Winter's Edge: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (Outzone Drifter Series Book 1) by Mike Sheridan Page B
Authors: Mike Sheridan
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firmly. “Why not Daniella?”
“Why haven’t you said this to me before…about Roja?” Bose asked.
Sureshot shrugged. “Why spoil your time together? Now that time must come to an end.” A determined look came over the chief’s face. “You must win the succession. Who else here is fit to lead as both a warrior and a wise head? If it were just a strong warrior the tribe needed, then someone like Ironclaw would make a good chief. But he is too bloodthirsty, too full of anger. He would keep the tribe in constant war. You need to take care; he has a following within the tribe. He mustn’t win the vote.”
Ironclaw was a tough, barrel-chested warrior feared by many for his violent ways, and along with Bose was on the tribe’s council of seven. He was also the spokesman for a small contingent of braves who advocated that the Black Eagles should leave the confederacy of warrior chapters, an alliance Sureshot had put a lot of work in bringing the tribe into several years ago. Though he respected his bravery and proven strengths as a warrior, Bose didn’t care much for Ironclaw. The feeling was mutual.
“What about Jamila?” he asked. Bose suspected perhaps Sureshot’s love for his wife had something to do with this too. With her sister as the new chief’s wife, her standing would remain high in the tribe.
“Just make sure she’s cared for when I’m gone. After time passes, help her find someone who’ll treat her good. Not some vain strutting brave who’ll fuck every bitch in the casa the moment he hits town.” The chief glanced up at Bose. “God knows, I was like that too when I was younger, but Jamila deserves better than that. So will you swear it? Will you take Daniella?”
Bose sat there, unsure what to say.
“ Amigo , trust me,” Sureshot said gently. “It’s for the good of the tribe. When you become chief, everything you do must be for the good of the tribe.”
Bose stared at the chief, thinking hard. He got on well with Roja, and respected her. She was loyal, and always had his back. But she was crazy too, to the point of being dangerous. Perhaps the chief was right; someone divisive like Roja would just lead to his nearest rival, Ironclaw, winning enough votes to become chief. Neither of them wanted that.
“Yes, I swear it,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “Oh man, you hang in there until Chico gets back. I need time to sort this all out.”
“Well, just don’t mention my name until I’m gone…” Sureshot chuckled, the laughter soon turning into a fit of coughing. “…I want to die of natural causes,” he said between breaths, the tears streaming down his face. Bose wasn’t sure whether it was from the laughter or from his condition.
When he stopped, the chief looked tired again, his face pale, the gleam fading from his eyes. “I’ll sleep now,” he said. “Tomorrow morning. Don’t forget.”
By the morning he was gone. When Jamila woke at dawn, she reached a hand over to her husband’s forehead as she had done each morning to check his fever. It had been like touching a cold slate. She looked across to see his mouth in a twisted grimace, the jaw crooked and stiff.
Bose mourned the loss of his friend more than the fact that there would be no deathbed allegiances sworn by the council. He was confident that he would be elected at the next sitting, regardless. Though not one given much to talking, standing at six foot seven, authoritative, and powerfully built, with scars earned in many battles, everyone in the tribe, not only the council, knew Bose was Sureshot’s favored successor.
Clement agreed. “I think you’ll win it,” he said confidently. The two sat on a grassy bank down by the river that afternoon, a couple of hundred yards downstream from the camp. He looked over at Bose carefully. “With Daniella as your chosen wife, it will remove any remaining doubts the braves might have.”
Clement was in his early thirties. He had a slight build with
“Why haven’t you said this to me before…about Roja?” Bose asked.
Sureshot shrugged. “Why spoil your time together? Now that time must come to an end.” A determined look came over the chief’s face. “You must win the succession. Who else here is fit to lead as both a warrior and a wise head? If it were just a strong warrior the tribe needed, then someone like Ironclaw would make a good chief. But he is too bloodthirsty, too full of anger. He would keep the tribe in constant war. You need to take care; he has a following within the tribe. He mustn’t win the vote.”
Ironclaw was a tough, barrel-chested warrior feared by many for his violent ways, and along with Bose was on the tribe’s council of seven. He was also the spokesman for a small contingent of braves who advocated that the Black Eagles should leave the confederacy of warrior chapters, an alliance Sureshot had put a lot of work in bringing the tribe into several years ago. Though he respected his bravery and proven strengths as a warrior, Bose didn’t care much for Ironclaw. The feeling was mutual.
“What about Jamila?” he asked. Bose suspected perhaps Sureshot’s love for his wife had something to do with this too. With her sister as the new chief’s wife, her standing would remain high in the tribe.
“Just make sure she’s cared for when I’m gone. After time passes, help her find someone who’ll treat her good. Not some vain strutting brave who’ll fuck every bitch in the casa the moment he hits town.” The chief glanced up at Bose. “God knows, I was like that too when I was younger, but Jamila deserves better than that. So will you swear it? Will you take Daniella?”
Bose sat there, unsure what to say.
“ Amigo , trust me,” Sureshot said gently. “It’s for the good of the tribe. When you become chief, everything you do must be for the good of the tribe.”
Bose stared at the chief, thinking hard. He got on well with Roja, and respected her. She was loyal, and always had his back. But she was crazy too, to the point of being dangerous. Perhaps the chief was right; someone divisive like Roja would just lead to his nearest rival, Ironclaw, winning enough votes to become chief. Neither of them wanted that.
“Yes, I swear it,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “Oh man, you hang in there until Chico gets back. I need time to sort this all out.”
“Well, just don’t mention my name until I’m gone…” Sureshot chuckled, the laughter soon turning into a fit of coughing. “…I want to die of natural causes,” he said between breaths, the tears streaming down his face. Bose wasn’t sure whether it was from the laughter or from his condition.
When he stopped, the chief looked tired again, his face pale, the gleam fading from his eyes. “I’ll sleep now,” he said. “Tomorrow morning. Don’t forget.”
By the morning he was gone. When Jamila woke at dawn, she reached a hand over to her husband’s forehead as she had done each morning to check his fever. It had been like touching a cold slate. She looked across to see his mouth in a twisted grimace, the jaw crooked and stiff.
Bose mourned the loss of his friend more than the fact that there would be no deathbed allegiances sworn by the council. He was confident that he would be elected at the next sitting, regardless. Though not one given much to talking, standing at six foot seven, authoritative, and powerfully built, with scars earned in many battles, everyone in the tribe, not only the council, knew Bose was Sureshot’s favored successor.
Clement agreed. “I think you’ll win it,” he said confidently. The two sat on a grassy bank down by the river that afternoon, a couple of hundred yards downstream from the camp. He looked over at Bose carefully. “With Daniella as your chosen wife, it will remove any remaining doubts the braves might have.”
Clement was in his early thirties. He had a slight build with
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