The Libwe tribe gathered atop a rocky ridge anchored by a steep bluff on their right and a patch of scrawny, gnarled trees on their left. The rising sun back-lit a hundred Libwe warriors dancing, yelling, and whacking spears against wicker shields atop the ridge. Wild paints smeared across their naked bodies gleamed brightly in the cresting morning light. Or they'd dredged up enough Limn to completely paint all of them, in which case outnumbering them even five-to-one would mean little.

At the base of the ridge, the seven tribes that Inro and Arca had unified on the pinnacle the day before performed their own varieties of warrior dance, their garish paints matching the Libwe in form if not function. Each tribe held part of the line, clumped together with their own people rather than forming the combined horde Inro had expected. Hopefully the chaos of battle would cover over that alteration in Inro's plans.

Arca shot Inro a glance as he led his warriors in an energetic, deafening ritual. Inro nodded as though calm and certain. Only when Arca looked away did he risk a glance at the high bluff where the first stage of the battle would hinge. Nothing to be done for it now.

When Inro thought the air couldn't become more saturated with racket, yelling transformed to rhythmic chanting, accompanied by thundering hide drums and shrill bone whistles. This went on for a tiresome stretch of time and when it ended, no smooth transition marked the beginning of the battle. Instead, amid the chanting and banging, random warriors grabbed up jagged rocks, rushed forwards, and hurled them at the enemy lines.

Distance limited any real effect beyond building up the savages' courage, though a few rocks thrown downhill by the Libwe struck home here-and-there. Then the seven tribes spontaneously decided to begin advancing up the ridge, each chanting their own war song. Wicker shields raised high to ward off the thickening hail of stones.

Several members of Arca's tribe slipped out in front led by Arca's sister Cairin, dangling the leather thongs Inro taught them to fashion into slings. Each slinger dipped into their pouch of rounded-off stones. The flanking tribes stared as Arca's new slingers whirled and loosed. While most sling-stones thudded into the dirt or caromed off boulders, a few struck their marks, shattering spectacularly against the Libwe's gleaming Limn warpaint. This utter lack of real military effect might have disheartened trained legionaries, but the savages merely saw the stones striking, somehow interpreted it to mean they were winning. They roared and launched into a futile charge uphill over broken terrain.

Inro nodded to Arca. The warchief nodded back and set to leading his tribe uphill behind the other six who winded themselves before the battle proper even started. Arca's people lagged the others, preserving energy for the actual fighting.

A glance at the bluff.

Hand-picked members of each of the seven tribes had crept out the night before with orders to seize the heights from the Libwe placed atop it to rain down rocks and boulders. The largest of the seven tribes won the "honor" of the far left advance which must cross the base of the cliff. Inro saw many craned necks among their warrior's ranks as they approached the killing zone beneath the bluff.

If that position couldn't be taken, the seven tribes' attack would almost certainly fail.

As anticipated, the surge up the hill lurched to a halt as men's endurance slacked along with their courage. To make matters worse, the sun crested the rise, blinding them. Inro raised his hand to shield his eyes, nodding at the strategic acumen of the Libwe Warchief. Custom demanded that battles between tribes commence at dawn so their leader chose this position over several steeper ridges nearby knowing the light would rise directly behind his warriors.

A hail of stones flew between the now perilously-close ranks. Many among the seven tribes dropped, but if any of the Libwe fell Inro didn't see it. One huge brute dropped his weapons, laughed, and strode forward. Dozens of rocks hurtled his way to shatter harmlessly against his radiant paint as the whole Libwe line whistled and jeered.

Leering, the brute held his arms out, unflinching as the rocks pelted him. He turned, removed the lizard-skull from his head so its long, tattered tail wouldn't hide his huge glutes. When he bent over to wave his ass at them, Cairin wound up, spun her sling, and released. As the man stood, her stone struck the base of the skull where the man's thick hair prevented painting. He crumpled instantly.

Cairin turned and caught Inro's eye, grinning fiercely. Inro nodded back and she quirked an eyebrow. Inro randomly realized she'd never once come to his skins at night. Her lithe nakedness beneath the paint briefly distracted him.

When he snapped back to the battle, the tribe on the far left reached the base of the bluff. Painted figures appeared atop the height, lifting stones, raising them high, and clattering them together. A cheer arose from the seven tribes at the signal and all across the ridge they charged again.

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Inro watched closely.

With a riotous yell, the warriors atop the bluff hurtled the rocks down onto the onrushing tribesman. Crunches and screams echoed off the bluff, projected and distorted by the jagged stone wall. All across the battlefield, the seven tribes faltered just shy of the Libwe line in confusion. Arca turned to face Inro, sweat smearing his paint.

Inro nodded, raised his fist, and jerked it backwards.

The Libwe roared and hurled themselves towards the seven tribes. Arca's tribe collapsed entirely, dropping their spears and shields as they routed. The closest tribes yelled at them in anger and derision before absorbing the brunt of the Libwe charge. Inro ignored them, running with the others back to the combined camp. The narrowness of the canyon leading to the ridge had forced the seven tribes to camp in tight proximity at the base of the ridge.

Catcalls and angry shouts from the women and old men in camp assailed them, but the tribe's rout halted just before entering the sprawl of lean-tos and crude huts. Arca's warriors dropped to dig away heaps of stone and dirt covering the weapon caches they'd buried days before the tribes arrived here. Armed again, they split into six groups, each driving quickly and precisely through the camp. Inro and Arca waited.

Arca lifted his lizard skull to wipe his brow. "Good yet."

"It's not over." Inro glanced between the battle and the increasingly-riled camp.

At the ridge, things went poorly for the six remaining tribes. What was left of the far left tribe fled the plummeting boulders still crashing down from the bluff. The gap left by Arca's tribe filled with Libwe warriors. They rapidly poured through to launch attacks against the adjacent tribe's flanks. Inro wished them all courage. They just needed to hold up there a few minutes longer.

Several of Arca's groups returned quickly, herding specific clusters of women and children to the front of the camp. An angry, confused throng trailed behind.

"Break now." Arca pointed his spear at the rapidly-disintegrating battle. Aside from the tribe on the far right still fighting among the gnarled trees, the Libwe assault put the others to full flight.

Five of Arca's six groups returned with their hostages, forming a ring around their captives.

The first warriors routed from the battle reached the edge of the camp, panting and still focused on the Libwe behind them. Though the Libwe warchief bellowed and cursed at his warriors to pursue, they stopped to take trophies from the fallen, granting time for the growing swell of routing tribal warriors to regroup at the edge of the camp.

"Here they!" Arca shouted as the last of his warriors wrestled and shoved their way clear of the camp with their captives.

Not a moment too soon.

A swarm of warriors converged on Arca's people, many still carrying weapons or rearmed with rocks after fleeing the Libwe. The surviving warchiefs pushed their way to the front, anger turning to fear and doubt as they saw who exactly huddled inside the ring of Arca's warriors. Arca stepped out to meet them, arms raised, quieting them enough they could hear him.

Inro glanced up the ridge, sweat trickling. The Libwe warchief berated his warriors back into action. They resumed a slow, measured advance down towards the camp. Too slow.

Arca shouted in their gibberish language. Inro barely understood one word in five, but he already knew what Arca said as they'd planned it out days ago. "Warchiefs, tell your men to surrender your weapons or we kill your families. Come any closer or attack us and we'll kill them first then fight to the last. Our women stand ready to put the camp's food stockpiles to the torch, those not already fled with our children to safety. We and the Libwe will not harm you if you do as we say; you will be allowed to go in peace."

While Arca spoke, Inro stepped through the nervous but steady ring of Arca's warriors, selecting a cowering young woman. Before he could grab her arm, an older wife stepped in his way. She stared him down defiantly, slapping his borrowed spear aside when he pointed it at her then brushing his hand off when he tried to drag her with him. Instead, she walked as regally as a Dynast before him as though he followed at her pleasure.

Inro gritted his teeth as he saw the belly bulge beneath her long hair. Perhaps a pregnant woman would offer better leverage, whatever the taste it left in his mouth.

A great clamor went up among the tribesmen as Arca finished speaking, the warriors arguing with their chieftains and among themselves. Inro watched, wary and ready, his spear leveled at the woman. She stood calmly, hands folded over her belly as she scanned the warriors. She called out to someone she knew and the man's face fell as he replied.

Not all the warchiefs survived the battle it would seem. Grief tightened the woman's features yet seemed to strengthen not weaken her. Inro gripped his spear tighter. Grief destabilized as surely as rage or terror.

The Libwe continued their plodding advance as the arguing escalated towards a breaking point. Arca's men clenched their spears and glanced about nervously. Inro worried Arca's savages might lack the resolve and discipline to carry out their threatened executions and bolt. If even a few did, they'd all probably rout, be hunted down, and die.

All at once, spears and rocks piled before them. Disgusted, bitter warriors marched forward to throw their weapons to the ground, casting dark looks at their warchiefs and Arca both. Inro relaxed. Arca's warriors began to breathe again.

Then the widowed chieftain's wife unleashed a mournful cry, grabbed the end of Inro's spear, and drove herself upon it. He tried to pull away, cursing himself for dropping his guard. Victory fell from his lap and shattered on the hard, stony ground.

He stared into her hateful, dying eyes and released the spear. "Damn you, woman."

A deafening roar shook the canyon as the six tribes' warriors snatched back up their weapons and charged. Seeing this, the Libwe charged also, but their distance from the camp was still great.

Inro put his back to Arca, drew his swords, and fought for his life.