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A general order to give ground on a desert face can turn into a route if given by a fool. Given by Yavri, it turned into a controlled lean, like a wall that chooses to be a slope for one count and a wall again the next. Her captains did it like they had done it in drills. Men who wanted to run did not get to decide; the wall decided for them. The wedge slid ten paces and found its feet again. The rear reserves stepped into the space that motion created and slammed a door in the drones' faces.
It was a good move. It saved the wedge. It spent a rank.
"Oru," Skall called, not asking but asking. "Veil."
Oru spread the veil again and learned the same lesson the first time men learn when the air has ideas of its own: the wind is nobody's captain. Skyweaver rode that thin edge shamelessly, a quiet hand keeping the murk where it could pity the wedge instead of sheltering it.
