Timur, the last great conqueror of the east, the sacker of a thousand cities, the Attila’s Attila, looked forth at his campaign against the Sibir. Ah, yes, soon their second city will fall. The road will lay bare on the path to their capital. Soon it will be his, part of his all-consuming flame.
Then he shook his eight ball.
“Magic eight ball of history! Shall I take Chimgi-Tura and ride on with my hordes to the gates of Qashliq?!”
“No. Don’t plan on it.”
“You heard me.”
Timur plans to have his snarky eight ball thrown into the bottom of the Aral Sea, where archeologists can find it on the drained surface of the lake millennia later. It will make a nice piece in the “Museum of Medieval World Warfare” in a Hermitage someday.
However, before he curses himself, Timur declares peace with Qashliq. Somewhere in his keep, the little black ball snickers to himself. Attila will have his first pick of the Sibir cities or, more likely, will settle his own over their ashes as he burns his way into Siberia.