When Wolves March

The sun cracked low across the grasslands, catching the dew in tiny glints. A light mist still clung to the valley where the camp sprawled, leather tents in clusters, smoke curling from cookfires, the quiet churn of morning routines. Somewhere in the tents, a smith's hammer struck iron. Children coughed, people were busy.

Senjar stepped out of the keep alone.

He was not wearing any armor now, only a light cloak and plain tunic. Still, every man who passed him stood straighter. His steps were silent across the camp's main path as he approached the storerooms, small tents reinforced with wood and canvas, set close to the center of the camp where guards stood posted day and night.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and burlap.

Kaelric was already waiting, talking with Halvik, a strong personality, he was a former trader before the wars. He kept the Harkoraal army fed during the siege with clever ration schemes. He was precise, humorless, he recorded every item twice.

He was the quartermaster of Harkoraal.

The old wolf Kaelric wore a belt of knives and a heavy vest, hair tied back, face unreadable.

Beside him, Halvik waited with open ledgers and grim expression.

Senjar said nothing at first. He stepped to one of the barrels and pulled open the lid. Inside were grain husks, too few, already dry.

He moved to the crates. Salted meat. Less than he expected.

Finally, he looked at Kaelric. "This won't last the moon, Kaelric."

Kaelric grunted. "If we ration."

Senjar asked Halvik. "How many do we feed?"

"One meal a day for now, Arl. Still, too many mouths, too little in the sack."

Senjar pulled in a breath. "Bring maps."

Moments later, a guard unrolled them across a crate lid.

Senjar's finger traced the area. "Send hunting parties into the forest here. I've seen boar, deer, even rabbits."

"Understood."

"Kaelric, I want this to be done fast. Send as many parties as needed."

"It will be done, Arl."

"We also send small trade parties to the neutral villages east of here. Wood, cloth, labor, whatever we can offer."

Kaelric nodded slowly. "And risk contact with the Empire?"

"We're already in their land," Senjar said flatly. "It's better we trade like men than steal like bandits. Let them know we're rebuilding, not raiding."

Halvik tapped the ledger. "We'll need wagons. And guards, Arl"

Senjar's looked at him before speaking, " How much we can offer for trade? Look into this first. And Draw what's needed from the smiths, report to me by dusk."

He looked back at Kaelric before speaking.

"Varrik, Is he fit to lead?"

"Yes Arl. He is fit and ready."

"Assign Varrik to lead the trading party. I want no misunderstandings."

"And the farmers?"

"We leave their cattle alone. For now."

The tent held still for a moment. Then Kaelric gave a sharp nod. "It's a plan."

"Not a plan," Senjar muttered. "A start."

Senjar stepped out from the supply tent and turned toward the rising clatter of steel on steel.

The forge quarters were built along the southern edge of the camp, far enough from sleeping tents to avoid fire risk, but close enough to move weapons fast. The smell of charcoal and sweat grew thick as he approached.

Smoke curled from the makeshift chimneys. Sparks jumped from open iron mouths. Blacksmiths shouted, not in panic, but rhythm. Forges beat like war drums.

Senjar ducked under a stretched hide canopy and stepped into the largest smithing tent. Inside, a circle of smiths worked shoulder to shoulder, men and women with soot-covered hands, sleeves rolled to the elbow, faces lit by firelight and iron glow.

Their leader, a woman with a burned cheek and strong arms, looked up as he entered. Her name was Orren, the tribe's head smith.

"Arl," she said, not stopping her hammer.

Senjar walked beside the workbenches. Spears were being straightened. Swords reground. Arrowheads lined in rows like teeth.

"How many blades ready?" he asked.

"Four hundred usable," Orren replied. "Another hundred half-done. Maybe more if we had the steel."

Senjar frowned. "Where is it being used?"

Orren pointed with her hammer. "Mostly salvaged from the siege, broken axes, bent armor. We're melting it all down."

"Can we scavenge more?"

"Some. Depends what's in the forest and among the dead."

Senjar nodded. "I'll have teams pull in everything. Shields, helms, rusted nails. If it's metal, bring it here."

One younger smith paused from hammering and looked over. "Arl, if we get iron ore or trade for raw steel, I can shape it faster. Been working on a new casting mold."

Orren looked at the boy, surprised. "Miren's got sharp hands," she admitted, a little grudgingly. "Taught himself fast."

Senjar walked over to the young smith, barely older than sixteen. The blade he was shaping gleamed with fine balance.

"You made this?"

"Yes, Arl," the boy said, swallowing.

Senjar ran a finger along the spine of the blade. It didn't wobble. Didn't chip.

"It's clean," he said. "Very clean."

Miren's eyes lit.

Senjar handed it back. "Keep shaping. You'll make twenty more like this by the month's end."

"I will, Arl."

He turned back to Orren. "You'll lead. But train more like him. We don't just need blades. We need the hands who make them."

Orren nodded. "Understood."

"By dusk, I want a full count, iron left, blades done, tools needed. Tell Halvik, he will remember."

He paused at the doorflap, looked back once more.

"No steel sits cold. No hands sit idle, Orren."

The carts rolled at dawn.

A small delegation, led by Varrik and an older grain merchant named Dovra, departed the camp under the gray light of morning with the banners of Harkoraal. Their wagons held wooden crafts, plows, barrels, bowls, even carved icons of Empire saints. Work of Harkoraal hands, fine and plain.

They rode to nearby villages under Varkaan rule.

The first stop was a timber-post town nestled between low hills. Banners of the Empire hung above stone, arched doors. Sentinels watched from rooftops but did not raise weapons. Suspicion lingered in every glance.

Varrik dismounted calmly, and Dovra spoke first.

"We come to trade. No swords, no claims."

An Imperial steward stepped out, a thin man with a green sash and tired eyes. "Trade, you say? What tribe?"

"Harkoraal," Varrik answered without flinch.

The steward's eyes narrowed, then softened, recognizing the honesty.

And trade began.

It started small. A barrel of barley for three crates of Harkoraal woodcraft. A bag of salt for hand carved axe handles. Tense at first. Watched. But peaceful.

That night, the wagons returned heavier than they had left.

Kaelric stood by the outer road, watching. "No arrows. No shouting. That's new."

Senjar met the carts in the yard. He pulled open a sack of grain. Clean. Heavy.

He looked up at the returning traders.

"Good."

By week's end, four more villages had exchanged. Coin had changed hands, Empire minted, even some marked with the seal of the southern vassals.

Not much. But enough.

Harkoraal had begun to move among markets.

Quietly.

By mid morning, Senjar summoned Mara, the tribe's treasurer. She came with her ledgers and a box of coin and trade markerd papers engraved with values.

They met in the keep's upper room, a small space lit only by slit windows and torchlight.

Senjar sat beside a cracked table, sleeves rolled, eyes narrowed. The maps of nearby terrain lay to one side, but the ledgers drew his focus.

Mara spoke,

"As you know, Arl. According to the treaty more than 100 years ago signed by all the countries in this Avarion continent, the weight of currency will be same."

"1 Gold coins equals 20 silver coins, 1 silver coin equals 10 bronze coins, and to buy a sack of grain it costed us 6 bronze coins."

"I know that, Mara." 

"How much now?" he asked.

Mara began, voice low but precise. "30 Gold coins. Forty seven silver coins. A dozen bronze coins.

More expected next week."

Senjar nodded slowly.

"We split it. Three ways, Mara." 

She waited, ink pen paused.

"A third to tools and forge stock. Another third to buys grain and dried goods."

"And the last?"

"Hold it," he said. "Hidden, untouched. For winter. Or worse."

Mara did not question it.

By evening, the lights of the keep still burned.

Senjar stood over the ledgers, hands ink stained. His cloak was off, and his face shadowed by firelight. Quiet. Focused.

Behind him, Kaelric leaned in the doorway but didn't interrupt.

This wasn't a war council.

It was a different kind of battle.

Senjar murmured without turning: "We're not ready yet."

Kaelric stepped forward, set a hand lightly on the maps. "But we will be."

And they both looked at the ledgers not for power, not yet for conquest but for the means to build something strong enough to last.

"You know Kaelric, my father used to say. And today, I realized he was right."

"A wolf cannot be fed with war alone."