Exiled: Clan of the Claw, Book One (25 page)

Hress Rscil said, “Of course. I would expect no less.” A fine scout, and a potential Master of some kind. Hril Aris’s pupils swelled with the compliment.

“Thank you. Also, just before this council, we sighted eight and four Mrem who were held by the Liskash. They fled west and slightly north, back toward the New Sea.”

“They broke the mindbinding?”

“Yes, apparently when our retreat started.”

Cmeo Mrist said, “When our voice was surest. As I predicted.”

Hril twitched as Rscil leaped to his feet, but it was not a threat.

Instead, the talonmaster said, “Cmeo Mrist, we will drill our warriors and our Dancers so that we do better next time.”

Rscil knew it would not be quite so easy, but he would take the risk. He, all of them, would be remembered for generations once this was done. He only hoped it wasn’t as spectacularly brave failures.

Cmeo Mrist raised herself tall and said, “Talonmaster, as if things are not complex enough, it seems the Dancers can fight if they must, without weakening their voice, as long as they are in the formation.”

“Yes, we have agreed,” he said. What was she leading to?

She seemed a bit hesitant as she said, “How many javelins have we recovered from the Liskash?”

That was a striking notion.

“I see we must drill the Dancers as well.”

* * *

The warriors were not entirely happy with the decision to continue with the Dancers. They let it be known. Drillmasters reported hearing angry comments from their fists of warriors, and voiced their own complaints.

On the one fist, Hress Rscil understood both their need to release anger after the battle, and their frustration at a formation broken, with fellows left dead. Some two eights had been succored and would probably live, though many would never be fit to fight. Eight other eights and three had either died, or needed mercy. There would be other battles, and they were only two thousand and a few.

On the other, it must be driven to the haft that they were bound together.

Hress Rscil called the claws to order. “If you are unhappy, you may walk back to our steading in defeat. The warriors will remain for our glory. We’ll wait to begin practice until those who wish to leave have gone.”

The complaints quieted to mutters, and there was much shuffling, some bristling, and flattened ears. None wished to abandon the others, nor bear the shame attached. It was also clear there was no retreat, except as a whole. Individuals wouldn’t manage the trip, except a few hardy scouts, all of whom stood with Hress Rscil. They could form parties, but what if they were attacked, to then die unknown in shame and ignominy? And if this campaign were successful, what chances would they have of mates and land?

He and Cmeo Mrist watched from his chariot, led by two precious replacement arogar. The practice, no doubt spurred by the threat of disgrace, was much more vigorous, and the Dancers moved with urgency.

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.

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.