Free The Breath of God by Harry Turtledove

clansmen retreat with the Red Dire Wolves. “Where are your ballocks?”
    â€œYour Ferocity, what more can we do here but get killed to no purpose?” Hamnet Thyssen asked. “Can we beat the Rulers in this fight?”
    Trasamund sent him a look full of hate. “Not you, too? Well, run away if you want to. I came here to fight, by God!” He’d done plenty of that; his great two-handed sword was smeared and splashed with blood all along the blade.
    â€œDid you come here to throw yourself away?” That wasn’t Count Hamnet—it was Liv. “We’ve lost this battle. We’re beaten. If we try again,
when
we try again, it will have to be somewhere else. We still must have our revenge. But can’t you see we won’t win it here?”
    Plainly, Trasamund didn’t want to heed her. Just as plainly, she was right. Totila called, “We’ve got to get away, save what we can!”
    Seeing his fellow jarl flee the field seemed to bring Trasamund to his senses. “Away, then,” he said bitterly. “Away! Will we spend the rest of our lives running away from the accursed Rulers?”
    It’s possible
, Count Hamnet thought. If the invaders could bring in enough men and mammoths through the Gap, they would be very dangerous indeed. Hamnet had feared they would fight well. They turned out to fight even better than he’d expected.
    How hard would they pursue? If they pressed the chase with everything they had in them, they might shatter the Red Dire Wolves forever. But they didn’t seem willing—or, more likely, able—to do that. They’d won, yes, but not easily. And so the Bizogots escaped them and broke off the fight. Hamnet Thyssen wondered how much difference it would make.
    Â 
    N OT MANY THINGS in the world were grimmer than the camp of an army that had just lost a battle. The wounded were sullen, feeling they sufferedpointlessly. The men who’d got away safe were angry and embarrassed, having done their best to no purpose. And everyone was apprehensive, fearing the enemy would fall on them while their spirits were at a low ebb.
    The warm weather around the camp made the snow melt, and the drips reminded Hamnet Thyssen of tears shed for the cause. That was more fanciful than he usually got, but he couldn’t help it.
    Several Bizogots screamed at Trasamund and Totila when their chieftains tried to get them to go on sentry duty. Trasamund had to knock one of the nomads down and kick him before he would. “Are we still warriors?” the jarl roared furiously. “Or are we made into voles and lemmings, sport for any weasel that would bite our throats?”
    â€œDo you feel squeaky?” Ulric Skakki asked Count Hamnet. Somehow, the adventurer made his whiskers seem remarkably like a vole’s.
    Hamnet knew he should have smiled. He couldn’t make himself do it, try as he would. “They beat us,” he said gloomily.
    â€œSo they did,” Ulric agreed. “Did you really look for anything different? The Bizogots haven’t figured out this is no game yet.”
    â€œWhat will it take before they do?” Hamnet asked. “War mammoths trampling the lot of them?”
    â€œMaybe.” Ulric Skakki didn’t sound as worried or as wearied as most of the men around him. “That would bring the Rulers down to the Empire’s northern border—and Sigvat II hasn’t realized this is no game, either.”
    â€œMarvelous,” Hamnet Thyssen said. “By your logic, almost everyone ought to be almost ready to fight just when it’s too late to do any good.”
    â€œYes, that sounds about right,” Ulric agreed. “Or don’t you think so?”
    The trouble was, Hamnet did think so, even if he didn’t want to. “We have to find some way to beat them. If we don’t, we’re ruined.”
    â€œNo one
has
to do anything. Haven’t you noticed that