But Aedonniss and Assirra had brought them here at this time. They guided their Mrem.
He raised his loudcone and shouted to Nrao Aveldt. “Now, as we agreed!” Then he raised it to his drillmasters. “Slow retreat!”
This wasn’t a fighting retreat. This was a maneuver for position. They maintained line and spacing, though it was awkward while stepping backward on rough ground.
It was unnerving to see thousands of Liskash moving cautiously, slowly, across the beaten ground, under the mesmerizing spell of their master. However, that made it clear it was Oglut they faced, not some lesser lord.
Next to him, Cmeo Mrist raised her cone and said simply, “Dancers, now!”
Their wailing, resonant song rose instantly to full volume, with a tight chatter of drums that resolved into a strong beat. The borrowed baghorners sounded off, punctuating and reinforcing the song.
Oglut gritted his teeth. First the shrieks of the beasts, now the wauling song of those cursed Mrem. Was it their death song? He hoped so. Even here, it hurt his mind, made concentration difficult. It must be horrible up close. A quick check into the mind of a forward warrior indicated it was so. Ugh.
His army made it through the obstacles, and had only a quarter gis to go reach them. Soon enough he’d hear them make other noises, ones no more pleasant, but much more enjoyable for him.
Now the fuzzy things changed direction and advanced again. Whatever they were doing, it wasn’t going to help them. With these gone at last, he’d solidify to the north and send Mutal south. It might be time to sire a new brood for the future.
He took a gulp of a good wine for fortification, rose up on his carriage’s dais, and ordered a charge. He’d follow right behind them to enjoy the view.
Talonmaster Hress Rscil had told Clan Leader Nrao Aveldt he would be surprised. Indeed he was.
The band advanced with precision, for these were not slaves. Each one was a willing, trained Mrem, their minds and actions linked in a joining that could only be called magic.
The Mrem kept the pace and the beat, in a steady, mesmerizing thump of left feet. The warriors advanced in identical, perfect pace, their rows as straight as an engineer’s string. In and among them, the Dancers moved in their own special way, arms punching and flailing at the air in unison, the motions rippling in waves from van to rear. Their unified chant inspired even at this distance. Under it all, the drone of the baghorns buzzed like angry bees, simultaneously adding to the power whilst distracting from anything else.
Those head tosses looked flamboyant and artistic, but meant each Dancer stared down the length of her row every two steps, and did not look long enough at the advancing Liskash to be distracted. For the warriors, the gyrating Dancers were visible peripherally, and gave them reference points for their own lines. It didn’t hurt that they were lithe females, either.
Ahead, the mass of Oglut’s army advanced. They came now in a solid but uncoordinated group, with a little forward swelling in the middle, a dip of less brave or driven to the sides, and a slight swelling at the flanks by those Liskash who almost hesitated. The narrowness of the new beach throttled them into a tighter bunch. They moved well, not hindering each other, and with some shuffling, the braver moved to the front.
The main concern was some flanking maneuver on the high ground to the east. Nrao Aveldt squinted up that way, his pupils narrowing to slits. The slingers, archers and javeliners had been tolled heavily by the leatherwings. He hoped enough remained, though the ground up there seemed inhospitable to most, strewn in boulders and clumps of stalky grass. A few stray beasts and a fistful of Liskash scrambled up, to be shot down. It was the far side of the battlefield, but not far enough.
A good battle was won before it was engaged, by having all avenues accounted for, and good position and movement. This was a good position. The fanning Liskash slipped down the bank and piled up again, sorting themselves out, but wet, muck-sheened and visibly frustrated.
There was always that fear, though, that it wasn’t enough. It only took a wobble in the front to create a gap that became a hole. How would this formation fare? Rscil reported very favorably, but Nrao Aveldt hadn’t seen it in person. Trust fought with insecurity. He gripped his own chariot rim. Oh, to be in the fight. But now as clan leader, he must defer to others. He led them all, not just the warriors. He had the sea flank, Rscil the hill flank. He’d rather they were reversed. The gooey ground underneath hindered the chariot. It might be best to dismount. With a nod to his drover he did so.
It worked well, so far. The warriors in the first two ranks seemed calm, collected, and held the best spacing he’d ever seen. They strode and strode. Diagonally behind them, the Dancers waved those short spears overhead and side to side, keeping a perfect line. Their motion was almost mind magic itself. It drew one in, commanded one to watch. There was good and bad in that, as the enemy approached rapidly, already across the river’s shallows and climbing the bank.
Then it was on.
A wave of leathery reptiles charged forward, swelled out against the Mrem, broke and tumbled and fell. In beautiful, glittering, musical balance, the warriors struck the incoming bodies and tossed them aside to the females. The Dancers’ spears twisted, flashed and resumed their shaking flutters. The scaled beasts thrashed and twitched, their bodies reluctant to release souls already dead.
Forward momentum stopped, each rank pulling up and trying to maintain spacing from the one in front. The ranks stacked up, but kept even for the most part.
With only minor ripples, the Mrem came to a stop and kept a solid, impenetrable front of shields and spears. The oncoming enemy could only advance and try to overwhelm them frontally, past broken bodies and across a pot-holed savanna.
The tactic worked. The reptiles and a handful of sad Mrem under godling control advanced again, as the cajoling demands in their minds fought with their fear. They were many, and directed, but not inspired. They arrived in a ringing clash, and fell in clattering heaps. The Mrem were many, and were inspired and each an eager, thoughtful self building a greater whole. No single death could stop them; were Nrao Aveldt or Hress Rscil to die, the battle would continue. As some few warriors and Dancers fell, others stepped forward. The formation was built of courage, discipline and art.
And magic. Oglut put forth his will. Nrao Aveldt could feel it, a mighty darkness clutching at his mind, his spirit. He shuddered himself, this far away, and watched in fear as a ripple swept through the combined band.
But that was all. A ripple, then nothing. The overwhelming force of a lizard who styled himself a god was no match for the proud minds of cooperating Mrem. His grasp for control evaporated. Then it slipped from those he already held. His entire army could be seen to hesitate, shiver, stop for a moment, then collapse on itself. Some few pressed half-livered attacks. Others cowered down where they stood, trembling in abandonment and fear. Most retreated from a walk to a panicked sprint, ebbing back in a softer, weaker wave than the attack.
The Mrem advanced slightly, but only slightly, holding the perfect dance, the perfect advance and moving forward in step on step across the plain. Hress Rscil shouted, as did the drillmasters. The energy, the power, the motion and sound of the Dance let the bristling spears add to the magic, and nothing Oglut had mattered.
It was time, though. To the west, the lapping waves built, and the gravelly loam between it and the Liskash narrowed quickly.
“Retreat,” Nrao Aveldt ordered the nearest drillmaster, and his flank began to withdraw. Others caught it, and the order flowed forward and through the mass. Hress Rscil nodded and shouted it. The other drillmasters echoed it, and the formation marched through itself, with the lead warriors now holding the face of the V.