Kaelor veryl - weltharas continent
The wind clawed at the knight's cloak as he sat astride his horse upon the broken crown of the ridge. From this height the world seemed newly made and already dying... an immense valley stretching beneath a bruised sky, rivers winding like pale scars through the earth.
He did not move for a long while.
The knight was a tall man, broad of shoulder though lean with the hard peregration of one who had ridden far and slept little. Dark mail covered him, dulled by travel and dust, and over it fell a long cloak of deep blue edged in worn gold thread. The cloth rippled restlessly in the mountain wind like a banner that had forgotten the war it once proclaimed. His helm was narrow and severe, the visor lifted just enough for breath and sight. Beneath it his face was pale from cold and altitude, the lines around his mouth speaking of patience more than youth.
In his gauntleted hand he held a tall spear from which a thin banner streamed, a strip of midnight blue embroidered with curling silver sigils that twisted in the air like living things.
His horse shifted beneath him.
It was a powerful destrier, coal-black save for the pale blaze upon its face. The beast wore a barding of thick cloth dyed the same deep blue as the rider's cloak, stitched with jagged golden patterns that ran along its flanks like captured lightning. The horse's breath fogged in the cold air as it stamped once upon the stone, impatient with stillness.
Green plains rolled outward from the mountains, broken by dark ridges and lonely hills. A thin river wandered through the valley floor, glinting faintly where the dying sun broke through the clouds. Far away, where the horizon collapsed into mist and distance, stood a single immense mountain rising like a black tooth from the earth.
Around its peak the clouds churned.
Morgines circled the valley of morgath, three of them, perhaps four, vast winged shadows gliding through the stormlight. Their distant cries were carried thinly upon the wind, a sound that might have been thunder or memory.
The knight watched them without expression.
Behind him rose the mountains of kimarth, home to thousand living creatures such as these. Kimarth mountains climbed into frozen silence; before him lay leagues of empty land and whatever waited beyond that dark peak. The air smelled of snow, wet stone, and the faint metallic promise of rain.
His horse tossed its head.
At last the knight lowered the spear slightly, the banner snapping once in the wind.
Then he turned his gaze down toward the valley roads below.
The world looked peaceful from this height.
It was a lie.
Smoke still rose from the battlefield far below, thin grey pillars drifting lazily upward from scattered pyres and shattered siege wagons. From here the dead were invisible, but the knight knew they were there. Thousands of them.
Men from both sides.
He could still smell the iron of it in the wind.
The horse beneath him shifted again, the great black destrier stamping once again upon the stone. Its barding, deep blue cloth trimmed with curling gold, was stained dark along the edges where blood had dried into the fabric. The beast's breath came slow and heavy, the exhaustion of battle not yet forgotten.
The knight reached down and rested a gauntleted hand against its neck.
He did not look back toward the battlefield.
There had been too many bodies there.
The battle had lasted less than a day. From dawn until the moment the sun broke through the western clouds. Spears shattered, cavalry charges collapsed into screaming chaos, banners fell and were raised again over corpses that had carried them moments before.
In the end they had won.
Merely.
Victory in Weltharas was rarely anything else.
This was the western continent of Sumaka, a land where kings ruled briefly and graves endured longer. Here war was not an event but a condition of life, as natural as rain or winter. Princes inherited crowns the way other men inherited swords...tools meant to be used quickly and often.
Children in Weltharas learned the weight of a blade before they learned the patience of peace.
Kings and princes here breathed less and fought more.
It had always been so.
The old chroniclers claimed the bloodlust of the continent was not born of men alone. Long ago, when the world was young and the gods still walked openly beneath the sky, this land had belonged to Weltharas the War-Bearer, the old god whose name the continent now carried. They said his heart had fallen somewhere upon these plains after the death of the first gods, and that its buried fire still pulsed beneath the soil.
Whether truth or myth, the result was undeniable.
Empires rose here like storms and died just as quickly.
Cities burned. Borders shifted. Oaths were sworn and broken before the ink had time to dry.
And always the ground drank its fill.
The knight watched the distant mountains, where storm clouds gathered around a single towering peak.
Morgines circled there.
Vast shapes gliding through the clouds like living shadows. Their wings cut slow arcs through the grey sky, utterly unconcerned with the petty wars of men below.
Those mountains marked the eastern boundary of Weltharas. Beyond them lay other continents of Sumaka, lands ruled by older powers, stranger gods, and histories far older than the endless feuds of western kings.
But here in Weltharas none of that mattered.
Here the only law that endured was the sword.
The knight shifted slightly in the saddle. His armor creaked softly, dull steel plates layered over chainmail blackened by long use. Scratches marked the metal, thin bright lines left by enemy blades. One deeper gouge cut across the breastplate where a spear had struck earlier that morning.
He had killed the man who wielded it.
The memory stirred no pride.
Below, the valley wind carried faint echoes of movement, men dragging bodies, commanders shouting orders, the distant groan of wagons being pulled across churned earth. The living were already busy burying the dead.
Tomorrow they would march again.
Because that too was the way of Weltharas.
The knight lifted the long spear he carried, allowing the banner tied beneath its blade to snap sharply in the wind.
For a moment he wondered how many banners had fallen today.
How many would fall tomorrow.
His black stallion tossed its head, eager to move.
The knight gave the valley one last look.
Then he turned the horse away from the ridge and began the slow descent toward the battlefield, toward the smoke, the dead, and whatever fragile victory remained waiting below.
In Weltharas, peace lasted only as long as it took to sharpen another sword.
"No more war tomorrow," a solider spat. "King's gone mad. Madder every day now."
Kaelor studied the solider, an old man past fifty, his toothless grin annoyed kaelor.
"Here, solider," kaelor veryl shouted, carefully making his way towards the valley. "Come... Here."
The solider suddenly stopped, dropping the body that he was carrying. Another toothless grin. "Yes, first sword of king cameron, how may I assist you?"
"You can assist me by closing your mouth. Now, what is this about no war?"
"You haven't heard," the soldier shrugged, disbelief spreading across his marred face. "Our king has gone mad, betrayed a god. Asked for a favour and never returned it."
Kaelor dropped the reins immediately as well as the spear that he had been holding for so long, the banner fell, now covered with blood.
It can't be... How...
"You jest, you lie—"
"No lies, first sword. Won't I be a hanging skull on a palisade? Why would I lie, too much to loss, nothing to be gained."
"Very—"
Kaelor drove his heels into the horse's flanks and the stallion surged forward, thundering down the valley road. Wind tore through his medium-brown hair, whipping it back from his face.
Tears slid from his green eyes, cutting thin lines through the dirt and blood smeared across his skin. The cold air stung the small scar on his upper chin, pale against the grime of battle.
He leaned low over the horse's neck as they rode, the world blurring around him, the valley, the river, the distant mountains. Behind him lay the battlefield and its thousands of dead.
Kaelor did not look back.
Kaelor could hardly believe it.
The king was gone.
The thought gnawed at him as the horse thundered down the valley road. His jaw tightened, anger rising hotter than the cold wind against his face.
The king had betrayed a god.
But why?
Kaelor could not make sense of it. No man betrayed a god without reason, and his king had not been a fool. If he had dared such madness, there must have been something he had asked in return.
A favor.
But what kind of favor was worth the wrath of a god?
Safety for his people, perhaps. The coming winters were rumored to be cruel, harsher than any in living memory. Or perhaps he had asked for victory in this endless war, a chance to crush their enemies and secure food for the starving villages that clung to the plains of Weltharas.
That would have been like him.
The king had always thought first of his people.
Still, Kaelor could not escape the bitter truth.
Whatever bargain had been made… the king had not lived to see its reward.
World of sumaka through eyes of lore keeper —
Whenever a man asked a favor from the gods, they demanded something in return, A precious gift worthy of their grace. If the man failed to fulfill what the gods required, ruin followed. Some went mad. Some vanished in mysterious ways. Others were cast into dark dungeons for repentance.
There was no escaping the wrath of gods.
One thing must be understood: power gained from the Tombs is not the same as power begged from the gods.
A favor from a god is a bargain. It demands tribute, obedience, and a price that must one day be paid. But the power found within a Tomb is no bargain at all.
It is taken.
Such power is irreplaceable and without end. It does not fade with time, nor bend to the will of any deity. Old gods, new gods... none hold dominion over it.
What lies within the Tombs exists beyond them all.
— Book of Spears, Chapter 113, Paragraph 7. (Written by scholar darmuji of weltharas continent).