Do you hear them? The Moldazian conscripts are singing in triumph. Yet you ask how can they sing without tongues, all taken when first inducted into the ranks of the Great Khan so that they could never speak of defeat. But now they can sing because the victory is so great, so earth-shaking, yay, heaven-shaking. Even though the dry desert still weeps tears of gratitude when it coughs up the blood of the heroes and the bones of the martyrs of that great day. We hear the chorus loud and clear as the trumpets proclaim the news, but also other words sung in more muted tones. Of the terror upon terror, of the horror upon horror that almost drowned us all in a sea of nightmares.
First it came as a dreadful raining of pestilence from the skies. It spread like wildfire across the Steppes, scorching the summer flowers, poisoning their nectar so that the bees could not drink and the Great Khan could not enjoy his libation cups of Boal.
The women in our yurts wailed and lamented, rending their hair. The children struggled to suckle on parched breasts, and all cried out in desperation. “What has become of that gentle night, the gentle night folding us in its robes of warm dreams, wrapping us in sheer mists of welcoming sleep and now but a death shroud threaded in leaden grief. What is that growls so loudly in the heavens?”
And their parents answer, voices trembling. They are Things that even the Devil would forswear and yet they have come. Their great barrel of black metal hangs low over the land, its shadow creeping over the Great Camp, swallowing all hope.
But with lance and sinewy bow upon the backs of our brave little ponies, we still charged across the plain to meet them headlong, howls of fury in our throats. Called to arms were we by the Great Khan he who sought to unite all the tents of the hundred tribes together in union, no longer at each other’s throats, but brothers in arms and so vast in array that one day would blot out the sun with our numbers and thus tattoo our name upon the face of history. This too was prophesied, and knew we soon come to pass. And our hearts thus emboldened, we hearkened, our heads and banners held high, now facing those that did not come from this Earth. Forward we urged our ponies straight into Hell’s yawning maw. Forward!
But on close approach these Things that came down from the sky terrified our horses, our brave ponies vomiting in fear, stumbling legs flailing, wild-eyes blinded. Seeing this great storm of panic, the Great Khan’s Vanguard with their swords drawn, bow strings drawn tight, set forth against those hordes of loathsome creatures now disgorging from the sky machine, now slithering on the ground. These mighty warriors of the Vanguard hailed from the land of the Ice Giants, those said to have slain dragons and quelled the cave dwelling Masmalukes and who we call Lightning Bolts, raced forward unafraid, teeth-bared.
And these red-furred Heroes from the North raise high their great hammers and axes to crush the creatures that slid forth, they swelling as a tidal wave swarming across the steppes, those that turned fire into ice and ice into fire, that turned Light into Darkness.
And leading the Lightnings against this Evil is one called Rigar the Thrice-Armed. Yes, three arms he raises. And he carries three weapons, strange weapons, one in each hand. A lasso of fire, a bar of iron and a hammer that cracks the earth. The things that slithered across the ground rose up on their many legs in clawed threat as he drew near. Their tide swells, fangs agape, yet he presses the attack. He rides forth on his six-legged stallion, yes six-legged and scale covered. Where did he come from you ask? Not from the North for He is no Lightning, yet the Lightnings follow him. They whisper that he too comes from whence these other creatures spawned. He has known them before. Fought them before.
The creatures recognize him, turn and flee back up into the belly of the Great Black Barrel that hangs in the sky. Rigar the Thrice-Armed gathers us to him, tells us the abominations are not alone, act only as the slaves of something that guides them with an unseen hand, and we must pull it down from that great thing in the sky, must draw it out from its infernal nest and slay it.
Rigar rides forth, his six-legged scaly horse charging, his three arms smashing, bringing fire to their fire. Then the trumpets blare for the Great Khan himself has arrived bearing his flurry of banners and great golden lance. He joins the battle and allied shoulder to shoulder with Rigar they set out to slay the King of the creatures. They clasp hands and climb, climb up the shining golden thread into the belly of the Great Black Barrel. From below we watch in awe.
They draw out the creatures’ King, its horrible form exposed. Legs like a thousand spiders thrashing, slashing. It spits and bites and its smaller guardians flow over the Khan and Rigar and red blood is mixed with the creatures’ green ooze. Their King’s blood rains down upon us, upon the other slithering things. Now they screech in panic. We pierce them with our countless arrows, slash them with our swords, gnash them with our own teeth. They drag us down. We fight to the surface. Terror upon terror. Horror upon horror. Yet now our ponies have regained their strength, no longer afraid, their sharpened hooves trample the creatures, joining the melee that lasts from dawn to sunset, drowning the sun in blood.
It is a battle that shatters the hills, gouges the soil and at the very end ignites a great fountain of flame that broils and foams in the sky and the creatures flee back into their great machine and it struggles to leave but the Great Khan and Rigar the Thrice-Armed hold tight their monstrous king and rend the thing in half, in quarters. Draped in its gore, they climb down the shining golden thread and stand amongst us, our victory cheers echoing across the Steppes.
We watch the craft wobbling in the sky. Soon it falls to the ground and there it burns, it burns with an unquenchable flame. Our children and grandchildren and their grandchildren will still watch it burn.
We call that place Munkh Gal… the Place of Eternal Fire. And the tongueless Moldazian conscripts are singing in triumph. Can you hear them? Sing with us. Sing of the great victory over the Steppes.