At the raising of both of Master Rababull's arms, the drums increased in a furious tempo, and when the arms dropped the sound of the drums abruptly ceased, although one witless soul kept beating a fraction of a second too long before realizing that he had overlooked the cut-off signal.
Master Rababull made the slightest turn of his head to see who it was, and marked the terrified fool for a thorough whipping later.
In the sudden silence, the terrified slave-woman could be heard weeping and begging desperately for the life of her daughter, as Master Rababull stood with his arms raised again like an eagle before the general assemblage.
Before him were all available members of the House of Rababull, men to the fore, women to the rear, children hindmost, and freeborn family members to the right.
The first row, signifying the first-line defense arm, was comprised of his many sons. It would be Master Rababull's long-awaited opportunity to have a few of the more ambitious of his offspring lead the battle charge and see them finished off before they could come home to glory and threaten his personal authority over all his holdings. Immediately after these, in the second row beginning on the right and trailing off to the left, stood male in-laws beholden unto him enough to show up or risk serious loss of status.
He surveyed their ranks, noting whoever was absent and deserving of punishment for it. There were a few. Punishing in-laws was a necessary thing, best done while the sword was still dripping red from the victory of a battle well-fought.
He made a mental note that a small war-party would have to be detailed to go take care of the drop-outs when he had finished off Kadrug's forces.
Old Maskron, one of his fathers-in-law, was there at the fore as usual. Maskron, a fierce, white-maned old scoundrel, always showed up with his dinged old bronze sword polished and gleaming like gold, and he was always asked to come forward to utter the closing prayers, shaking and waving his sword in the air in wild gesticulations of false bravado.
Maskron was too old to fight, and too proud to stay away, so it was exceeding helpful, in saving face for both of them, to permit him this signal honor.
One distant cousin of the son of his sixth wife, whose name was Puffat and whose mother bore an illegitimate connection to the Emperor himself, stood with one armpit held up by a crutch, his broken and splinted right leg having recently been the source of much grief at the hands of the bonesetter.