Tales of Destiny

The rain fell and the world trembled. It seemed as if they stood at the end of the world. Rain pounded down and lightning roared, indistinguishable from the wrathful cries of the God-Beast at the storm’s core.

It was all Gerel could do to quiet the cries of her infant son cradled close to her chest as she rode harder than she ever had in her life, weaving the wind into a comforting lullaby for her sons ears while silencing the sounds of hooves and splashing water. She left the path to the eyes and ears of her beast self, straining her human senses for any indication of danger. They had thought it merely another incursion at first, the lowlanders coming to drive their hunters from mountains they claimed to ‘own’. The notion had vanished swiftly, buried in dead men and the blackest of portents from the yurts of the shamans. The lowlanders were marching to war.

Gerel felt bitter bile in her throat as she wove the wind, a soft lullaby for her son's ears and silence outside. It made sense now, why the overtures of the northern tribes to join them had stopped, why they had such good fortune with hunting and graze. The cowards had run, and left those behind without warning. To where they had fled she did not know, perhaps they had vanished under the earth with their demons, abandoning Father Sky entirely.

Around her rode the rest of the tribe's women, the Khatun rode at the center, with them were the children, the old and many shamans. The men had ridden to war, knowing that there was no victory to be had here. Khan Arban had told them to flee, flee to the east. There the Twelve Stars gathered to resist the lowlanders. There, they would have a chance.

An unkind part of Gerel cursed the man for not taking the offer months ago and leaving this terrible place. These mountains may have been theirs once, but even a fool could see the lowlanders were going to come eventually.

She felt a whisper of sensation then, the whisper of a freshly sharpened blade across oiled cloth. The glint of metal and the hiss of smoke.

At the head of the column, Odval and Qara, some of the most martial women of the tribe who were carrying their spears and bows with the expert ease of any hunter even at full gallop, came apart with their steeds. One moment they were galloping ahead, the next there was only an expanding cloud of red in a sphere clear of rain. Those behind them cried out and wheeled their horses as they were struck by scraps no larger than a fingernail. Cloth and wood, meat and bone, viscera and blood, painting those closest in horrifying crimson.

Fsssssh

The soft hiss of air parting around a blade seemed to drown out the thunder and the rain, and a part of the storm wracked sky split apart, air rippling as it became resplendent black cloth. A wide black cloak, sparkling like the night sky, snapping in the high breeze. It framed a figure of polished steel, sharp edged and gleaming even under the storm. In her hand was a straight two edged blade, plain and unadorned save for a white tassel which fluttered from the base of the hilt. The edges of the blade thrummed glowing a pale blue, as that blade rose back into a neutral guard.

Gerel felt the wind itself wail in pain as it was cut, and the figure's cloak fell flat, no longer fluttering in the storm winds.

They scattered. There was no need for an order, every one of them had been born to the saddle and sky. Hooves sparking with lightning carried them in a hundred directions. The shamanic drums thrummed with a heavy beat and the wind took hold like a Father guiding his child on their first ride. Gerel felt her beast-self’s legs become blurs as they took off with a speed far beyond their station in the heavens. Her veil whispered in the dark protecting her from the dangers of such speed, and her son crying aloud now, she held close to her chest, protected by swaddling of leather and bone.

Three ancient men, so old that the radiance of their spirits had begun to show in the creases of their flesh, showing that they would soon return to the stars, bellowed whooping war cries as they fell upon the enemy. No fear remained in them for death shared their saddles already.

The sky shook under the sound of their hooves, and thunder roared. In just this small space, the storm ceased to belong to the God-beast.

The first man’s sword arm came off, whipping away in the wind. The front left leg of the second’s beast self followed after, and the third cried out as an open palm strike shattered his breastplate and catapulted him far into the sky.

The metal-thing advanced, the open air rippling like water under the tread of immaculate steel sabatons.

The drums beat a frantic rhythm, and lightning roared, three bolts as wide and thick as the lowlands trees screaming down.

Fsssssh

A blade flicked thrice and lightning shattered, harmless sparks crawling along the articulated lines of the lowlanders armor. They had no face, Gerel realized. No slits for eyes or breath in their helm, just segmented steel polished to a mirror shine. They advanced another step, their blade twitched, seeming to do no more than vibrate in Gerel’s eyes and another woman came apart with only a brief wet scream.

Silver light lit the night, moonlight casting an ephemeral glow across the battlefield, and for a moment Gerel felt a surge of hope as she heard the Khatun's voice raised in deep growling song. Phantom warriors of cloud and moonlight shimmered into existence between them and the terrible figure, bearing the visages of the tribes heroic dead, and they were able to race away just a little further. Gerel had nearly fled to the edge of mortal sight now, seeing the battle only by the glow of the Khatun whose silver edged silhouette shone high in the sky pulsing with power in time with the beat of the drums. She saw the moment the honored dead attacked, saw three dozen in shatter in the first instant, and another score in each passing moment, she saw the lightning fall again, empowered by the great saga their Khatun continued to sing.

She felt the chip of steel go flying, slicing through the sky. She felt a terrible pressure, the wounded pride of a god.

The rain boiled, and Gerel heard her Khatun scream.

A clockwork titan stands in the sky and the world burns under her ruinous tread. Steel is her heart, and fire her mind. She is the Crucible, the Furnace, the Devourer of Dreams, the roaring flames demand their feast of hope and lives, the kindling of war. See her blade rise, and know your nation’s end.

Lo! The Heavenly King of the South has come! Let smoke choke the skies, let the earth drown in blood, let the rivers burn and the mountains crumble! The Heavenly King of the South has come!

Gerel struggled to remain on course as the world behind her transformed into light and pain. Her sons terrified cries filled her ears. She felt her beast self whinny in pain under the boiling rain and bent low to shield her son, her precious son. She needed only to keep running, if only-

She barely even felt the bolt which pierced her temple.

***​

Lieutenant Fa grimaced as she awkwardly rocked the squalling child in her arms. She’d caught the child before the mothers body had hit the ground, but that did not do much to calm the babe. Which was, she supposed grimly, only reasonable.

“Your target, Lieutenant?” she flinched a little as the General’s harsh voice. Lieutenant Fa glanced to the side, where a faintly shimmering image of General Xia stood, the result of their formation's communication.

“Acquired,” She said, her burden meant that she couldn’t bow properly. “Should I return to rendezvous General?”

“Do so, there are other tribes yet to hunt. Facilities for the resources have been built,” the General replied.

That should have been all, but the Lieutenant spoke again.”General… was the mission an overall success?”

The General paused briefly. “We have acquired roughly seventy three percent of the scouted resources. This is within acceptable parameters. However, estimates of target strength must be revised upward. Acceptable is not enough for the White Plumes. Her grace intends to support Lord Wang’s program, and thus, so do we.”

Lieutenant Fa Khulun bowed her head as the image vanished and she turned her eyes back to the crying child. She wondered if it was good or bad that the general still had some pride left in her.

“Let’s go little one, this will be good for you in the end,” she muttered. It was the mantra for all of them, the taken and the conquered. The ways of the Cloud tribes and the Empire could not coexist, so it was better to survive, was it not?