His only recourse at this point was to retreat home and beg for reinforcements, and ask for advice on his failure.
He might not be ready to be a god yet. It hurt his ego, but he was a realist, as Liskash were.
He let the servants strike the pavilion and the banners, douse the fire and pack the wagons. He would ride home proudly but without fanfare, and ask Father to help him fix it.
Buloth reported in his best manner. Father sat on his carved and padded throne, listening in annoyance.
“Father, as I noted, I enslaved a hundred and eighty-eight Mrem, and pushed two strong attacks-”
“And botched them disgracefully,” his father said vocally.
Buloth swallowed. That was not a good sign.
“I tried my best, but I need more counsel,” he said, diplomatically, and willed himself to present that way in mind.
Father snorted and took a swallow of wine. “More counsel? You need more intelligence. Unbound animals outfought you.”
“They did not bind. I tried surely. The ones I had bound also broke.” He kept it as factual as possible, but he was afraid it sounded insufficient.
Clearly your mind is not strong enough, came the reply.
It is, he said. I felt them, counted them, even turned some traitors back once amongst the enemy. There was interference. Their priestesses…
Priestesses? his father roared. Animals don’t have religion. They have superstition at best.
As you wish, but that is how they presented.
Buloth knew it was fruitless. Father would not believe until he felt himself, which hopefully wouldn’t happen, as it would mean Mrem here, in the stronghold. But Father was not finished.
You have wasted my slaves, shamed me in front of the world, and made it necessary that I now do your job myself. Your younger brother will take my place. He has proven worthy.
Buloth had earned his father’s scorn. I abase myself, Father.
You’ll do more than that.
He felt a warm little trickle, then a crushing weight.
Buloth gasped and spasmed, fell to the ground and described a running circle with his feet as his own hindmind crushed his heart.
The last thing he heard was his father’s voice.
“Even a son has a price in slaves.”
Hress Rscil felt vindicated. He’d pushed hard for them to move north and east, then east along the side of the hills. Ahead, the setting sun reflected off the New Sea and turned the water crimson. That was all anyone talked of, once it came into view. It also kept them moving, too excited to want breaks. He insisted, though. Rest was necessary for good health. They might be in unending battle soon enough.
They camped on a hummock, with a hasty berm reinforced with stakes they’d hewn en route. Those had taken the last four days to gather, with the scrubby trees hereabouts. Hunting parties brought in some game to stretch their salted and dried rations. There were even some tubers that worked adequately in stew, if there was enough frusk and other fruit to cover it.
They could smell the New Sea, and hear faint rushes of water. At first it was disturbing, but quickly it became familiar and relaxing. The smell was of muck and rich earth, and some musty mold. This would be productive land.
The next morning they were afoot, moving quickly and eagerly to this New Sea, larger than any lake. At midday they reached it. Even seasoned veterans halted in wonder at the sight. Hress Rscil was as awed as the others.
Gree said, trying not to sound too eager, “Talonmaster, I propose we allow a rest and play time.”
Rscil grinned at him. “I agree. In shifts of three, an eighthday each.” Not that he didn’t think it was a fun idea himself, but he recognized it would be a distraction until they all got it out of their systems.
Then they’d move north, and try this most bold of tactics, based only on information from scouts. This was a new way of war, and he wondered how it would be fought generations hence.
Cmeo Mrist was very beautiful, erupting wet and slick from the water, her glossy black fur clinging to her form. He looked away to avoid being distracted. Perhaps after this campaign he could consider a mate, but could any female compare with one as brave and intelligent as she?
The water was turbid and lukewarm, like runoff from a camp station for watering beasts, not at all refreshing. Bits of plant floated in it, and bubbles of deep decay rose occasionally. It was shallow, except where it dropped off suddenly, this being a plain at the edge of the hills, with the former Hot Depths east and below. It took only a short time for the polish to wear off for Rscil.
He formed them back up, and had the scouts and watchers move out to clear the way. They still had a long way to go on this new route, and at least one legendary battle.
There was surprisingly little grumbling, and the break seemed to have refreshed the Mrem, as well as inspired them, with this mucky, bitter water that lapped at the land. In short order, they were moving north. He studied the narrow but obvious tidal flat. How did one decide where the land ended and sea began? Especially with the sea changing?
Rscil walked, though he could ride. Occasionally he’d mount chariot and patrol around the army, to offer encouragement. Then he’d dismount to walk again. It saved the beasts, and let every Mrem know he walked with them, not above them.
It was good that he did so. It helped keep the pace even. Stragglers would be at risk, though he did urge them to greater speed.
“Dancer, I saw you fight. This is but a walk. You are well up to it!” “Wright, you hammer bronze all day. Move that strength to your legs.” “Warrior, you don’t want to be late for the glory.”
They were in good spirits, just fatigued. A long march could do that. He kept up the encouragement and had Gree at the van slow their pace slightly. Faster was preferred, but arriving all together and fresh to fight was more pressing.
Before night, a message came from ahead. A watcher sprinted back through the lines of wagons, slowed for the approach, and came alongside Rscil.
“Talonmaster,” he said, “we have sign. Drag and trail of an army, and fresh filth marks of Liskash scouts.”
“Thank you, Arschi. I will note both and send all the scouts out.”
Indeed he would. This was almost the end.
Oglut was very, very annoyed. Mutal had been unable to secure the south against the remains of Ashala’s godholding. Several offspring warred for position, leaving the entire area a shambles of discord and starvation. It would take time to resolve, and would have to be rebuilt from the bottom. However, Mutal had marshaled his creatures and brought them back largely alive. His report indicated that much fighting went on between the new aspirants and the stray Mrem. That was something that should be left for now. They could kill each other until Oglut was ready to move on them.
It had not been a great campaign, but it hadn’t been the disaster that Buloth’s was. There were now reports from his distant eyes of two Mrem mobs near the New Sea, south of the hills and moving north. This was after the ridiculous behavior of moving west. The new environment was prime for reptiles, not the steaming, stinking furries. If he didn’t know better, it seemed as if they’d meant to conquer his territory, and now were fleeing north. There were tens of thousands of them.
If Buloth had done his job, at least one of those packs would be slaves, scattered savages or slaughtered now. Instead, there were two, and he’d have to deal with them personally. One son was a former incompetent and now corpse, the other competent but untrained.