“Fist Leaders, is this true of the other four?”
Nods and ears of assent said that was so. Fist Leader Braghi said, “This one, Cir, killed three and wounded two. We saw him turn and stopped him before he did more than inflict a scratch.” He held up his forearm. The bandage indicated it was somewhat more than a scratch.
Hress Rscil wanted to be diplomatic, and to encourage others to defect, mostly for the information they’d bring. A few more spears, wielded by half-starved, untrained drifters, whose minds were bent to a lizard, were not of much military consequence. He couldn’t have them near him, though.
“Trec, Cir, Gar, Hach, Leesh, stand and hear my ruling.”
The remaining four of them stepped, or rather, limped forward, and stood proudly. They were scared but determined, and would die like Mrem for their shame.
Hress Rscil said, “Your mind was not your own, and you fought to maintain it. I hold no charge against you. I will move you into the van, however, for your courage. At worst, you may earn an honorable death. At best, perhaps you will turn back to yourselves, and put this false godling beneath you. Until then, you will be guarded by others, with respect and in support.”
Trec spoke for them all. “We will honor in live or die, and thankee for mercy and wisdom.”
He nodded, flared his ears, and said, “Priestess Cmeo Mrist, is there anything that can be done to strengthen their minds?”
She spread her ears and said, “Perhaps. I will work with them.”
“Now I will publicly praise you and your Dancers for saving two eights and seven wounded warriors with your Dance through the battle.”
There was a snarling cheer.
She bowed with a smile, erect tail tip twitching. “Thank you, Talonmaster. It was a proud privilege for us.”
He went on to praise eight and six warriors who’d shown remarkable courage when reduced to a single rank without nearby flankers, fighting with the inspiration of Aedonniss and holding the line. Two had done so when Trec’s Mrem had attacked their fellows. He discreetly referred to “wounded in battle,” not “stabbed in the back.”
“That is all for now. I respect you all for your fight and magic, and you, our drivers and handlers for your tireless work. I must coordinate our withdrawal from this fort, though all things willing, we will return and garrison it, build it and declare it a town before long. All be sure you are prepared to move tonight.”
Cmeo Mrist caught up with him as he entered his tent.
“Talonmaster Hress Rscil, if I may ask, what did you see of the spell this time?”
With only a little reluctance, he said, “The chant and dance broke the spell. It does work.” He waved to the other bench.
“Yes,” she said as she sat.
“I noted that Trec and his cohorts were furthest from you, and ceased hostility as your Dance left the formation, surrounding them on all sides.”
“It does work,” she echoed him.
“You have no more Dancers to add, and we may face larger armies. How will you manage?”
“Stronger spells and louder songs,” Cmeo Mrist said. “Think of it as complement to your warrior shouts.”
“I see,” he said. He had an idea. “Would more music help?” Cmeo Mrist’s eyes widened with curiosity.
“It might. There are spells that incorporate layers of voice harmony, of horn.”
“We have used baghorns in battle. They are great for signaling.”
She brushed her whiskers and smiled. “I remember those from the route here. Why aren’t they used in battle? You could choose tunes for messages.”
That was a startling idea. Music was more about feel than thought, but of course Dancers felt things differently.
He clamped down on his interest in this shapely, brilliant female, and said, “I will add that to the long list of things to study, after we have won this war.”
“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.