In moments several impromptu fists formed up. The warriors might not be of the same fist, but they would make it work. Some moved to the edge of the embankment. Others prepared to defend the gate.
At the same time, a drillmaster took several other fists to the far side, and as other warriors were apprised, they filled in around the perimeter. A noise could be nothing, or a threat, or a feint.
A warrior awatch on the rampart gave signals. Past each side of the guard post a fist flowed through tunnels made for the purpose, and sought to envelope the gate.
Rscil watched the signs while seeking a spear himself. One of the warriors recognized him, stiffened silently, and offered his spear while drawing his claws. Rscil took the spear, twitched eyes and ears at him, and turned back.
Several warriors were atop the traps, prepared to block the zigzag entrance with tumbled rocks.
Rscil was talonmaster, but the sentry on the rampart was the Mrem in charge. It would be foolish to step into the middle. He watched and waited for a signal. A secret part of him hoped for a small scuffle in which he could be only a warrior. He missed that part of his life.
Then the sentry raised his hand for a hold, while gesturing with his javelin for a foray. The two fists in the tunnels scurried from sight. Beats later, they returned through the gateway, leading and surrounding eight and three prisoners.
They were Mrem. Scrawny, scraggly, unkempt, but Mrem, carrying Liskash-style spears and very crude rawhide harness. They stared around in nervousness and fear, tinged with a scent of despair and shame.
One of them acted as spokesman for the rest.
“We tank you of our rescue. I be Trec.”
The fist leader asked, “You were held by the Liskash?”
Trec nodded nervously. “Liskash, yes. Held in bond and contempt.”
“How did you escape?”
He opened his hands and gestured at the others. “At battle ending mind helding break. I gather we and walk, intent normal.”
“Are there others?”
“Might so. I hope.”
The fist leader said, “I must take this to Hress Rscil.”
“Hress Rscil will come to you,” the talonmaster said, coming into the open. “I am still a warrior, after all.”
The fist leader-Ghedri, if Hress Rscil remembered correctly, nodded in respect and stepped slightly aside. He addressed the newcomer.
“Trec, I am Hress Rscil. We move to conquer the Liskash, and occupy this territory.”
Trec looked wistful and sad.
“If we can only live to see that.”
Rscil knew what he was asking, and it fitted his needs to have insider information.
“You might. Will you serve under me, as we smash them?”
Trec looked him up and down. “How addressed you, leader?”
“I am titled Talonmaster.”
Trec extended his hands, palm down toward Hress Rscil.
“Hress Rscil, I accept as Talonmaster mine.”
The others held hands forward in agreement.
“I welcome you,” Hress Rscil said. “Mrem, see that they are fed lightly but often, clean water, help them bathe, and find them rest. We will march again tomorrow.”
He turned and walked back to his quarters.
On the whole, it had been a good day.
Buloth threw a copper pitcher at one of his senior attendants. The Liskash picked it up without a word and took it away with him. The young noble wasn’t happy at losing slaves. The stress of battle had to have done it; he was not as strong as his father yet. That was a good lesson for him. Not just the mind magic, but the ability to retain it in harsh conditions. That would come with practice. Today, he meant to get practice. His gold flecked eyes narrowed with determination. Those retreating Mrem would not find him so easy this time.
He wanted to pretend he wasn’t concerned about the escaped Mrem. He didn’t need to pretend. No one here was aware of it, nor concerned. He enjoyed this lone power. How would he manage that with mates and children? That would be something to think on later.
For now, he didn’t have to worry about the nasty creatures, and he found his mind focused sharper when it only had reptile brains to manipulate. They were cleaner, more advanced, less chaotic. He could control them better, and it felt as if he had more. That might be something to examine, too. If he could select the best, most tractable slaves, he could do more with them. The rest would have to be used for more menial tasks until they broke properly to his control, or be used where they could die heroic deaths for his greatness. Yes, he liked that notion.
There was much to explore here. First, though, he would flank and crush those nasty little vermin.
He selected a wine for his victory, and had his handserver put it aside.
He also decided Mrem did not taste good. No amount of seasoning made that gamy meat palatable.
Hress Rscil had doubts about his strategy. His warriors didn’t like retreating. He had new, untested weaklings, to be honest about it. He had most of the clan’s Dancers and warriors and their lives or independence to lose. There was no par, no gracious drawing of lines. Either he crushed the helpless slaves of this Buloth, and that creature himself, or he and all his people became mindless shit-handlers for the thing.
Still, it had worked once by accident. Hopefully it would work again by design.
The warriors were drawn up, with the eight and three new recruits mixed among them, and the Dancers. The warriors looked more concerned about the newcomers than they did about the Dancers. Rscil found that a relief.
This time Cmeo Mrist rode with him, with a spear to defend herself in need, and a loudcone like his own for directing her Dancers. All knew it would be a retreat. None yet knew the whole story on why.
It started as before, with a steady march toward the encroaching force that swarmed down the hill at a run.
This time, though, the clash did not cause the Dancers to snarl and panic. Many flinched or fluffed in aggression, but all kept their positions. The line held, and worked, and hordes of enslaved fighters fell squirming in reptilian death. It took so long for them to die. Eights of beats they’d thrash and twitch, long after their blood and their life had left them. Did they have no afterdeath to retreat to? Was that what kept them tied to the dead flesh? Was the mind magic grip that powerful?
He was almost distracted by those thoughts, but a javelin whipped past again, the bronze scarred from edge to edge combat, and bright as it missed his eye. He swore, and Gree galloped them closer to the line as a taunt to the enemy and a salute to his own. He would be closest during this retreat. Cmeo Mrist chittered slightly from nerves, but gripped the bound edge of the chariot and stayed still.
Then his divided attention returned to realize another mass of Liskash was spreading to flank them. Advance, retreat made no difference. There were thousands of them. Possibly an eight of thousands.
He raised his cone and shouted, “Drillmasters, divide the claws at the middle and retreat in two elements! Divide at the middle and retreat in two elements!”
The talonmaster burned and cringed inside. This was a complicated maneuver they’d never trained for, but it might give them enough frontage to save themselves. This was not to be a winning battle. He must just hope that the clan survived this one.
It worked to start with. Claws Five and Six, and Seven and Eight spread out to match the flanking forces. Three and Four split in two and clustered behind the lead ranks. The Dancers stepped aside, and then formed two shallow arcs that deepened into broad Vs. Once again, the slaughter started, a short backstep leaving clumps of twitching bodies for the attackers to maneuver around. That broke their advance and slowed them, and the Mrem butchered them as they came.