V3: Ride Or Die

As from a hawk’s eye, though his own were closed in thought, he saw the field spread out below him like the field of a gaming table. Marked in his mind were the locations of villages and homesteads, their particular characteristics and strategic value. At the center was Glockenbaltz, the ancient whore with the spirit of that flirtatious maiden, Lady Commerce. Item after item flashed in his mind as he called forth every scrap of confirmed information and each whisper of wildest rumor. He would have the North, and every resource contained between the heat of hell and the grace of heaven would be for the tribes of Chalice Lake to consume.

Even that would not sate their hunger, though. Plans were in motion, secret by necessity. It would not do to distract his followers with ideas of peaceful expansion to the south, across the windy plains to the lush forests. Dishonesty and omission were not the way of tradition, but survival must remain elder to sensibility. That had been Mejis’s downfall, becoming hidebound by the long-bearded customs, and Sarj Beorn would not repeat the old man’s mistakes.

Taking his alae north with fire and sword was one means, but even now the Bossman saw the possibility for defeat on the home front. In order to drive the warriors onward to total victory, he needed to be at the front with them, ever goading to greater triumphs. Grim Lanni lacked the ambition for such a campaign, Aoife the discipline and focus, and a dual command was a recipe for disaster. Leaving Shylo in either’s hands would mean returning to nothing more than a pile of ashes, whether through Lanni’s disinterest or Aoife’s bloodthirst.

True to their natures, the Wolf and Cat bickered incessantly when the greater power of the Bear was not there to quell insubordination, and their retinues followed the example of the commanders. Sometimes Sarj imagined himself as the father between two squalling children, holding the pair apart with the brittle patience of paternal responsibility. It was a dour attitude shared by his own tribe, constantly called upon to settle disputes as ‘impartial judges’. As if Bears did not have their own wants and needs to see after.

Would that he could bash their heads together and make them play nice, the way his own clan-father had often done with such unruly spawn. Perhaps that measure was not so impossible. By dividing the alae between them… Risk, risk. Granting them each a loyal command of their own tribe was just as bad as mixing the forces together. There was no time to form cohesion, to break down the old feuds and rivalries. Wild wolves would not tolerate lions in their territory, nor vice versa, much less welcome the other in their own packs. No time, he had to act now before the momentum he had gathered overwhelmed him and sent him sprawling.

Heavy lids opened, and yellow eyes glared forth in the dim light, reflecting the flames of the hearth with a maddened glow.

Ride or die.