"That’s your problem," the food-forager sneered.
"You war chief! I won’t accept this!" The Blackwater tribe chief had all but resigned himself to a do-or-die stance, determined to topple the food-forager today, or else it would be the end of Blackwater tomorrow: "You’ve never considered the tribes at all! You aren’t fit to command us!"
"If not me, then who is?"
"I nominate White Lion! Haidong, Suz! They all treat our small tribes like animals! Only White Lion treats us like humans! You, I won’t accept! White Lion, I will!" The Blackwater tribe chief glared at the other tribal leaders: "Speak up!"
No one responded to him.
"Speak up!" The Blackwater tribe chief roared: "Do you want to be slaves to the Suz tribe?"
There was another bout of silence.
The Blackwater tribe chief angrily removed his hat, threw it to the ground, and strode towards the entrance, but another man blocked his path.
The fire-stoker, grabbing the Blackwater tribe chief’s arm, turned towards the current war leader: "Food-forager, the tribal chiefs gave you a chance, but you have betrayed their trust. Why not let someone else have a try?"
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The tribal chiefs conveyed their agreement with their eyes, yet dared not to speak.
The food-forager stood up, looking around murderously: "White Lion is not a descendant of the Golden God, he has no right to be the Khan!"
The red-faced fire-stoker immediately retorted: "Who’s talking about electing White Lion as Khan? We just want White Lion to lead us in battle!"
"With you! With me! With grey-eyes! And with so many descendants of the Golden God! There’s no reason to let an outsider be the war chief!" The food-forager yelled back.
"We don’t need to fight for seats like a pack of dogs scrapping over meat," White Lion spoke calmly: "Let’s follow the rules of the grand council. Extinguish the lights, cover the yurt. If the tribal chiefs agree, they will call ’aye’; if the tribal chiefs disagree, they will call ’nay’."
The discussion under a covered tent meant that one could not see another, hearing only voices, a method equivalent to an anonymous vote.
This method was rarely used in grand council meetings, as the council itself was meant to be open about everything, with nothing to hide.
"There are really few who dare to openly oppose the food-forager," Little Lion thought: "Otherwise, my brother wouldn’t have requested a secret council."
The lamps were blown out, and the yurt was covered, the tribal chiefs changed their positions in the darkness.
White Lion began: "Before reinforcements from the other tribes join us, we cannot directly confront the Paratu People."
A chorus of "ayes" erupted from within the tent.
The Blackwater tribe chief was the loudest and most distinct. Since he had already offended the food-forager, he might as well be thoroughly defiant.
"The Paratu People cannot stay in the wasteland forever, we should play to our strengths. Small raids, taking out messengers, seizing stores, but never clashing head-on."
Again, a chorus of "ayes" was heard.
"Raids?" the food-forager couldn’t help but question: "Can raids alone wipe out the bipeds? Once they cross The Styx, we won’t be able to stop them anymore!"
"Then we won’t let them cross The Styx."
"How can we stop them from crossing The Styx? They’re heading northeast, obviously to find a shallow place to cross the river!"
"They’re heading to the shallows upstream, where the Paratu People will run out of food and drink, which is why they prepared the Floating Bridge."
The food-forager realized: "You want us to destroy the Floating Bridge?"
"No," White Lion answered: "I’ve already sent someone to do it."
...
...
Seven days later, early in the morning.
Winters and the old shaman walked with Little Lion on the western bank of The Styx.
Little Lion was listless, walking lazily on the riverbank, leaving a trail of paw prints.
Its mane had yet to grow in, making it look less like a lion from afar and more like a dog with an unusually large head.
The old shaman wrapped himself tightly in his fur coat and admonished: "Little beast, hurry up and pee! You’re freezing me to death!"
"You still have the mood to walk the dog?" Winters was heavy-hearted.
On both banks of the river, the aftermath of scorched floating crates was everywhere.
The first Floating Bridge made use of prefabricated elements brought from Paratu.
The second Floating Bridge was made with wooden planks and tar floats.
Without planks, they could dismantle carriages, they could fell trees; as for tar, the engineers still had some.
The problem was, several thousand Herders were still waiting on the opposite bank.
Indeed, the raiders who had burnt the Floating Bridge—for the second time—had not only failed to cross the river. They had set up camp on the opposite bank, facing the Paratu army across the water.
No matter how skilled the Paratu engineers were, they had no way to erect a bridge with the other bank compromised.
Monk Reed casually recited: "[In Celican] As Mount Tai collapses before him and his countenance doesn’t change, as a deer rises to his left and his gaze doesn’t falter, only then can one govern gains and losses, only then can one await the enemy."
"What are you going on about now?"
The old man stroking his beard, glanced at Winters: "I’m telling you, no matter what happens, keep a good attitude. Look at you, frowning like the sky is falling."
Winters sighed, "Seeing how unflustered you are, I presume you’ve been prepared since morning for the Herders’ Shaman’s outfit, haven’t you?"
"Hmph, why would the old man feed off two bounties?"
"Does the living Saint have any brilliant plan to teach me?"
"Cough. Caught in enemy territory, with pursuers behind and a river ahead, with the enemy waiting on the other bank," Monk Reed spoke leisurely: "My boy, in every history book I’ve read, your situation is a sure death."
"There’s still a way," Winters said softly: "It just requires a bit of imagination."
