You’ve lured them (that Prince, his army) to the edge of the forest. Until now you’ve hurled only insults, taunts. You duck into the woods. They linger on the edge, the soldiers wary. The incensed Prince urges them onward, enraged, outraged. Another jibe escapes your lips, stinging that Prince beyond his capacity for tolerance. Livid, he leads a commanding charge into the trees.
You whistle. And from all around you, hundreds (perhaps thousands?) of your clones drop from the boughs, emerge from foxholes, duck around boulders and stumps. Fearless, and of one face, they return the charge into the face of a now terrified enemy.