Quofum by Alan Dean Foster

one to tell others how to comport themselves out in the field, Tellenberg kept his thoughts to himself while hoping that nothing lurking in the water found those dangling offworld limbs worthy of a nibble.
    “Tactics and maneuvers might have nothing to do with it,” she continued. “The newly arrived combatants might be allies arriving from another village off to the north, or members of a returning hunting party. Advanced strategy and subterfuge might not enter into the present circumstances.” She gestured with her own handheld. “What appears premeditated on the battlefield might be nothing more than fortuitous coincidence.”
    Valnadireb gestured understandingly. “There’s one way to find out. Talk to some of the natives and ask them.”
    “In good time,” Haviti replied. “First we have to see who survives.”
    The tide of battle had definitely turned in favor of the defenders. Assailed from two sides, whether by design or accident, the spikers and the hardshells fell back. Unfortunately for them, that meant retreating to the river. Regrouping, they made a stand there, bunching together and packing themselves tight so that their organic armor presented a solid wall to any attackers. Stones fell on them like hail.
    Three times the defenders of the village rushed their tormentors. Each time the assault was repelled with loss of life on both sides. On the third occasion, so ferocious and forceful was the charge of the stick-jellies and fuzzies that some of the spikers and hardshells were pushed off the sandy shore and into the water. This produced two new and interesting facts about sentient native life-forms. Hardshells could float, if not exactly swim. Spikers could do neither.
    No wonder they were defending themselves so vigorously, Tellenberg realized as he continued to observe the ongoing mêlée. Preliminary cursory observation revealed that a spiker sank faster than a thranx wearing a lead-lined backpack.
    Just when it seemed as if the defense of the village was going to turn into a complete slaughter of its assailants, the defenders backed off. Their number had also been considerably reduced and they continued to suffer casualties. Both sides were exhausted; physically, in numbers, and resource-wise. With their original stockpiles of throwing stones depleted, fuzzies and spikers alike were reduced to scavenging suitable rocks from where they lay on the field of battle. Even the discordant sounds and weird alien cries of battle had given way to an excess of heavy breathing interspersed with only occasional outbursts of passion or defiance.
    Slowly and carefully the surviving spikers and hardshells began working their way southward, maintaining a rudimentary defensive formation as they did so. A few of the most energetic defenders followed them, slinging the intermittent stone, throwing the occasional sharpened stick. Once the ongoing battle moved back into the dense vegetation, the pursuing defenders’ advantage in numbers was reduced. The chase broke off and the remaining attackers were allowed to disappear into the brush.
    In their wake, noncombatant stick-jellies and fuzzies worked together in a cooperative effort to put out the fires that continued to consume the surviving huts. Water carried from the river in crude pots and tightly woven baskets was thrown on the crackling flames. Native intelligence had not risen to the point where someone thought to organize a simple bucket brigade.
    Limited in quantity though it was, there was fire-suppressant equipment on the boat that could have put out the remaining blazes in a couple of minutes. Looking over at N’kosi, Tellenberg saw that his colleague was thinking the same thing. He swallowed, his throat unexpectedly dry.
    “We can’t,” he muttered. “We can’t interfere.”
    “I know.” N’kosi summoned up a wan smile. “Contact regulations. We can only observe.”
    Fortunately, there was no fuzzy or stick-jelly equivalent of human children