A/N: ambush scene – woot! Since Darkwill's killer is completely speculative and I didn't want to "pick the wrong person" and have anyone complain, I decided the ambush would be from Darkwill's perspective. Who killed him? You decide! (*cough* *cough* I know who my money's on…)

Swain: Are you insinuating something?

LS: Uhhh, why ever would I do that, my little grasshopper?

Swain: I'm going to pretend you never said that.

*Another thanks to TehDARKTemplar, Lord Mordor, Nimrohd, KingGlover, ScurvyNave, StivKobra, In Your Dreams Bubbleface, Loupgarrou, Chronolord, & Agent-001 for Reviewing/Following/Faving. Especially TehDARKTemplar for his continued support and PailKnight, my IRL editor.

Have a DRAAAVEN day.

Chapter 7

Indite

A growing sense of unease could only be matched with a sense of triumph – the several week journey of Boram Darkwill to Kalamanda had nearly reached its terminal. The Grand General's inner doubt had expected an ambush before he even departed from the gates of Noxus. He knew well his people were not fond of him – as always it was better to be feared than loved.

Even after he cleared the gates Darkwill had been certain one of his many foes would have struck – he had not brought a platoon of Raedsel Guards had he suspected otherwise. But the days had turned into weeks, and each passing hour without incident bolstered the troops. It seemed to prove the Noxian government had not faltered over time: the world would still bear witness to its terrifying power.

The last leg of the journey still stretched before the caravan; they shouldered onward as the midsummer sun finally began to die, razing the horizon crimson and scarlet. Darkwill watched the colors bleed into burgundy and purple, and filially to black.

The hypnotic thunder of marching feet and arrestingly pristine natural beauty coupled with the uncanny haze that settled over the desolate landscape between Noxus and Kalamanda lulled Darkwill.

He never heard them coming.

The carriage abruptly shuddered to a halt. Darkwill snapped to attention and barked, "What's going on?"

"It appears we've been attacked," the soldier to his left stated.

"Impossible," Darkwill muttered, "get the carriage moving!"

His body guard obeyed, diving into the fray. The sound of clashing steel echoed with strangled cries, from whom Darkwill couldn't discern. He rent the curtains at the front of the cab open and bellowed through the porthole to the driver, "keep moving…" he tapered off as bile filed his throat. The driver was slumped forward into a pool of his own blood, his severed head lolling at his side. Darkwill recoiled in time to see his bodyguard smash against the side window – his head snapped backwards, shattering the pane. The guard's lifeless body fell partially through; it was covered in lacerations. Darkwill could see clearer now, the tide had not turned in his favor. It was impossible – Raedsel Guards were amongst the most ruthless skilled killers in all of Valoran, and they were being bested by an ambush barely their size.

How could this be? He thought, who could have arranged this –

He didn't have time to think.

An assailant appeared suddenly and ripped the dead guard out of the window frame – he was masked like the rest. The man leered viciously at the Noxian tyrant, "this has been a long time coming, hasn't it, Darkwill?"

He recognized that voice, but with death staring him in the face he couldn't quite pinpoint…

The assailant lashed out, gouging deep into the side of Darkwill's armored mask. Not allowing easy defeat, the general drew a dagger and lunged for the attacker's chest.

Before it could hit home, a hand clasped over his wrist and crushed it into the jagged bits of glass sticking up from the frame. Darkwill howled in pain as the shards ripped through the fabric of his sleeve and into his withered flesh. The assailant wasted no time tearing open the door and roughly seized Darkwill. The Grand General was thrown to the ground.

It was the end, lying there in the dirt. Darkwill could feel it. His guard had been massacred, against the odds, he had been thwarted…for the last time. All the will to fight vanished from his haggard form. The assailant crouched over him and Darkwill met his eyes.

"I suppose the ends really do justify the means," he sneered.

They were familiar, as was the voice, blazing with fire and frenzied triumph.

Leisurely, ceremoniously, the assailant took the general's dagger and stabbed it into Darkwill's throat to the hilt. Blood pooled out around the wound and into the barren ground, but the assailant would not yield, not until he saw the life leave Darkwill's eyes. A feeble gurgling noise escaped Darkwill's lips as he held on, more sanguine fluid dripping from the corner of his mouth. But doom could not be escaped, even after years of being kept alive through the use of necromancy and black magics…the untouchable tyrant of Noxus was still all too mortal.

As the talons of death closed in on Darkwill, he looked into those eyes one final time.

He knew.

Weeks earlier, shortly after Swain and LeBlanc's meeting, the pair had set off to Kalamanda as well. They had arrived several days sooner than Darkwill's allotted time seeing as they weren't toting around a small army on foot.

The day before Darkwill's scheduled arrival, Swain prepared a rendezvous, an extra precaution to ensure the general's safe arrival.

As the sun set, a deathly silence encased Kalamanda. The Demacian forces were uncharacteristically quiet and Swain's headquarters seemed devoid of life.

One might have wondered if they were even there at all.

But time moves on, and day broke again. The rendezvous party departed to meet Darkwill headed by Captain Dorian Rancor. He and his men marched stiffly to the village limits and waited.

Nearly a half hour passed and the two camps had begun to stir, but they were the only signs of life. No one had arrived yet. Captain Rancor wondered if perhaps the caravan had been held up by a broken axel or wheel, and that this was a reasonable explanation for Darkwill's tardiness. As such, he ordered his men to march out on the road to meet the Grand General part way. The men fell in stride but again could see no trace of the caravan across the barren land.

Until.

Until a series of spine-tingling screeches caught the soldier's attention. They marched ahead farther as a chilling sight overtook the horizon. Hundreds of black feathered forms spiraled and writhed in the distance, their eerie and cacophonous voices filling the morning air with dissonance; a macabre symphony from the omens of death.

Captain Rancor signaled his men to pick up pace. Further investigation of the scene realized the captain's worst fear: the carrion crows had indeed been flocking to Grand General Boram Darkwill's entourage, or rather the carnage thereof. The entire platoon had been wiped flat, and the bodies, what was left of them, were fairly long dead, leading Captain Rancor to believe the ambush had occurred in the night.

The air was rank with the stench of decay. Most all the soldiers gagged and a few retched despite their strict training. The Captain himself felt quite nauseated when he ordered, "search for survivors." It was spoken with half-hearted gloom; it was painfully obvious none had survived.

As the soldiers picked their way through the ranks of the dead, a private approached Rancor.

"How…?" He faltered.

"It had to be an ambush…a big one. No one can go after Raedsel Guards half-assed," Rancor shook his head.

"Is it possible Darkwill could have…?"

Just then two infantry men approached Rancor, looking grim. "Sir," one muttered, "there's something you need to see."

In a trance-like state the four walked to bear witness to a scene so impossible it seemed unreal.

The insurmountable Boram Darkwill lay dead at their feet, scarred helmet askew, head thrown back, and a dagger in his throat.

"We have to tell General Swain," Rancor finally broke the silence.

One of the infantrymen nodded, "Sir, we've also noted there are no traces of the attacking force; the only dead are Raedsel, and no weapons or evidence of sort was left by the assailants."

"What about Darkwill's murder weapon?" The private implored, crouching down beside the corpse. He pulled up the dagger and sighed, "It's his own dagger. See the family seal etched into it?"

Rancor took the dagger from him. "Whoever perpetuated this crime will pay," the private declared.

The Captain snorted, "the culprit is likely closer than you may think," he cursed under his breath, "all this time a massive Demacian force has been sitting idle, itching to strike."

"How can you be sure?"

"All the wounds on the soldiers are physical, characteristic of Demacian ranks. Magic wounds would have been less…gruesome."

The private nodded, "I don't know how they could have attacked without our forces being alerted, but you're right. A sizeable force of our greatest enemy right next door, no other military could have destroyed a platoon with such efficiency."

Rancor surveyed the scene, "start organizing the bodies by rank, I'll send carts so they can be transported to the proper burial grounds," he ordered and the men set about the grim task.

Dorian Rancor addressed the private, "In the mean time, I'd best inform General Swain."

A gentle nudge roused Swain and he raised his head groggily, temples pounding with exhaustion. LeBlanc stood by the side of his cot wearing a military uniform, the helmet tucked in the crook of her arm.

"Your Captain needs to speak with you."

"Tell him it can wait."

She nudged him again, "from what he said, it can't."

Swain cursed and eased himself into a sitting position, dark circles rimmed his eyes.

"Didn't sleep well either?" LeBlanc commented, though she looked vibrant as ever, "you look terrible."

The general grunted and pulled a simple robe right over his bed clothes. That was followed with his chest and shoulder plates carelessly slung over top. LeBlanc came to his aid in tightening the straps. Swain pulled his mask over his exhausted features and asked, "Acceptable?"

"For now. And for the record, I'm officially your bodyguard." She put the helmet on and motioned Swain, "Shall we?" she asked, her voice warped down to the pitch of a man's voice.

Swain leaned heavily on his cane, feeling a great deal stiffer than usual.

At the door of his tent, Captain Rancor paced anxiously, halting promptly at the sight of his commanding officer. The middle aged man had salt and pepper hair and a bit of stubble offset with a pair of darting blue eyes; he was one of the best and most loyal men currently serving under Swain.

"My apologies, sir, I didn't mean to wake you-"

"Save the pleasantries," Swain interrupted, "it is of no consequence. What do you have to say?"

The Captain looked greatly troubled, wringing out his hands and sucking in a deep breath. But Noxians are not ones for preamble, so Rancor blurted the news plain, "Boram Darkwill is dead."

Slight surprise registered on Swain's face, but he kept his characteristic implacable expression even in the wake of such tremendous news.

"My men and I found his caravan obliterated not far from the city gates. It looks to me they were ambushed in the dead of night by Demacian forces."

"Demacian, you say? What makes you think that?"

"The wounds are physical, and they are the closest of our foes to the place of ambush…and no one else could have snuck up on or taken on Raedsel guards."

Swain nodded in agreement, "Then it undoubtedly had to be Demacia. Captain, what is being done with the bodies?"

"I'm having my men cart them here for burial presently."

"Have the other troops build funeral pyres, these valiant men must be given a proper send off."

"Sir, in lieu of Darkwill's demise, will you be returning to Noxus?"

"No, my presence is needed here. If Demacia did assassinate Darkwill, of which I have no doubt, I must stay to make sure they are punished for their heinous crimes."

"Yes, sir," he bowed and was dismissed.

The last boughs of dried rushes were heaped onto the central pyre, the tallest of many, this one bearing General Darkwill's body. Swain's troops stood back in uniform lines after handing the tactician a torch. Swain approached the head pyre, he was unwilling to feel anything but satisfaction at the sight of the corpse before him.

At his shoulder, Beatrice leaned forward hungrily, eyes glinting.

"No girl, not for you," Swain scolded, "It's time we put Boram Darkwill to rest, once and for all."

Swain lit the pyre, the other soldiers followed suit in tossing torches onto the other mounds until all were ablaze. The sickly sweet, acrid scent of burning flesh filled the evening air, choking out the sky with billowing clouds of smoke.

The tactician stood poised with his cane watching the hungry flames lick away at the fallen soldiers. He and his guard kept a quiet vigil until only ashes remained. When the fires burned low, Swain ordered them to be doused and the ashes to be scattered.

They departed back to their camp in Kalamanda when the last lights of day cut a brilliant edge over top the magnificent azure mountains in the distance. Before the group disbanded, Swain announced, "I explicitly forbid any of you or your subordinates to engage with Demacian troops." There was evident discontent at this discourse, "Demacia will face justice under the League in good time."

"Bah! The League is rubbish!" A brave lieutenant spoke up, "we must show those gallivanting brats true Noxian justice!" Several commanders murmured in agreement.

Swain demurred harshly, "Lieutenant, I require that you abstain from making belligerent and potentially injurious remarks so long as the League is still a potent and influential presence."

Greatly diminished, the lieutenant backed down.

"At this dark moment of turmoil and uncertainty, we must not lose our unity, or faith in one another, or we shall certainly crumble. We have all come too far, suffered for too long, to be torn apart. Keep faith, my brethren, and rally to me, to the spirit of Noxus…for even at its most withered state, Noxus is feared. And as a phoenix rises from the flames, we cannot be surmounted, not by any outer foe. But we must not be reckless, lest inner strife drive a rift into our spirits. Band together, weather this storm, Noxus will not falter, nay it will bloom again in glory."

The officers were taken aback by Swain's impromptu speech, but they murmured in agreement, saluting their general and effectively confirming their fealty. The group branched off, returning to their respective tents. Caption Rancor approached Swain.

"Sir, I was just confronted by a Journal of Justice reporter, she heard the news of Darkwill's assassination and wishes for a formal statement."

"What did you tell her?" Swain demanded, the Journal reporter instantly putting him in a sour mood.

"I told her to speak to you."

"Good man, I'll speak with her presently."

He approached the woman, who quickly bowed. She looked uneasily at the general, "I'm reporting on behalf of Quinton Groat for Kalamanda, may I get your statement on this latest turn of events?"

"Yes," Swain briefly explained Darkwill's journey, his death, the massacred platoon, and Demacia's suspected perpetuation of the atrocity. He finished gravely but with a hint of venom in his voice, "this is a clear declaration of war."

The reporter looked a bit pale, but finished scrawling her notes, thanking Swain in the process. She straightened, "a message has been sent to King Jarvan III in Demacia, the League is attempting to calm public outburst until he returns with a definitive answer to the matter. In the meantime, I've been asked to beg no military action is taken, we've come too far for peace to…" She trailed off, seeming to remember who she spoke to. "My apologies. A similar message has been relayed to the Demacian and allied camps. Thank you for your cooperation, General Swain."

He nodded, "The communication is appreciated, is that all?"

"Yes." She bobbed her head and turned heel to leave, not masking at all how eager she was to get away.

Jarvan III's statement arrived mere days later. A messenger passed on the letter while Swain was reading a note from Darius. The general's note detailed the situation back home. Nothing had erupted presently, but tensions – and stakes – were high. The remaining high command had managed to hold together some semblance of peace for the time being, but the grand general's vacant seat remained a foreboding pinnacle. One general that had attempted to claim the position was found back-stabbed with a poisoned blade the next morning in his house. Darius had asserted that the command look to Swain for guidance until anything conclusive took place, though he was denounced by Kieran. The insolent snot had made it clear he wanted the throne. His vile hubris gave him the self-ordained right to the Grand Generals' seat. Already he was rallying support, and his reputation as a notoriously skilled duelist had so far kept him a living and prominent candidate. Swain knew well enough to be wary of the boy, though a fool most all the time, he was still very much so a dangerous adversary.

Swain pushed the rabble over succession to the back of his mind, for now he needed to focus on the matters in Kalamanda. He looked over Jarvan III's statement which read:

This is a horrific tragedy. it's no secret that Demacian and Noxian forces have opposed each other on numerous occasions but General Darkwill and I were able, after so much conflict, to put our rivalries aside for the greater good. I did not order the attack. I would never do anything to threaten the peace we have forged. I am willing to cooperate in anyway necessary to prove the truth of these claims.

"So…" Swain voice aloud though he was alone in his tent, "thing king wishes to cooperate, to help me get to the bottom of this matter. Any reasonable man would agree whole-heartedly," Swain folded his hands on his desk, "alas, I am sick of being reasonable. It was the king who delayed Garvin's questioning, leading ultimately to his death, which severely injured my plans. Perhaps if Garvin had lived and this conflict had not come as far as it has…then I'd be inclined to accept this rational request. But not anymore. Pity, King Jarvan III, plans change."

The tactician called his officers together and relayed the king's message.

Without a doubt in his mind, Swain announced, "I have, however, opted to refuse any agreement resulting in a cooperative effort. What's done is done."

The officers agreed, buzzing with anticipation. Captain Rancor fetched the messenger who nervously accepted the reply note. He scampered back to Demacia, not fully aware of the metaphorical bombshell he carried with him.

The rest parted to make preparations; Swain and Rancor returned to the general's tent.

"Are you sure it is wise to refuse the king's offer?" Rancor asked hesitantly.

The general eased himself into his chair before answering, "I am tired of dealing with the day to day monotony of dry and contrite diplomacy. For now, Noxus stands apart from the rest. While Valoran toils in vain peace efforts, we will not take part in their futile attempts to please everyone."

"Yes sir," he stood to leave.

"And Captain, if any diplomat or representative of the sort comes to hound me, tell them I have no intention of taking audience with them. That is all."

Swain knew his refusal would not bode well with the Demacians, but what could they do? They were the ones under fire now.

The afternoon had been a flurry of activity as the final group of brave residents was evacuated – Mayor Anson Ridely being among them. The civilians were gone. There was nothing to hold back war.

The general milled around his tent, tidying up the fourth room that had been annexed to it. Swain requested an audience chamber be added (ironic, seeing as he no longer wished to be bothered by visitors), but really he just needed an extra room with a couch – doubled a futon – so LeBlanc would have a place to stay.

The deceiver in question had been missing for quite some time. Though it wasn't Swain's duty to keep track of her comings and goings, he did wonder what mischief she may be up to.

He didn't have to wait long to find out. A soldier briskly marched into the tent without any of the military finesse he'd come to expect from his men.

"Good afternoon, LeBlanc," he greeted.

"How could you tell?" She asked, removing the helmet and shaking out her inky purple hair. The illusion faded off until she wore only her standard, scanty garb.

"None of my men would have dared to barge in like that," Swain chortled.

"Ah," she plopped onto the futon without her usual lady-like grace, looking decidedly irritated.

Swain took a seat beside her, "dare I ask what has vexed you?"

She snorted, "Allow me to list my grievances; first off, a Journal of Justice writer somehow found me…Head Summoner Ralston Farnsley. He presented me with a note from an 'admirer'. Though I've explicitly ordered in the past not to be trifled with, shall I call it, 'fan mail'. But he insisted and gave me an oddly punctuated note. I nearly passed it off as rubbish, but for the sake of it, I grouped the capitalized words and found this message:

'Beware judgment records curious. Might see Black Rose threat – Vayne'"

"Vayne?" The tactician asked incredulously, "the League's own vigilante has your cult on her radar."

"Irritable wretch. Though I wouldn't' mind a chance to kill her. True to my sporting manner," her voice was peppered with sarcasm, "I crafted another encoded note for the Night Hunter to boggle over a bit. It took me so long to think of a sensible encryption I am fairly certain it drove dear Farnsley mad. Perhaps that will deter him from troubling me next time."

Swain dipped his head in agreement, "I wouldn't take Vayne's threat lightly…she's crafty, don't underestimate her prowess."

LeBlanc snorted, "of course not, as soon as the next part of the plan is put into motion, I'm heading straight back to Noxus. I won't let her get anywhere close to the Black Rose."

"I could increase the border security to deter Vayne longer," Swain offered reasonably.

"I don't need your help to protect my people," LeBlanc said sharply.

Their eyes met, red on gold, but this time Swain backed down first, knowing this was not a battle he could win.

"Very well."

The deceiver sank back into the futon and rubbed her temples, "my second major grievance is being surrounded by Demacians for the better part of the last two days. I was doing some intel work in their military camp," she added before Swain could interject, "they are an irritating lot, I suppose most soldiers are, but these especially. The uniforms are stifling and I dare say if I hear another chipper query about 'this weather we've been having', I should surely be driven to murder."

Swain suppressed a chuckle, "did you find anything of interest?"

"Yes, actually," her eyes flashed deviously, "you were correct in your suspicions that Jarvan IV is not in Kalamanda. Apparently he took a short trip and should return 'soon'. Meaning…"

"It's time we begin the next phase," Swain finished viciously.

Up next: Chapter 8 Paroxysm. The fuse of Kalamanda is about to be lit...