March of the Steam Titans

The Draiocht were victorious in battle. Even as their fallen brethren were lifted up by the ancestor spirits to begin their journey to the sacred places, the surviving warriors disappeared into the forest to bind their wounds and regroup. The weapons of the city-men had been powerful, but unguided by the spirits they were no match for the fury of the Draiocht.

Kulain nursed his wounded shoulder as he made his way stealthily back through the forest. Blackened blood mixed with dirt and sweat caked the long brown hair near his neck and soiled his hide tunic. He had backtracked through the woods for a day and a half to reach the rendezvous point and had yet to stop to clean himself. He risked the blood-poison, he knew, but the need to reunite with his brothers was too great to delay.

The evening grew colder as Kulain crested a green rise and spotted the carefully-concealed shelters of the clan. They would be invisible to all but the most trained hunter. The camp was quiet. There was movement and light in the wooded basin to the north of the tents. He made his way toward the small clearing where the clan leaders would meet to plan.

Kulain stepped lightly into the sage’s circle, a barely audible rustle the only sign of his passage through the dense underbrush. Twenty warriors were gathered there around the bowed, hooded figure of Hamedin, the ancient seer who had guided them across the mountains. Pungent white smoke arose from a tiny stone vessel on the ground before him. Several nodded a welcome in his direction, but all attention was on the sage.

Kulain felt the soft breath of the spirits drift through the clearing. He had expected to see his brothers-in-arms celebrating their victory with dancing and sacrifice, but instead they stood around the ritual fire in silence. The Draiocht shuffled about restlessly. Something was wrong. The eldest war leader, Thoric, stood before Hamedin.

“What do the spirits say, old one?” he asked. “Why are they not triumphant? Why may we not celebrate our success?”

The old man swayed against his gnarled walking staff, his sightless eyes twisting about in the growing twilight. Kulain and the rest of the men felt the spirits stir. A cold breeze rattled through the treetops.

“The ancestors are pleased,” rasped the sage, “but the animals are restless. They sense a new presence in the mountains.” Hamedin dropped to his knees and began to draw runes in the dirt. “It is not of the world, but something of man. It is… dangerous.”

The smoke from the ritual fire swirled in a sudden gust of wind. With the ingrained skills of a Draiocht warrior, Kulain instantly saw the signs in the forest that bespoke danger – small animals scurried for shelter, insects quieted, flights of birds burst noisily from the trees and flew west. The others felt it, too, and then they felt a rhythmic thumping rumble through the woods.

“Something approaches!” Hamedin’s eyes widened, the milky-white orbs strained at some unseen vision. “The spirits, they flee!”

“To battle!” cried Thoric. The warriors drew their weapons and rushed back to the camp. Thoric pushed Hamedin into the hands of one of the scouts and ordered him to take cover, and then he joined his brethren. Kulain, his own wounds forgotten, ran to take his position at the defense of the camp.

Atop the rise, the defenders concealed themselves in the forest and awaited the enemy. The sound of distant thunder rolled in with the gloom like an approaching storm, but came up from the ground instead of echoing from the sky. Kulain felt the earth beneath him pound as if struck over and over with a blacksmith’s hammer. The trees before him rocked and swayed, and in the distance, they began to fall. Whatever vexed the spirits now charged at them, laying the very trees to waste as it came.

Twenty yards in front of Kulain, young Ferdin the hunter stood and began unleashing arrows at the form advancing toward them. Faster then Kulain could have imagined, a black monster, twice the height of the tallest warrior and reeking of smoke, erupted from the trees and slashed at Ferdin. The distance of the strike seemed impossible, but the hunter’s body collapsed upon the giant silver blade like a delicate fern. The monster tossed Ferdin away easily, drawing back a crimson-coated blade that glistened in the evening light.

Ferdin’s body landed only steps from Kulain, and the young warrior instinctively leapt to his ally’s side, but the results of the terrible blow were obvious. The boy’s body was shattered and his eyes were dark. Kulain sucked down his rising bile and turned a hate-filled gaze upon the giant, which he now saw clearly as it bore down on him.

The thing was man-shaped, but towered twice again as wide and tall as any man. It wore bulbous metal armor on its chest, arms and legs, and metal gears of improbable design jutted from its joints in baroque fashion. The head was low and squat on the shoulders with blackened slats for eyes, and where the mouth should have been there was a sharp sloping guard piece like the front catchers on the city-men’s trains. Impossibly huge hands with thick clockwork fingers clicked and clattered, while the rumbling engine on its back belched fire and smoke into the trees. Kulain judged it to be the size of a ritual standing stone, but it moved with the speed of a cat. Now it moved toward him.

With a cry that was half fear and half rage he charged the Titan, spear held high, but one mighty sweep of a mechanical hand was all it took to send him flying. The breath exploded from his lungs as he felt ribs crack and blood spew from his lips. He struck the ground and the underbrush closed around him with scratching fingers.

The Titan moved on with loud sickening footsteps, but Kulain lay broken on the forest floor. His eyes searched for his brothers in the dim light of the evening. Through the canopy of leaves that surrounded him, he caught glimpses of other warriors battling the monsters. Screams filled the night as giant silver blades felled trees and warriors with equal ferocity. Kulain saw a fleeting image of Thoric held aloft by one of the beasts. His midsection was crushed by one huge metal hand as he battered the wide head with his sword. The blade rang out against the steel armor ineffectually. He died shouting to the ancestors for revenge. Kulain silently joined the cry.

Others ran before the onslaught, and Kulain saw a glimmer of flame spread through the camp. He lifted himself painfully to his knees and saw one of the Titans holding a large horn-shaped pipe. Fire spewed from its mouth and licked at the trees. The blue twilight quickly gave way to the angry red light of a raging forest fire.

Kulain stood on aching, wobbly legs and began to stumble away from the carnage. To run from battle was a disgrace, but he had no presence of mind to remember the laws of the ancestors. The spirits had left them to die, and the only strength left to him was the feral instinct for survival. He stumbled, tripping over the body of Ferdin, and then he ran. The Draiocht ran for what seemed like forever. He ran west, seeking the safety and comfort of his homeland.

Across the Highgreen Mountains, other camps and other clans found the same fate as Kulain and his brothers. Black smoke and the screams of the fearless heralded nightfall on the tribes of the Draiocht – and a new dawn for the forces of Tarsis.