A billowing snake of smoke coiled itself around Father-Mother's shaking form, their breathing heavy and knuckles clenched with concentration as they parsed the vision that swam behind their twitching eyes.
Through the azure flames that burned beside them, Father-Mother saw the vision they had beheld in the days before Rain-Born left the tribe. Once again, they commanded the voice that emanated from the flames to reveal the mystery held within the two figures that appeared before them, wreathed in fire.
In the Forest of Iron, the voice intoned, A snake will crawl on her belly through the trees towards a golden apple.
Father-Mother nodded their sweating head.
A black dragon will come, soaring upon wings of fire, the voice continued. Within its mouth rides a scarred wolf.
Here it comes, Father-Mother thought.
Below the golden apple, the snake will challenge the dragon. She shall feel the claws of the wolf. And the wolf will taste her poison fangs.
But who shall prevail? Father-Mother demanded, their tone harsh and guttural within the dream world where they were nothing but voice and ear.
The vision clouded.
No! Father-Mother called out again. They reached out their hands involuntarily to stop the vision from dissipating and then heard themselves cry out in pain in the waking world.
Father-Mother's eyes opened, and they looked at their burned hands slowly. They clenched their fingers and squeezed their new burns as though trying to absorb them into their ancient skin.
The vision's final images were still clouded to their discerning eyes. They listened to the voice and tried to peer through the mists that obscured the form of both snake and dragon entangled in combat, each reptile wounding the other in equal measure. But the moment of victory was still kept hidden from Father-Mother. The fires of the future became wrapped up with the mists of memory as the Elder tried to glance upon the end of what they had set in motion. They saw the death of the Old World – all the agonizing, the screaming, and the great battles between the Old Worlders' technological horrors and the creatures of the Deadlands that they had unleashed upon their realm. The old kingdoms fell, and Father-Mother saw themselves standing amidst the ashes. And the Hanakh crowded around them, looking for answers. Father-Mother had found them in their visions, and their people had venerated these sights and soon came also to worship Father-Mother as their first Elder.
Then Father-Mother's mind flew to the day Rain-Born came into this world. They had looked at the furious eyes of the child as she lay upon the desert sands and saw that this one was of purpose. Their visions upon that rain-swept night told them this child heralded change. This tiny babe, taking its mother as its first victim, would be a valuable instrument. But the death of the mother was a bad omen. The Great Spirit was warning Father-Mother with each bolt of lightning that struck the scarred plains of the earth upon the night of the girl's birth.
This one would be strong. In body and mind. But what did a strong mind really mean? Strong in the Tribe? Or strong in the Self?
Father-Mother thought back to the vision – that of the snake and the dragon embroiled in mortal combat amidst the reignited flames of an iron graveyard. She swallowed hard as she recalled with fear the lack of clarity in the conclusion. It was like a puzzle without its final piece. It was a painting that required but one last brush stroke they could not provide. Everything hinged upon this vision, the Elder knew. But they could not wait for the smoke to dissipate within their mind. They could not leave the fate of their people to chance.
They had known that the girl could not survive, not against the warriors of the Old World. That alone sparked their plan of conquest. Yet now there was doubt – the murderer of the mind.
Father-Mother grabbed a handful of sand from beneath their feet and let it run through their withered fingers, watching the tiny grains slip through the grooves in their hand and return to the ground.
They did not know what end would come. But they could feel the signs. Father-Mother looked upon the falling sands and saw that no matter how hard they gripped, they could not stop the grains from returning to their source.
Perhaps that was to be their destiny, after all, Father-Mother thought. To return to the Great Spirit as one.
Suddenly, the aged Elder heard the sound of activity approaching their tent outside. Muffled voices and barked commands told them that this was a warrior entourage.
They straightened their back and resumed their meditation, pushing all questions from their mind. Now was not the time to hesitate.
The tent's flap was thrown open, and in strode the form of a robed specter whose cranium touched the very top of the tent. Intricate patterning adorned their cloak – images of various animals and creatures of the wastes interconnected in a mosaic, each animal form sinuous and bright. Dominating the entire fresco was the image of a white wolf baring its fangs in the center.
This imposing figure was flanked on either side by two male warriors encased in the carapace armor fashioned from the bones of felled Canyon Stalkers. The Stalkers' mandibles draped over these men's heads and amplified the menacing capacity for violence inherent in their dark gazes. The armor was the distinctive marker of the Guthra elite cadre – the honor guard of their Elder who protected her with their lives. Father-Mother knew the rest of the guard would be breaking bread with the warriors of the Hanakh at this moment. The Elder and her closest attendants were to be Father-Mother's guests of honor.
Only when the robed one had stood before Father-Mother did they open their eyes to address them.
"Quiet-Storm," they said. "We welcome you."
The face of the Guthra Elder was smooth but jaded – lines of tension were engrained on her pallid skin, and her stern, sapphire eyes were painted over with droplets of blue. It gave the impression of one forever weeping.
"Father-Mother," she said, her voice hoarse and guttural. "We of the Guthra accept this invitation."
She sat cross-legged on the carpet before Father-Mother, beckoning her guardsmen to do the same. For a time, both Elders merely stared into the eyes of the other, looking past the physical, assessing the mind beneath the veneer of flesh and blood.
"Your huntsman, Ragged-Brow," Quiet-Storm began. "Is known to us as an honorable spirit. We felt it unjust to take well-earned meat from his skilled hands."
Father-Mother kept their gaze steady. This was the way of Quiet-Storm – bandying subtle insults and affronts to test her enemies. Father-Mother noted that there was mocking in the Guthra's acceptance of their aid – it was Ragged-Brow whom they praised, not Father-Mother. Ragged-Brow was a skilled hunter, a man of violence. The Guthra understood that. Here the Elder was prodding Father-Mother. The message was clear: we respect your warriors. Not you.
"A sword is nothing without a mind to direct it towards one's enemy," Father-Mother countered. "One dagger tempered by wisdom serves better than two dull blades."
Father-Mother cast a quick glance at both of Quiet-Storm's honor guard and noted that the Guthra Elder's thin lip began to purse. But to Father-Mother's surprise, the Elder did not react with anger.
"Our people have suffered from too much wisdom," Quiet-Storm simply replied. "Is that not why you have brought us here today?"
Father-Mother nodded sagely.
"We are both Shephards, Quiet-Storm," they said. "Our goal should be the unity of our people. Yet we have always stood divided."
"Difference breeds hatred," Quiet-Storm replied sadly. "Hatred breeds war. You ask us to break the cycle that defines humankind."
"If our differences cannot be reconciled, why have you come here?"
Quiet-Storm breathed a heavy sigh. "Once, I did not think so. Once, I flew above my people and watched them destroy the Hanakh as the vulture watches its prey slowly rot in the sun. Vengeance was what guided our blades and magicks. You well know this."
Father-Mother nodded. They did.
"But," the Guthra Elder continued. "We have grown old and seen our people suffer as well as yours. We have watched our family burn by the might of a black dragon of the Old World." Quiet-Storm seemed to shudder at the memory, and her hand flew to her chest – to the image of the white wolf painted there.
"Okku has watched his people be consigned to the flame, and his tears have still not washed away our grief. The Old World is coming for us, Father-Mother. We have seen with our own eyes the warriors that can fell entire hunting packs with their Deathspitters. The Deadlands shall burn once more. Make no mistake of this."
"We have seen this thing too," Father-Mother said. "Darkness has come to the wastes. Storm clouds gather on the horizon that seek to smite the world anew. A war is coming – one to end all wars. We have heard that your Okku speaks of this, though we do not follow the teachings."
Quiet-Storm nodded in agreement, gazing over the burning flames beside Father-Mother.
"The white wolf foretells a great conflagration. The dragons of the old shall fill the skies, blackening the Deadland's watchful sun. I believe in my pain that Okku has allowed us to see this heresy as a warning."
Father-Mother gave a thinly veiled smile. It was in their best interest to appropriate the teachings of the Guthra's patron deity, Okku the White, to persuade the Elder of their intentions. The wolf had once been a hunting dog of the Great Spirit before he absconded from the sacred Hunting Grounds, planting his seed in the fertile Earth and offering his tears to let it grow into the first of the Guthra. This was the origin tale of the Guthra faith. And, like all faiths, its tenants were resources for Father-Mother to use.
"Okku has spoken the truth," Father-Mother responded calmly. "He and the Great Spirit have borne the same message to our tribes. We must stand as one to meet the threat that is coming."
"And this is the reason for your gift to us," Quiet-Storm whispered, as though the statement was a heretical admission. "You have shown compassion to your enemies but are not so weak as to expect nothing in return."
"This is the way of the Hanakh," Father-Mother replied. "We do not strike a wounded hunter. We guide them to their feet, and their arrows fly alongside our own as we journey home."
"We are one in this, Father-Mother," Quiet-Storm said, relief passing over her tense features like droplets of frozen rain. "My soul is burdened with the bodies I have buried; my once proud Guthra slaughtered like animals. And my spirit is charged with too much blood of your people."
She inclined her head in a gesture so unbecoming that her warriors beside her turned their faces to look upon their Elder. Yet in their eyes, Father-Mother saw not anger in this apparent supplication but the sadness of those who had recently been forced to bury their brothers, wives, and children. A myopia of sorrow clouded their vision, as it did the eyes of their Elder.
At this moment Father-Mother uttered a guttural command in the Hanakh tongue, and a small boy bearing the marks of the house of the snake entered the Elder's tent. He was well regarded by the guests, who marked him for his lithe yet powerful bones. He would make a great warrior in the battles to come.
He came bearing a clay pot containing a black, frothing liquid and three small clay glasses for those assembled. As he poured, Father-Mother addressed the Guthra entourage.
"Let us make our pact as we injest the potion of our ancestors."
The Guthra each nodded at the gesture, recognizing the concoction as the Harma-Durr, or 'Clangunge' – the liquid each tribe kept specifically to sanctify an agreement. The liquid's use was one of the only unifying factors between the Hanakh and Guthra faiths.
Each Elder raised a glass, and then the warriors of Quiet-Storm followed suit.
They drank in silence.
Quiet-Storm allowed herself a moment of tranquility – that which was ill afforded to her in these days of fire and blood. The liquid was intoxicating as it traveled down her throat, and she felt her head swim with the serenity of her ancestors flowing through her veins. Finally, she could rest.
"M-My Elder..."
The pained voice came from the warrior to her right. And the instant she heard it, she knew something was wrong.
She turned to see the warrior gagging helplessly, blood streaming from his eyes and nostrils and his form collapsing to the ground twitching in spasm and shock. She then barely registered the piercing cry of her other honor guard as he made to unsheathe his blade and lunge towards Father-Mother, only to be struck in his neck with a bolt the size of a pin and collapse onto the dry sand that was soaked by the scarlet fountain that sprayed from his wound. Quiet-Storm"s eyes flew to Father-Mother to see that the dagger had come from beneath their sleeve, fired at point-blank range from a mechanism hidden under their robe. She then heard the cries of anguish that filled the air outside and knew what this meeting truly meant, as her thoughts had not allowed her to believe.
She staggered away from the stern eyes of Father-Mother, who did nothing to dissuade her from leaving the tent. She collapsed onto her knees outside as the poison she had just ingested snaked through her, eating away at her intestines like a plague of bubonic rats nibbling away at a fresh corpse. Her eyes surveyed the tents of the Hanakh where her other warriors were emerging – doubled over in pain, vomiting, and finally being cut down by machetes and daggers by the male and female warriors who descended on them like a pack of locusts. Women whom Quiet-Storm had greeted with dignity and who had smiled at her with babes in their arms. These same men and women were those who had invited her warriors to share their households, as was proper among guests.
Now they tore apart her children as they floundered on the desert sands, dying painfully from the corruption they had voluntarily taken into themselves.
She saw some of her guards still fighting – some of them that had not taken the diabolical concoction. Yet her heart grew heavy, and her eyes streamed with red rivers of tears as she watched them outnumbered by Hanakh hunters that flew at them, bellowing battle cries that pierced the silent night.
Her hands clenched her stomach, and she let a shrill scream of agony fly to the heavens above when she saw the last of her warriors finally cut down.
"You told us your soul was too much charged with the blood of our people," came a voice behind her.
Quiet-Storm turned painfully to see Father-Mother licking the residue of antivenom from their lips. Her voice was caught in her throat. Her heart was ready to vacate this world.
"We shall keep your body preserved among us," Father-Mother said as the footsteps of their Hanakh hunters edged closer. "And our children shall see how you wept tears of crimson."
Quiet-Storm felt the hands of one hunter pull her hood back and grab her braided hair. Before the blade was drawn across her throat, her eyes flew to the sky and begged Okku to show her mercy, for she had led her people into damnation.
The hunter who killed her let her body fall to the ground amidst cheers from his fellow warriors and a nod of approval from his Elder. He watches his people drag the bodies away, and wipes his bloodied machete on the sands. But he does not watch as the Guthra Elder is beheaded, only hears the joy in his brethren"s cries. He sees the hatred in their eyes for one they have never seen. They despised what she was without knowing who she was.
The hunter knew this because he had felt the tears staining her cheeks and the terror that had adorned her face at the end. He'd never forget it as long as he lived.
His hands had moved independently of his body to cut her down. His mind told him this was done to please his Elder, to whom his life was owed. But his heart told him other things. His soul had yearned not to kill the woman out of spite but simply to stem the flow of her tears. He could not bear to witness her painted face stained so.
And yet, around him now crowded the farmers and mothers of the Hanakh who had witnessed the actions of his warriors. Those of the Ash, the Snake, and the Hawk who had risen from their slumber when they heard the sounds of a battle that was over in mere minutes. Some children ran up to the bodies and cheered, kicking the Guthra where they lay. Their parents mostly held back and did nothing more than stare at Ragged Brow as his warriors set to cutting the bodies apart. They had known nothing of this treacherous plan. Their faces conveyed confusion, fear, and something else Ragged-Brow had never thought he would see painted on their hollow faces: betrayal.
"Come now, my child," Father-Mother said above him, beckoning him to enter their tent amidst cheers of victory from the tribe. "We have a war to plan."
He did not move. His eyes were fixated on the children who screamed with joy to see their enemies die. They followed the warriors who carted the bodies off, hoping for a skull or finger to brandish around their necks as a trophy. Those same children would grow up believing in what he did this day. They would grow up believing that their cause was righteous.
For that was what Father-Mother told them. All of them. What else could they believe?
"Ragged-Brow!"
His Elder's bellow took him by surprise, and he bowed quickly.
Slowly, Ragged-Brow followed his Elder into their abode, stopping only at the tent's flap to observe the blood running down his shaking fingers.
He knew the adults of the Tribe were still staring at him, begging their eyes to deny what they had just seen him do. They were making the same realization he had already been forced to make. This was what the Hanakh were now.
"May my hands forget their transgression," he whispered before entering the tent and leaving the world behind.