-
Chapter 10
Trail of Broken Blades
A bright afternoon sun beats down on the open fields of Valoran. Puffy clouds of white hover above, and migrating birds take wing along the vast sea of blue. The constant breeze keeps the shining red armor of the traveling swordsman cool as he strides along his path, a small village coming into sight.
Rabbits aren't easy to hunt without a bow, or the time to fashion a suitable trap. Even more so, they are quite flammable and difficult not to overcook when slain by a speeding fireball. Though a sufficient enough meal for now, he needs to gather supplies for the long walk ahead. Nearly any given town hosts a place of trade, and that is just where Ephrial aims as his steps take him closer to the civilization ahead.
He passes by a dilapidating wooden sign reading: "Welcome to Dyregrass Village." The buildings are moderately spaced out, varying from stone to wooden walls, telling differences in means of sustainability. This modest town is still a neighbor to Noxus, after all. Whomever has the strength to build better shelters has the right to survive the harsh peaks of the seasons. This place is far from being as densely populated as the city-state itself, however. With the village being slightly isolated from mainstream news, Ephrial hopes he will not be recognized, allowing him to depart with ease.
As the half-blood continues onward along the main path, he notices a growing trail of destruction. Wooden beams on the porches of homes lie splintered, their awnings crooked under unsupported weight. The dirt of the road is ruffled with footprints belonging to at least a dozen different people, littering the ground with signs of erratic movements. Further still, the signs of violence and struggle become more aggressively apparent. Shards of broken armor and weapons pepper the street, accompanied by the inevitable trail of blood.
The inhabitants of the village are tending to their respective properties, sweeping the debris away with simple straw brooms and steel rakes. Frustrated men assess the damages to their homes, while others glare at the outsider with a mixture of wariness and angst.
"You sure picked quite a time to visit, stranger," a voice calls to him from the side. A man in simple clothing and a freshly bandaged arm approaches.
"Perhaps I should have come earlier." Ephrial stops and answers.
"Aye, if you're that type of soldier of fortune…but this might have been one fight you are glad to have missed. If you are passing through, you'd do well to cover up all that gold on you." The man passes behind him and wearily grabs two wooden posts from a pile, putting the weight on his shoulders before turning back to his broken fence.
He has a point. The gold trim on his armor and sword tends to draw attention in places that are not accustomed to crowds of armored knights, bounty hunters, or adventurers. At the lack of any attraction, quiet towns like this are only used to seeing small parties of such roaming in for a very brief stay. Attention is the last thing Ephrial seeks right now, as it could only leave a trail of word and witness after him, still being too close to Noxus for comfort.
"Is there a place that conducts trade around here?" he looks in the distance, watching two men team-lift a body off of the road ahead.
"If we still have one, it's all the way down, to the right. Can't miss it…what's left of it."
"Much appreciated," he saves his further inquiries of the situation for those closer to the ruin ahead.
As the mercenary-knight proceeds, the destruction becomes increasingly raw. Men and women sit along the sides of the dirt path, wrapping strips of cloth around bloody limbs and foreheads. Others mourn their losses, and watch as the dutiful gather the fallen. Still Noxian in their own right, these people are capable of handling themselves in a brawl, but this was a borderline slaughter. Closer observation sees little difference in the clothing and armor of the dead, turning thoughts in Ephrial's mind to discern this as most likely an internal conflict of Noxus' own people, rather than marauding outsiders.
He nears the last handful of buildings by the edge of the town, turning to his right at the peak of wreckage. Facing him is a wooden structure with a large hole where the front door used to stand. Shattered glass peppers the ground where windows once glared, and a large, broken table lies just outside of the few stairs leading inward. As the swordsman proceeds inside, he observes what he can surmise to be the start of the conflict. Small, decorative paintings of various scenery and historical figures lay torn, covered in the rubble and fragments of their own ornate frames. Portions of the floorboards are sundered, leaving craters that tell of force from crashing bodies, and a weapon of considerable heft.
Ephrial approaches the shopkeeper, a man turning a spilt crate back to its upright position. "I see you've had the misfortune of being in the epicenter of this. Just what happened here?"
The owner dusts his hands off with his dirty brown apron, and turns around to the visitor. "Just old Noxian troubles, son. Judging by your attire, I'd wager you'd be looking for some mercenary work. I'm afraid you're a bit too late for that. Someone already beat you to it."
"I'm just passing through for supplies. …Someone you said?" becoming intrigued at the singularity implied, despite the mass quantity of clear signs indicating a numerous sum of people involved.
"Aye, just one. Though, she was no mercenary, by the looks of things. Didn't ask for anything. Just blew through like a sweeping wind of ferocity."
"What did she look like…?"
"I didn't get a good look at her myself. Everything happened so fast; I barely saved my own neck from being sliced by a flying dagger. But, if I had to guess, she was a militant like the others. She looked the part, from the glance I got. Why would a Noxian soldier help us though…?" starting to lose himself in thought. "Never mind…I must be mistaken."
"I see…" Ephrial ponders, "Is it possible…?"
"Well, what's done is done. We're just lucky those filthy sellouts are dead. Now…you said you were after some supplies, did you?"
"Yes, I-" reaching for his money pouch, then remembering his decoy in his prior escape from Noxus. "…I suppose I don't have much to offer." He lays down a few coins, the remaining funds in his possession from before he had joined the League.
The shopkeeper looks at the money, or lack thereof, and raises his brow to give Ephrial a funny look. "Well…I suppose I'd be a fool to turn down your coin after this morning. I can spare you two rations. No more."
"Very well."
The man scrapes the currency off of the counter, then steps over a broken chair on his way around to the back room. Rations are a common set of ready-to-eat meals designed for travel, made popular by wandering sellswords and adventurers alike. They consist of varying provisions, depending on what game is native to the area. Small portions of dried meat, bread, and berries are the typical contents found in basic kits. Higher-grade versions, mostly seen in major cities and prospering trading posts, may include a potion or two, as a bonus to compete with other vendors.
Towing a couple of small sacks of food, barely larger than two fists placed together, the merchant comes back and sets them down in front of his customer.
"Thank you for your patronage."
"Did she say which way she was going?" Ephrial further inquires about the woman.
"Hell if I know. All I heard was bloody screaming and wailing…and that was from the men she was slaughtering! Now, unless you're willing to trade any of that gear you've got on you, namely that sword, I need to get back to fixing this bucket I call a store."
"Fair enough."
Ephrial thanks the shop keeper, and leaves him to his mumbling and cursing as he continues picking up his shattered inventory. Not even a step outside of what used to be a doorway, and a shrieking slices the air, with supplementary commotion following.
"Keep yer distance! One step closer, and I'll slit her pretty little throat in front of all of you!" a belligerent voice threatens.
The visiting half-blood surveys the scene. A growing crowd of villagers widely approach the source of the distress - a disgruntled man in his prime, holding a blood-covered cutlass to a young woman as his hostage. Next to them, two freshly-slain men that fell by his hand.
"Marina!" a young boy stands in front of the two, yelling out with tears in his eyes.
"Robin!" she cries back, her hands just narrowly keeping the arm around her neck from choking her. "It'll be okay, Robin! It'll be-!"
"Shut up, you moll! No one's going to be okay unless I see a pile of cold, hard cash in front of me!" the antagonizing man yanks her back a step, holding the blade even closer.
"Sister!" the boy calls out again, his voice faltering under fear and helplessness. He jumps slightly at the unexpected breeze of a tattered cape gently brushing past.
Ephrial now stands between him and the lingering threat over Dyregrass, stopping a short distance away. He measures up the situation. The innocent captive is no older than eighteen, taking care of her much younger brother. He can tell they have no parents, given the lack of other desperate cries in the crowd that only family can match.
As for the furious man himself, his widened eyes betray him with a look of a different kind of desperation. A crazed expression of a person whose baleful schemes have been shattered, and the denial that comes with it. Such is not without an underlining cause, and that is what the mercenary-knight intends to find out. A cerulean gaze remains silent, piercing the nerve of the malefactor before him. The first words belong to the virulent cutlass.
"Who in the Harrowing Hell are you…!?" a malevolent voice becomes daunted at the sight of another sword-wielding outsider. "Wait…you're with that meddling wench, aren't you!?" enraged teeth grit.
"I take it you must be quite popular with the ladies, having a silver tongue like that," Ephrial taunts flatly, with a measured disdain.
"Stick it, you cur! This is of no concern of yours!"
"You said you were after gold, did you not? Most criminals would rather cut their losses after a massacre like this one. What is it you are really after?"
The sweaty man's breathing becomes more excited through rage. "…Only the strong should survive!" he spits.
Raising an eyebrow, "Is that why you are hiding behind an unarmed woman?"
"This village has no right to be here! We're the ones that did everything right! We unified under Lord Swain's power of command…! Under promises of power and fortune, we pledged ourselves to him…and what do we get for it!? Inflation, increased tariffs, a bloody sack of grain to last a week! All while High Command plays its GAMES!"
"It sounds to me like your problems stem from the commanders of Noxus, not the people of this town."
"This place…it's nothing but a speck, barely noticeable on the map! It could be mistaken for a crumb, fallen from the beard of any of the fools I cut down here today! Noxus is supposed to be unified…stronger. Yet, here, a pathetic excuse for a village stands, mocking everything I've strived for! The meek should be wiped out, not ignored and allowed to taint the name of our nation! Even the rats that live in the slums of Noxus live to our code better than these useless worms! High Command claims to seek unification, yet averts their eyes to the weakness in their own lands. If they won't cull out the weeds that refuse to fall in line, I will!"
"You have something against peace?"
"Peace is nothing but the cry of the feeble-minded!" the man, disgusted at the thought.
Ephrial crosses his arms, taking in everything spoken. "…You say 'only the strong should survive', yet you blame the economy for your misfortune? You follow the faltering ideals of a few madmen, bent on unifying a nation for the sole purpose to conquer all else…then you take it out on a village because you can't hold yourself up?" his voice becomes increasingly indignant. "Of course people are turned into stepping stones as others rise to the top, ascending the ladder formed by the broken backs and aspirations of the many. That is the way it has always been. This Noxian code you claim to live by means you make and achieve your own promises…yet you have mistaken hypocrisy for resolve. Swain's general personally slew the greedy nobles he deemed as leeches to the nation's strength, yet they have imposed themselves in their place. Do you earnestly think there can be prosperity without poverty? War is not free, and those in charge would gladly fund it from the pockets and very lives of those so eager to jump on the bandwagon. People construe the pretty words of those in power to appeal to their own ambitions, not realizing they are just being swayed and manipulated, then thrown away. That is the nature of politics, and it did not die with the nobles, nor with Boram Darkwill."
"At least Darkwill shared the same ambition as us! He knew how to identify weakness, and launched our greatest campaign yet—the invasion of Ionia!"
"That's you're depiction of an ideal war? A slaughter on innocent people, from an island nation far and out of the way, to even your own kin in your backyard?! This village may hold no special attraction, thus receives no particular attention, but its self-reliant nature and endurance make it more Noxian than you could ever hope to be."
"Enough!" on the last of his ropes. "I will rid weakness from our nation myself!" holding the curved blade against his hostage's throat.
"Very well…" Ephrial slowly unsheathes his blade, his gaze remaining fixed. "Then start with your own."
He sends his ardent sword spinning in the air, landing it halfway toward the opposition. The flames flicker skyward as the steel sticks into the ground, standing up with an inviting shimmer. Onlookers murmur amongst themselves, looking at the blade, and then its master with suspicion.
"…What…what kind of trickery is this!?"
"Strength is what you seek, is it not? The power to realize your place in Noxus' highest ranks. To cull the chaff from your dream nation." Sternly, in a commanding tone, "Release the girl. Then, see if you truly have what it takes…"
The fiery steel reflects in the Noxian's lust-filled eyes, filling him with enticement of power. A weapon that, by appearance, can be a symbol of status; by might, a symbol of strength. Growing in dark ambition by the second, a maddened grin flashes across his face.
Time slows down for the mercenary-knight. His focus escalates, and the world around him dissolves, leaving just himself, the man, and his captive. The only sound in the empty stillness is his own heartbeat. It's almost just like before…long ago, in a memory far from forgotten. His eyes narrow, the deep-seated fervor in the calm waters revealing itself. With many variations having played in his mind of different outcomes, it's almost as it was once before…his sister…and the wolf.
He is fully aware of the reality of the situation, and the past will remain the same, being far from his grasp to change. It doesn't matter. He has practiced this very scenario time and time again in his mind. However, the Blazing Swordsman cannot predict his desperate enemy's next movements, and the result of the situation can turn into a number of outcomes.
No…it can only end one way. He won't let it happen otherwise. Not again… Never again.
Like the sudden release of an arrow, time speeds up again, and the value of every fraction of a second soars. The power-hungry Noxian throws the innocent girl ahead of himself, sending her stumbling toward the flaming sword. Like a mobile human shield, she falters in front of the man, aimed at obstructing Ephrial as he dashes in response. Each driven by the contents of their own convictions, the two men leap for a five-step race of conflicting ideals.
Five; they stride forward, both with their eyes fixed on the fiery prize ahead of them…
Four, the girl staggers further, blocking Ephrial's view of her assailant…
Three, the cutlass reveals itself, raising above the young woman's frame. It winds up to claim her life as she trips over her own feet, falling to the ground, her face filled with terror…
Two… An opening appears, but so narrowly, leaving no room for even a slight mistake… A hand extends forward from each swordsmen, just inches away from the hilt of the blade still shrouded in mystery. Is what the cloaked visitor from before said true…? Would it devour the Noxian in the flames of his own misguided desires, should he reach the blade first? If so, now is not the time to find out.
The blade flares up in response to the approaching wills. A single chance…that's all that life allows. If only…if only…
One.
With a flash of steel and flame, blood splashes on the path. The girl lies on the floor, right in front of a patch of cindered ground. A solid grip holds the sword at the end of an upward killing stroke. The body of the Noxian disgrace flies backward a pace, falling to his fate like his comrades before him.
The outcome is as expected…predictable. This man was no true warrior, much less a monstrous Zaunite product of man and concoction. Ephrial turns back to look at the victim of the conflict, watching her collect herself and slowly recover to sit upright.
He was wrong. It's not like it was long ago after all. Though glad for her safety, he otherwise feels indifferent. There was still similarity in this predicament to the night he had lost his own sister… The presence of Noxian prejudice, the out-of-place villain, the innocent victim. However, it just wasn't the same…how could it be? This isn't years ago. This wasn't Warwick. Even if it was, it doesn't change the past. It changes nothing…at least, not for him.
Ephrial watches as the brother and sister reunite in a clumsy embrace. The bond of last remaining family ties clearly presents itself in an emotional scene. Such a sight should resonate deeply with him, but still, he remains unfazed. It's not that he doesn't care, but rather, he doesn't see his own situation in theirs. For a moment, he thinks to himself before deciding on an action.
They are still Noxian… The boy's helplessness will not be tolerated by those that would threaten his life, or his sister's. More importantly, it cannot be tolerated by his own self, if he is to defend anything or anyone he cares about.
The half-blooded swordsman looks at the cutlass left by its former owner, and picks it up from the ground. While sheathing his own blade, he swings the blood off of the other, and begins walking toward the siblings. He kneels in front of them, getting on eye-level with the boy, tears still swelling in his young eyes. Ephrial, with a certain gaze of grave directness, holds the cutlass with one hand over the middle of the sharp edge. After asserting eye-contact, he holds the sword forward, presenting it to the young pureblood.
"If you wish to protect your sister, take it. Turn the weapon of your enemy against them. There is no other way," experience imparts a clear, Noxian-sided message.
Without a word, the boy's face steels itself slightly, and he grabs the hilt of the blade with both hands, pulling to receive it with the birth of a new resolve. It refuses to budge, as if lodged in stone. He locks eyes with the Blazing Swordsman once more.
"To defend. …Only to defend," the Ionian half completes the lesson, then releases the sword and rises to his feet, leaving the new swordsman to contemplate silently.
An exterior view might mistake this for Ephrial setting the young boy on the same path as himself. In fact, it is the contrary. Fortunately for them, they'll never know what it is to truly feel like an outsider in the place they were born. By preventing the terrible event from unfolding itself upon his sister, the mercenary-knight has spared the boy from walking the same path he has tread, and continues to follow. They have a home, and they have each other. They have their place in the world.
"…H…how can we thank you…?" the girl meekly asks as the mercenary-knight turns away.
"You don't need to," he starts toward the edge of town.
"Are…are you with that woman from earlier…?"
He stops and looks back. "This woman has sure left an impression here. Tell me, what do you know of her?" his interest rekindling.
"Nothing. She was kind of…like you. She helped us, even though she didn't have to, and asked nothing of us in return."
"Did she say anything at all?"
"Not to us directly, but…I think I heard her say something about…'the greater good', if that makes any sense."
Ephrial ponders an unlikely theory, "Hm…"
"She definitely looked like she's from Noxus. She shattered through their armor and weapons like glass…" the girl scans the view of the aftermath and metal shards. "Her hair was white, and…"
"Is there something further?" hanging on the edge of anticipation for just one last uncanny resemblance.
"Well…it looked like her sword was broken, too."
"Which way did she go?"
Marina slowly raises her arm to point in the direction of the littered road he was already traveling.
"I see… Thank you."
The Blazing Swordsman turns his gaze back to the path ahead of him, determination burning in his eyes. With sure-foot steps, he resumes his departure.
Somewhere just ahead lies his self-imposed mission, just beyond the trail of broken blades.