and felt his fur fluff. “There is a specific plan for that, but it is not for sharing. I require that you not try to read it from me.” He bristled his whiskers and hoped she’d comply. Now was not the time for any such intimacy.
“I understand your caution. Of course I would do no such thing.” Rscil chided himself for not trusting her. She was diplomatic, and honest, and a fine companion.
He said, “So let us continue to improve the legend.”
Upon next daybreak, the warriors were in much better spirits, and slivers of sweetened dried fat for breakfast boosted their morale. They’d worked hard in attack formation, and been praised.
That changed when drill started. The first few practice retreats were accepted and went well. Obviously, it was important to be able to disengage.
However, with each iteration, the fidgeting and fluffing of fur increased.
Between the fourth and fifth, one of the drillmasters, Chach, approached the chariot, sought assent, then came close.
“Talonmaster, with respect, when will we return to practicing attack? The warriors feel they are being punished.”
He shook his head firmly. “No punishment, Chach. We will practice attack shortly. The Dancers need more drill than the warriors to ensure things work. At least one retreat is likely, and significantly important if we are to save our fellows. Attack will follow. We need an orderly retreat, and we can fight as we do so.”
“Mrem warriors are not much for retreating, Talonmaster.”
Hress Rscil acknowledged his warrior’s brave soul. “We do when we must, and we do so well. In this case, think of it as a planned strategy to bring us more lizardlings to kill. We will kill as we advance, and again as we retreat.”
The Mrem grinned, and reached to flick his whiskers. “That I like. I don’t like, and can tell you the warriors don’t, having to leave wounded fellows behind.”
Rscil nodded. “It is a terrible burden. However, we lost fewer in retreat than in advance, and less than in a prolonged clash. Remember, our enemy is the godling. His slaves are nothing without him, and merely obstacles.”
“It’s a hard idea, Talonmaster, but a bold one, in its twisted, backwards way.”
“You may spread the word that I am confident in our ability to attack, but want to make our retreats equally painful to the scaly pests, who are twisted and backward themselves.”
“Thank you, Talonmaster. I shall.” He nodded in respect and strode away.
Rscil kept the exasperation from his ears. He didn’t care for it either, but it had to be done. As they moved north, they’d certainly be attacked from behind.
The warriors were most disgruntled at the idea, even in acceptance. Rscil, with plain harness, loitered upwind of a fist campfire that night. An honest appraisal of one’s support was necessary.
Someone grumbled, “I don’t care if it does inflict casualties. Retreating is just unMremly. Do we retreat the whole way north, guiding them with us, leaving our fellows in a trail for the rest to follow?”
Another replied, “We’ll advance as well. We just have to draw the damned things out. Remember they have no endurance.”
“They have numbers. We should be striking through their mass like a spear, to destroy this godling.”
“Well, Talonmaster, why don’t you tell us how it’s done?”
“Hish,” the second Mrem said dismissively. “I don’t need to be a talonmaster to know that hurting enslaved lizard things won’t win this. Poor, disgusting bastards. Lesser animals and not even the dignity of being themselves.”
Yet a third offered, “Well, honestly, I don’t like it much either. It’ll be a sad day if our proud claim is that we retreat better than anyone. But if we win that way, I suppose eventually that will be the respected thing to do. At least when fighting Liskash.”
An older, raspier voice said, “It’s like that always. My mentors lamented the loss of individual bravery into this cohesion, but we beat everyone with it. Theirs lamented the longer-ranged javelins as cowardly, and detested slings. Styles change and advance.”
“But do you like it, Frowl?”
“No, I don’t. But while I’m fist leader, we’ll do as the drills and the talonmaster say, and do it well. Forget that we’re retreating. Just plan on being the smoothest, neatest, proudest fist, with the highest pile of lizard bodies.”
“Urrr, I guess a pile of dead lizards rather proves the point.”
Rscil smiled. A snarling warrior was a happy warrior, and would do as he was ordered. As the old timer had said, this wouldn’t be possible with the styles of Nrao Aveldt’s grandfather.
At two other fires in other areas, the grumbling was the same. The warriors didn’t like it, but they’d do it.
As he returned to his tent for another late night council, there was a hissed alert from a sentry.
In moments, warriors rose, clutched whichever weapons were closest, and dropped low to spring lightly on all fours. They moved quietly, more so than untrained people in daylight. Seasoned warriors, good warriors. Rscil was proud of them.