26 of Ol-Mar

Year of 1268 of the Sixteenth Cycle

The Hold of the Volcanic Warriors, Igneosaur.

Borayikara stares at the shattered remains of his master. An Obsidian-scarred, peerless in all aspects, respected and feared regardless of friend or foe. A mentor, a trainer — and at some points, almost a father. His master had taught him the Runes, had made him a respectful Batuphong and put him on the rail to becoming an Obsidian-scarred himself. Boray looks at the massive hulking creature that had smote this brilliant Koltor with a single blow. It smiles a horrific smile, the lower half of its lip removed to reveal spiked red-coated teeth. Tight grey skin leads to eyes as black as unlit caverns, staring at him like a beast watching prey. It towers over Boray, a full half of him again, and the hammer it holds is yet another half higher, ready to be brought down to pulverise his flesh in a single blow. Every instinct fails him. Every piece of Runic magic taught to him fails to connect in his fear-addled mind. He drops his shield and runs, passing fellow Batuphong that tussle with smaller Skorodae. When he reaches the exit to the walls, he kicks the lever, dropping him quickly. Two more Koltor run to him, two more of his fellow brothers-in-arms. They shout at him to wait but he does not. As the Skorodae approach, they swing around and scream their last battle-cries, fighting to the last. That should have been him. It should have. Why wasn’t it?

Two corpses fall down as he looks away, smashing into the soft-stone of the elevator. He can feel the impact rumble though the stone and through his body. He forces himself to look up, but is only greeted by sadistic smiles. They stare down at him, letting out strange gargling noises that sound like tortured and corrupted laughter before kicking more corpses down at him. One flies straight for him, forcing him to move. That brings a round of gargling from them. His face burns in anger. Mercifully, they cannot do anything to him. The stone walls are smoothed to perfection, making climbing down impossible, and only the lever on the elevator controls it - for this exact reason. That’s what he tells himself, at least, before he hears a rumble from above. He looks up just in time to see a massive stone block fall towards him, and he presses himself up against the wall. It smashes through the thin stone of the elevator platform, taking him with it. Suddenly he’s in the air, surrounded by stone, hurtling towards certain death at the hands of gravity. His mind reacts quicker than he thought possible, and he touches the nearby wall, inscribing a set of runes so fast he can barely read them. Magnetise - Strong - Touch is the chain that sprawls over the wall, and his hand connects with it, sticking him to the wall like he was glue. He goes to take a deep breath only to realise the danger is not gone.

A roar of unmistakable frustration comes through the shaft, and then the only sound is the breaking of stone. The massive Skorodae that killed his master is taking huge swings with his hammer, breaking massive blocks of stone from the nearby walls and having them fall down the shaft. Boray presses himself against the wall and then pulls his hand away, dropping down into the shaft. A piece of razor-sharp stone stabs itself into the stone where he had just been, then another large piece of rock shatters it in turn. He digs his hands into the stone, feeling his stone-blessed blood carve small grooves into the shaped rock; enough to slow his descent. He lands hard, his leg twisting under his weight, and he grabs it and looks up only to see certain death approaching. He rolls, exiting the elevator shaft as a massive block of stone crushes the exit. He scrambles backwards, looking around for any more threats. Finally he is allowed to take a breath… but only one, for he hears a clattering behind him. He looks out of the window that overlooks Igneosaur, the Hold of the Volcanic Warriors.

Molten magma rains from the skies, fired from Skorodaen catapults, but that’s not where the clattering has come from. No, there are Skorodae warriors climbing down the side with long folded-up ladders. He stands, forcing himself to hobble away even as he hears the Skorodae screaming at him from behind. It will take them a while to climb down from the massive walls, and he should not be there when they land. Igneosaur falls as a giant does; a long, arduous process that leaves behind a legacy of death. The Skorodae had breached the walls and slaughtered Stonescarred and Unblemished alike. Even the greatest of the hold had fallen. His master, and the rest of the Obsidian-scarred. Why? Why have the gods forsaken the Koltor? Why are they left at the mercy of the Skorodae even after the loss of the Inner Mountains. These questions, things of grief and pain, hurtle through his mind as he retreats into the city. Waves after waves after waves of magma-splatter begins to cover the Hold, as though the Skorodae intent to flood it with what the Koltor of Igneosaur hold most dear; the blaze of Igneo.

Soon, he arrives at the market, the fastest path to the Runerail. He thoughts are filled with a strange nostaliga and a deep melancholy. This is where he had decided to join the Batuphong; to become a warrior of Igneosaur. What a pathetic idea that had been. He was a coward. He had failed to even hold his ground. He wasn’t worthy of the title of Batuphong. Someone screams. A child. He rushes over, seeing a young Koltor stuck under a collapsed archway. He immediately sets to work, pulling up stones despite the rising pain in his leg. He ignores it and ignores it… until he tries to lift the largest of the stones and his leg gives way. He crumples to the ground, clutching his leg. It’s then that he becomes aware of his predicament. How much time had he spent trying to rescue a child that was almost certainly doomed? Even if he would survive, his legs must be crushed completely. What will happen? Can he carry the child with an injured leg?

His heart stands till. The answer is no. It doesn’t matter which way the cake is sliced; he cannot save this child. The boy’s eyes are full of fear and agony and sorrow, and he seems to notice the change in Boray’s mind. He pleads and begs as Boray stands up, hardening his heart and his gaze. He gives the child one last look and a small gift of apology; mutter of useless words. But he isn’t sorry. How could he be? He had no choice. He sets off, putting as little weight on the leg as he can. He’s nearly out of the market when the boys pleas turn to screams. He starts, then looks back. What hardening of his heart he had done now shatters like the softest stone. The heat of magma had melted stone above the boy, and now it drips down onto him. It lands in heavy droplets on his hands, his back, and the top of his head. Boray stands watching, unable to rip his eyes away, perhaps forcing himself as penance to watch the child’s flesh melt and slough off of his body as he is buried in a prison of death and pain.

He takes two steps backwards and then continues on. But any thoughts leave his mind. He only hopes that his family did not meet a similar end. It’s not his fault. It’s not. It’s the Skorodae. Yes. He’ll be able to leave here and join the Batuphong of another Hold. Then he’ll train and fight and kill the Skorodae, and avenge the child. That’s all he can do. That’s all he needs to do. To make it right.

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Tears and screams of sorrow greet him at the entrance to the runerail. All over the platforms of the rail, where normally people would wait to board the Runerail, people are instead laid down or treating others. Either that or crying. He steps over people, finding space in the mass of bodies, trying to find his family. Yet he cannot see them. Perhaps that is a good thing. They were near the Runerail. They must have escaped, they must be safe in Kraganor, the next hold. It would only take an hour or so to reach it. A thought comes to his mind. If the Runerail has already left… would it even come back? He knows the answer in him. The Koltor of Kraganar are harsh; practical, and pragmatic. They would not surrender a tactical advantage to the enemy. The Runerail could deliver Skorodae right to the doorstep of Kraganar. The tunnel would be easy enough to block, a simple collapse of the stone above it. Others, mainly Batuphong, have realised it. By coming to the Runerail instead of fleeing to the Great Valley, they have sealed their fate. Some give in to this despair, some are angered by it… but Borayikara remembers the words his mentor had drilled into him; “To those who continue to walk even in danger or in fear, there will be a way the stone knows.”

He hadn’t know what it meant… but something calls him to the tunnel. Where the Runerail would normally travel. Kraganar would block it off… but yet it calls to him. And so he goes, crossing bodies both living and dying to jump from the stone platform and continue to walk. His leg screams at him… yet somehow he finds the ability to start running. It is by no means a fast run, barely faster than a normal walk, but he feels a sense of freedom and safety. He hears footsteps behind him, but he doesn’t look back. There could be nobody or a thousand people that follow and it would feel the same to him. He doesn’t even know how long he runs, but eventually there is only darkness. Any light from the Hold’s cavernous body has left completely. He had once asked why the tunnel walls are so close to the Runerail itself, and his father had once simple answer; if not for that, then the Atacchnai might be able to eat them all up as they travelled. He had remembered giggling at that thought. What could spiders do to a mighty Koltor Warrior?

How wrong he had been. It started with strange gurgles in the dark, then a scream of pain as flesh was rent from bone. His face is sprayed by blood as something to the right of him dies; a Koltor for definite, but who? A nameless soul in their own little abyss. He speeds up, fear driving him; all feeling of safety erased into infinite terror. There is a blast of sound and a rush of wind. Someone had used a Rune. There’s a screech of pain and a brief flash of light as the Atacchnai smashes into the ceiling from the Rune. That’s when he sees it. All around them are Atacchnai both big and small; spiders the size of humans or even Varg, and tiny little creatures that swarm around them, scuttling on tiny legs. Training kicks in, and he withdraws himself into his mind. The most dangerous part of Atacchnai is not their bodies but their minds. As he focuses on himself and his thoughts, he feels their tendrils crawl in his mind, probing his body and finding it stalwart. Others are not so lucky; one Koltor, a man by the sounds of it, screams out in pain and drops to the floor, audibly crying for help before he dies a quick death. Borayikara’s mind tries to remember the details of his lessons on Atacchnai and fails, the memories fading from his mind… They are in his head… erasing his memories of how to deal with them. It’s not fair, it’s not fair. Despair starts to take him, and he feels the probes into his mind grow deeper. As they connect with him, he connects with them. What do they feel? Endless, endless agony, a screaming mass of pain and torture.

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Thoughts of peace are eaten as thoughts of ripping and destroying and eating burn their way into the minds of both Boray and the Atacchnai around him. His despair becomes theirs and their torture becomes his. And then it stops. He’s written on his arms; he didn’t even pay attention to himself doing it. There are Runic Chains across his legs too — in fact, they cover his body from head to toe. They glow a distinct and bright colour — a colour of warning. He’s no longer easy prey, and as such the Atacchnai retreat from his mind as he grows further from the screaming.

Some time passes, and he falls to the ground. It’s over. He cannot run any further. It’s completely over. He’s dead. He just has to lie there and die. It’s easy. It’s simple.

But death doesn’t come. Instead, there feels a presence in the dark. A calm and polite voice speaks to him. “You have seen your world destroyed. You have seen the strong die like the weak, and the weak slaughtered. The Gods have betrayed the Koltor — they have betrayed you. You were meant to be the next Champion, but the Gods have delayed and delayed your coming.”

An insurmountable pressure lands on his entire body, and a hand reaches down, small tendrils of light digging into his knee. Pain fills him in droves, and he tries to cry out only for a hand to snap to his mouth, muzzling him tightly. “Do not scream. You will attract the Atacchnai — I would prefer not to be seen,” he says, then he seems to think for a second. “Nor felt.”

The pain stops and the pressure releases. It feels as though energy bursts from Borayikara’s frame, and he stands up, fumbling around in the dark. “You are not Koltor. I can feel it in your voice. There is no hardness, no stone. You are… human? Why are you here?”

The human doesn’t answer. “You will believe my words when you see the path ahead of you. You will be certain that they have betrayed you to the last man. Not just the Gods, mind you. When you realise, when you truly see the world for what it is; I urge you to fight it. Your goal should be that which the Gods hold most dear. Goodbye.”

Borayikara’s mind reels, and he goes to ask another question but a resounding certainty overtakes him. He did not see or feel the man’s presence leave; but he knows it to be gone completely. He doesn’t even know which way he came from, so he picks a direction and continues his journey. He doesn’t know how long it has been, but Kraganar and Igneosaur are perhaps the absolute closest in vicinity to each other of all the Holds. The Runerail ride is shorter than any other.

His instincts are correct; he sees light ahead. Hope flutters in his heart. He can do it. He can survive — and not only that, he can muster here with the other surviving Batuphong and retake Igneosaur. His family will be waiting, Father and mother; his four Brothers and three sisters. They will all be waiting.

He crosses the threshold and looks into the natural window in the cavern, looking over Kraganar. Harsh grey stone full of spikes lines the Hold’s walls… but Skorodae stand on said walls, looking out over the city. The massive Spire of Jagged Rock has toppled down into the centre of the city, crushing markets and homes and garrisons and the Bells of Ready that connect the entire city into one network of alerts. It’s only now that Borayikara’s ears catch the bells screaming out in unison. Kraganar has fallen. The Skorodae sit upon the two Northern Holds, the strongest defences of the Koltor. His knees sink into the jagged rock at his feet. His eyes do not see the Runerail. It has already moved on. Kraganar’s Batuphong must have denied the Skorodae access. Skorodaen war-pipes scream out over the city as Koltor warhorns play melodies of defeat.

The stranger’s words echo in his mind. He believes him.

The Gods have truly betrayed the Koltor.

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3 of Hrak

Year of 1263

Outside the Hold of Strong Granite, Krongarnite.

The walls of Krongarnite stand tall, a crowd of refugees below them. It’s been a week since Igneosaur fell. The large stone gate, the first gate of the Koltor, remains closed. Boray sits against it, sipping from a small canteen that has been passed around among the retreating Batuphong. Nobody has asked him about Igneosaur despite the sigil of cooled magma on his shoulder. Above, in the oldest hold of the Koltor, the Kamseng must be planning. They must be plotting revenge on the Skorodae. Boray will be one of the first to join the Karosangsoek, the collective force of retribution. They will assemble Batuphong from across the Holds, even those from Bouldeng and Banteay-Oum. Not a single Skorodae will live to regret the taking of the sacred holds. The non-fighters will be safe in Krongarnite. It is the safest hold there can be.

Hope once more flickers in his heart. It is not the first time a Hold has fallen, but it very well may be the last. After this, the scattered holds will unite once more and join together! It must happen as his mentor said it would. It must.

There is a horn that makes every Koltor look up. Borayikara steps away from the wall. That is the horn of a Kamseng, quite possibly the Kamseng of Krongarnite. High above, on the wall, they inscribe a Runic Chain. He cannot see the runes, but he knows what they must be. Something along the lines of Project - Strong, High - Speak. That would make the most sense. Project their voice high and strong as soon as they speak.

His guess was correct. Soon a voice comes down from above. There are small cheers from the crowd of refugees, smiling and looking up. Their prayers will be answered and food and water will come. Medicine for the injured and vengeance for the scorned.

“Peoples of Igneosaur and Kraganar, you have suffered much. Never in the history of the Koltor have two holds fallen within two days. Our forces are mustering to protect Krongarnite.”

A chorus of cheers comes from the crowd, this time full of hope and full of bluster compared to the almost pathetic cheers of before. Borayikara already knows what he will do as soon as the Gate opens. He will find the nearest guard and ask to join the forces. He will make up for his cowardice. He will.

“However, much to my dismay, the other Holds have not answered the call. We must be ready for a prolonged siege. As such, as the Khun of Krongarnite, I must declare that no refuge will be found here. Food and Water must be retained only for our warriors and our peoples. I am sorry, but you must go elsewhere.”

There is a strange silence that falls after his words. All hope is obliterated. Any sense of safety he had looking upon these walls now recedes into only dismay. He stumbles backwards, then falls over someone else, eliciting an angry shout that seems to spread to those around him. The koltor he had tripped over, a fellow Batuphong by the looks of it, reaches down to grip his arm. He lets out a cry of warning but it’s too late, and the man is sent flying, his arm degloved from the socket. He flies through the crowd and lies in a pool of blood, screaming in pain. Anger-fueled panic starts to ripple and people begin to either shout at the walls or run. Someone else knocks into him as he stands up, and the Runic Chain on his chest triggers, sending the man flying across the small space between Boray and the stone wall. He smashes into it, his skull opening up like a blooming red flower. The pure-white walls contrast the colour of death. The sight of blood makes Boray freeze.

People start to run, and he quickly dismantles the Runic chains on his legs, and stomach. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s pushed over as someone else barges into him. There’s a riot, but it’s futile. He crawls, being kicked and smacked either by choice or by accident. Breath becomes hard to find as he is kicked in the stomach and trampled underneath, his head being pressed against stone over and over until his world goes black. But his hand catches the belt of someone else, and he pulls them off balance, using the gap in the crowd to stand up only to watch the other Koltor suffer the fate he would have suffered. He pushes through the crowd of jostling Koltor, managing to get out of the pull. He catches his breath on the other side. Some Koltor have carved chains of runes into the stone and are climbing the wall. I watch as a thick black liquid pours down the wall, covering the climber in a foul black tar that instantaneously melts into his skin and makes the flesh come loose from his bones. He falls below, splattering anyone around like a Runic Cluster-bomb, spreading the misery. His mind jumps back to the boy he had left to die. They are doing the same. No, they aren’t just leaving them to die; they are doing what the Skorodae did to that child. They are burning indiscriminately. They are murdering and claiming it is to save themselves. As he watches his only remaining Holdsmen try desperately to climb and save themselves only to be burnt or shot or stabbed; he realises a desperate truth. They are no different. These Koltor are no different than the Skorodae. Creatures of base instinct. Monsters.

Words come to his head. The stranger had said them. That he would be betrayed by the gods, but not just them. He had said that Borayikara’s eyes would be opened. That he would see the world for what it truly was. He was right. He could see know what he must do. Take what is most precious to the Gods. He turns, looking towards what would be the centre of the Great Valley.

To the thing that lies there. He can see it like it is a Sun in the stone, burning into his eyes.

He can see it.

The Champion’s Soul.