Chapter 17: Victims of Discord

Another crash rocked the Dead Pool, nearly toppling ammunition and weapons aboard the warship. Pirates frantically unfurled the sails and loaded the ballistae – huge, sinister metal chariots, armed with a launching mechanism where a wicked silver spear would be loaded. From below, pirates howled in anguish as they pushed the barrels of the cannons. The largest cannon, Death's Daughter was at the hull of the ship, protruded right above the bulwark, its gleaming black barrel oiled to perfection.

This time the enormous anchor was hooked to one side of the ship, nearly punching a hole through the base of the ship. The bulwark was tough enough to withstand the blow, but could be seen dented where the anchor had crashed earlier. It was buried deep into the wooden side of the ship, and judging from the screams Gangplank heard, some of the pirates were hit. Gruesomely.

Upon the starboard the captain stood, and he watched as his helmsman frantically steered the wheel, struggling to keep the ship in balance. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the black, lurking creature no longer pulled back his anchor, which a long rusted chain was hooked to its murky armour. Instead, the creature hung on the chain, pulling itself closer to the ship.

The anchor kept him above the surface, and he was using his ship for his dredge.

"Cap'n!" one of the pirates roared somewhere. "Death's Daughter ready to fire!"

Gangplank drew his flaming sword, and thrust it into the air.

"Fire!"

A loud, resonating crack filled the air, with a bright blast illuminating the ship from the front. The recoil shook the ship, and they watched as a cannonball sailed through the air in a wide arc, falling towards the giant metal creature.

It fell and fell. Then it found its mark.

The cannonball exploded in a white-hot spark of flames. Jets of water and fire shot up to the sky, surrounding the metal creature in vapour and water droplets. The pirates did not stop to cheer or celebrate, they continued loading the weapons, preparing for the upcoming combat.

Behind him, the Black Mist came closer and closer, the moans and wails of the undead growing louder and louder. Despite his years of fearless feats and hard-earned cruel reputation, the captain found his sword hand trembling slightly. True enough, he had taken the Noxian general's galley and killed the crew without hesitation. He raided a sacred temple in Ionia and earned a bounty for his head. Still, he had never faced an army of undead, and this was just the beginning.

But his nervousness was easily conquered, easily turned to excitement. If he made it through, he would be the first captain whose ship had survived the notorious Black Mist. The only man in Valoran who had seen and carved a path through the Mist.

There would be no seas he could not brave, no sea monsters he could not kill. Gangplank grinned. Even if he were to die here, the sailors of Bilgewater would sing of his name, a song filled with his deadliest adventures and most fearsome raids.

His chest swelled with pride, and he couldn't help but wonder about his father. Are you seeing this, old fool? The kid you always thought of nothin', ended up putting a sword through your back. Well, he's doing something you ne'er did.

And he thought of his prize, hidden and locked within the captain's cabin. A treasure that would worth any trove discovered from the depths of the Guardian's Sea. If the Dead Pool were to ever meet its end here, engulfed by the Black Mist, the prize would be his last resort.

No, he would not die here. Gangplank had not lived enough, and he felt he had more adventures in store.

His gaze dropped to the boy bound to the middle mast, the archer who had revealed himself as none other but a spy, obviously related to the other two who had just passed Illaoi's trials. The boy did not struggle or attempt to flee, but he swore he could see the fear of the unknown within those wide eyes. He would deal with him later.

Then of course, the so-called 'champions'.

An odd pair, Gangplank mused. Both clad in ragged cloaks and weathered garbs, they even wielded strange weapons. The mysterious figure with a pair of red and gold gauntlets; covered head to toe by the cloak with the hood pulled over to conceal the figure's face, and the man who always seemed so regal and proud. His face may be full of bruises and scabs from earlier fights, but with his lance returned, so did his confidence. Both of them stood close to each other, their weapons ready for battle.

He thought of what to do with them if they all survived. He would love to see them walk the plank, to raise the crew's morale right after a gruesome fight like this. But it would be a waste of talent.

Gangplank's thoughts were disrupted when the giant creature emerged from the depths again, still holding fast to the chains of his anchor.

Persistent creature, Gangplank sneered. "Cannons ready!" he roared, and the ship changed its course, turning to the side so that the creature was faced with a barrage of cannons. He could hear the sound of gunpowder barrels and cannonballs rolling across the wooden deck deep within the gunship deck. They were all frantic, desperately loading the cannons as quick as possible.

Ten to twenty cannons fired. The giant was bombarded by multiple shots. It staggered and swayed, still it did not fall back. Still it approached.

"Again!" Gangplank bellowed. He tried to ignore the sounds of the dead behind him, but already he could feel cold air seeping down his neck. They were near.

From the corner of his eyes, Illaoi raised her god's idol. She nodded, telling him she was ready.

I hope you know what you're doin', woman, he turned away, feigning a look of apathy towards the Truth Bearer. His eyes were fixed on the giant metal creature, so desperate to reach their ship.

The captain raised his burning sword. "Fire!"

When the harsh bite of cold wind first washed over them, they knew the dead had come. The moans and cries of the ghosts were already loud enough for all to hear. Soon, the Dead Pool reeked of decay and rot, the heavy stench overwhelming and nauseating.

The pirates were clearly afraid, their sword hands trembling terribly. The cannons never stopped firing, but their efforts to stop the lumbering titan was futile.

Jarvan gripped the hilt of his lance with both hands, his back towards Gangplank. He knew Illaoi was behind him, and she could put a sword through his back anytime. Yet he wasn't worried – he knew the half-dragon always had his back.

Shyvana's back was close to his, almost touching. And Jarvan found comfort in the contact, though their ragged cloaks and garbs were in the way.

"You haven't told me," the half-dragon said softly, only loud enough for him to hear. "How did you get captured?"

Had their situation not been so grim, Jarvan would have grinned cheekily. What he did on the Seafarer was foolish and suicidal, but it worked nonetheless. At first glance Jarvan could tell which man was a cruel savage and which was just a pretentious scoundrel. And the captain had stood out like a sore thumb. They clearly needed an escape plan, and Jarvan told them his plan – by targeting the captain, then capture his ship.

And he could have planted the dagger right into his throat. Until Markus turned up and shouted like a madman, held by other pirates. By then, Lance and August had already slipped away, nowhere to be found, just as they had planned earlier.

He only hoped that Lance and August would succeed.

Knowing that Shyvana was still waiting for his reply, Jarvan answered. "I'll tell you if we make it out alive. How's your shoulder?"

Surprise flickered across her face, which Jarvan only snorted.

"I saw you holding back each time you use that arm. And the blood… Have they wounded you badly?"

Looking over her shoulder, Shyvana's eyes dimmed slightly. Her lips were held in a taut line, and she was quiet before she answered him. "Not my blood. And it's just a sprain. Nothing much,"

He knew she was lying, but he only nodded.

"Where are the others?" she asked.

"I don't know," he replied dumbly. "But I hope they have found a way to escape. They are just too good at sneaking,"

The Dead Pool listed slightly. Illaoi's Eye of God glowed even brighter, the ghastly green a contrast to the darkness around them.

"And you sneak like a fucking bear with bells all over it," the half-dragon snorted. "Pray tell, how is it you are the one that gets in trouble all the time?"

Gangplank screamed another order. Jarvan and Shyvana still stood back-to-back, with the half-dragon looking over her shoulder.

The prince flexed his hands. "Sucks being chivalrous,"

And at that moment, Shyvana turned towards him and threw a flaming fist forward, landing a blow just two inches left of the prince's cheek. It collided with flesh; snapping bones and tearing skin apart, before the unknown creature screeched and dropped harmlessly.

Jarvan responded with a quick jab of his lance, piercing his assailant. The tip of his lance went through it without resistance, earning another sharp hiss from the wounded creature upon the floor.

When he withdrew his lance, he took a closer look to the creature. Was it just him, or had the torches grown dimmer?

The creature that laid still on the deck was neither alive nor dead. Its skin was all rotted to the point it had become bloated and black. Its head was shrivelled, the eyes missing with only two hollowed holes in its place. Patches of dead skin and flesh hung limply from parts of its body, garbed in decayed and tattered rags. It laid still, showing no signs of resistance.

"First kill?" Illaoi raised her Eye of God and rested it on her shoulder. Already a few tentacles had sprouted from the deck, swaying back and forth, looking for prey.

Before the prince could answer, the torches went out completely, leaving them in the dark. There was silence at first, even the booms of the cannon blasts and the creak of the listing ship had died.

Then the Dead Pool went into a frenzy.

Screams and shouts flooded the entire sea, preceded by the sounds of gunfire and drawn swords. A cold gust of wind washed over the deck, and the dark wisps of death came with it. A thousand cries filled the prince's ears – ghostly and pitiful, agonizing and appalling, beseeching him to release them from their miseries.

Jarvan shuddered. A clawed hand grabbed his ankle, making threatening hissing noises. The prince acted on his reflexes and shoved his lance, silencing the creature.

"Shyvana!" he shouted as loud as he could, but the deafening uproar drowned his voice. He could barely see, let alone understand what was happening around him. He tried to pinpoint the half-dragon's call among the sea of wails and chaos, yet it was difficult to flush out the whispers of the undead.

He called out for her again, warding off unknown assailants with his lance. He could not see, but he could hear them, their terrible hisses and croaks, and their groans of endless torture. Every time one of them got too close, Jarvan would thrust with his lance, then a creature would be silenced for some time.

But every time a voice died, it would somehow grow twice as loud.

"….save the king…"

"… them! Kill them – Uarghh!"

"… light the fucking torches!"

"… seize… seize the Isles…"

"… traitor's pets! You killed her…!"

"…-kabouros, guide me…"

"Shit," Jarvan faltered in his steps, cupping one hand over his ear and the other holding his lance. It was too loud for him, a crowd of screams and yells comprised of pirates giving orders or pleading for help, and unknown voices speaking in almost a dozen languages. Each time he grasped onto words he tried to comprehend, his head would pulse in pain.

He kept calling out for Shyvana. His eyes saw nothing, yet he could hear everything. Clawed hands and cold steel gauntlets grasped his limbs, which he did his best to shake them off while trudging forward. The noise was driving him insane, slowing his movement to a crawl. More hands held onto him tightly, and for every hand that took hold of him, the whispers in his ears amplified.

He could ward them off no longer.

He thought he heard his name being called somewhere, followed by a brief explosion. But his mind was muddled by the endless whispers that he struggled to comprehend, hence he did not think twice of what he heard. He felt so tired, the unknown hands forcing him back and halting his movements. Soon, the air became sharp and cold, as though he was breathing in shards of glass, and he felt like he was drowning in a cold sea, the chill seeping deep into his flesh and then into his bones. Out of nowhere, bards and maidens sang into his ears, imploring him, seducing him.

"Accept this gift… The Mist… Come… To the Blessed Isles…"

Before he could close his eyes and stop moving, a long tentacle wound itself around his waist, and pulled hard.

All the hands released him at once. The sweet voices of the maidens and bards suddenly heightened into shrieks. He jolted awake, his eyes suddenly opened as his face was smacked hard against the deck. It was brighter than earlier, though he could only see silhouettes and no more.

"Stand, prince," a large figure stood before him, and Jarvan did not have to guess to know it was Illaoi. "Don't let them catch you off guard again," she handed over his lance, which he took grudgingly.

"I did not see them coming," he grunted. "Wait, how did you know -"

"The Mother Serpent showed me more than just the Black Mist," she vaguely cut him off. "I know of your coming, and the Halfling, which is why I intervened before Gangplank could have you both executed,"

Jarvan's face twisted in a grimace. He took a few steps back until there was a safe distance between him and Illaoi, with his lance between them. The priestess of the Great Kraken simply took him no heed.

"This is not the end. What comes after is a storm much worse than the Mist, and it's very near. And you and her have a part to play when it comes, just as everyone else. You are meant to go home, prince. To lead,"

Jarvan remained unconvinced. "Your preaching meant nothing to me. Why should I believe someone who is an accomplice of a pirate king?"

"Because it's the only way," her voice rose in anger. "All beings serve the universe and shall move in favour of the universe. Those who stop will die. You either get swallowed by the Mist or do as you must to survive. Either way, get out of my way,"

She turned away and lifted the Eye of God. Jarvan just stood there, dumbfounded by her response. Tentacles sprouted around her, swiping and snatching up ghosts and undead before throwing them back into the sea.

"I won't tell Gangplank of your identities. Nagakabouros has plans for you and the Halfling, and I won't spoil it. Speaking of her, she would probably need some aid now," she swung her idol hard, knocking enemies up in the air before they were snatched by the tentacles. Illaoi grabbed a nearby torch, its embers almost dying and only illuminated a small radius around it. She threw it to Jarvan, which he caught in midair.

The prince did not think twice and turned away from Illaoi, with only a meagre flame guiding him around the ship. The noises in his ear was almost gone, and he could think clearly now. With his newfound determination, Jarvan looked around for any trace of the half-dragon, before Illaoi spoke again.

"I know how you feel about her, prince," her tones were gentle, yet hard. "Follow your desires,"

Jarvan pretended that he heard nothing, and walked towards where he thought he saw a bright explosion.

"Why do you run?"

The voice echoed in her mind, cutting off all sources of noise. She kept running, barging into battles unintentionally and forced to fight off a horde of enemies wanting her blood. Her vision was blinded and she could no longer tell the dead from the living, or the living from the dead. Everywhere people fought for their lives, yet death was always at their doors.

One time she was nearly cleaved into half by a man with a large axe. She quickly dodged, with the blade only grazing her arm, before she returned his onslaught with a wide swipe of her gauntlet upon his head. She swore she heard his neck snap. She swore she felt the edge bite through her attacker's skin and flesh, and she saw how he fell without a sound.

Yet when she drew back, there was no hint of blood on her gauntlet. Only black bits of decayed flesh and the stale stench of body fluids.

Then the felled man stood again, this time his head tilted badly to one side. She saw only his silhouette, then two pits of baleful eyes opened, glaring at her, muttering curses of an unknown language.

Her heart leaped with fear. Without hesitation, she gathered flames in her fists, her panic giving her a surge of strength.

The moment her gauntlets grew hot she threw the flames forward. A huge mass of heat collided with the undead, and it exploded instantly. She turned on her heel and ran again.

"Do you not hear their songs? The beautiful laments of freed souls, soon to rise into a requiem?"

She could have been less scared if it hadn't been the same voice that possessed Rodrik moments after his passing. Or was it merely a hallucination? Or a dream? Yet it seemed so real to her – the nightmarish fiend taking hold of the dead boy's body, cursing her with an eternal life of suffering.

Everywhere she went, it was sure to follow. Each time she hid, a cold gust of wind would sweep over her, followed by that sing-song voice – soothing, yet deadly.

"You cannot run from death, half-dragon. When will you ever accept it?"

Shyvana dodged past a spectral tentacle sweeping in a wide arc, shattering an army of skeletons whose eyes were blood-red holes of malice. Yellowed bones clattered to the ground, together with their rusted shields and broken swords. It took her moments to realize she was in the middle of the ship, where the largest mast stood tall with its swaying flag, and where the central of the battle took place.

She stood there, panting heavily. Pirates fought and screamed. Cannons loaded and fired. The never-ending shink of the ballistae perforating the uproar, hurling large metal spears at the titan they struggled to hold off. Everywhere blood spilled. Everywhere the undead moaned and wailed and screamed, some roaring a battle cry, some just wanting to be freed.

At that moment, time seemed to slow. She could see all activity aboard the Dead Pool, the dying and the ones fighting for their lives, the undead killing one after another, their bloodlust never satisfied. All the while, Shyvana was rooted to the floor.

"Everywhere you go," someone spoke behind her ear, and she could feel his cold breath on her cheek. "Death follows,"

Shyvana turned quickly and swung her arm behind, hoping to land a punch on whoever that was behind her. But there was no one behind, and her arm only passed through thick air.

Soon, the cold was too much to bear. The half-dragon tried to summon heat to warm herself up. However, she could find no warmth inside her. Frantically, she lifted her hand and tried to summon a fireball. There was a spark or two, then a tiny mote of flame, but it winked out immediately.

She started breaking out in cold sweat, her hands shivering in fear.

And that was when she realized that time had stood still completely. The fighting had ceased, but everyone froze at whatever they were doing. Some had their weapons and shields raised. Missiles fired hung in mid-air. The ship stopped listing.

Shyvana expelled a breath she did not know she was holding.

"Is this how death feels?" she turned behind her, and the sight before her made her shudder. Floating in the air was a spectral man dressed in purple and maroon ceremonial robes within a worn-out breastplate, and a priest-like headdress adorned like a crown. At his right hip hung a heavy tome bound with a thick cover etched with carvings and runes, emanating an ancient power. The ghost held a sceptre in his hand – a long staff with a glowing ball of spectral light at one end, just like his eyes.

Acting on her instincts, she channelled energy upon her palms again to summon her flames. However, it was as though all the warmth had left her, leaving her freezing and stripped of her abilities beneath the ghost's undying gaze.

The half-dragon found herself frozen and unable to move. She tried to speak, but her lips wouldn't stop trembling from fright.

"Such a wondrous moment. And yet all mortals see it as a tragedy, an atrocity to be avoided. Do they not feel the sweet kiss of death, so close to their lips?" the ghost grinned, his smile disturbing to all mortal men. "Perhaps this is how a man at his last moments sees – time slowing, his pain and fear amplifying, his life ebbing away… How I envy those who felt it for the first time,"

He floated closer. Shyvana desperately tried to stay away from him, her legs tangled together as she fell on her rump. Her eyes were still wide in fear, fixed on the spectral figure who had begun flipping his tome, the yellowed and crisp pages flipping past at the speed of light.

"And you reeked of fear, child," the tome stopped flipping at a particular page. "So unlike of you – the brave, hot-headed Halfling on a quest for vengeance. Your life is as it is depicted in here, full of hate and suffering, never resting. Such is the pain of mortality,"

Her heart was beating fast like a frightened horse. There was a feeling of dread deep in the pit of her stomach. At that moment, she knew that she would die anytime. Just a lift of his finger, and she would drop dead to the floor, in an enemy's ship in the middle of nowhere.

Shyvana was not afraid of death, but this lich triggered the hidden fear in her. Just his presence alone had scared her to the brink of death. And her inability to summon her flames left her vulnerable and defenceless. And she hated feeling defenceless.

"You aren't wrong," the ghost sang. "Just a wave of my sceptre and you'll be free of your mortality. We all have a chance to become something divine, and yet you're so willingly bound to this cage you called life,"

"Get out of my head. Who do you think you are?" her voice trembled with fear, but at least she found the courage to speak.

"Someone close to godliness, or if you prefer, an apostle of the dead. Though my pilgrimage had just started not long ago. I give you all a gift, but no one revels in the sight of death. But that boy who died in your lap,"

Shyvana went rigid.

"A miserable tale of two siblings, they had to beg in the streets of Bilgewater when their parents abandoned them. It took the boy a long time to convince his father to let him work on his ship, just so the girl could live and never go hungry. Such innocent souls should never suffer such fate. Do you not agree?"

She clenched her fists tightly.

"But I freed them," the lich spread his arms proudly, his aura engulfing him like a glowing capsule of spectral light. "I released them from this prison of life. There's no beauty for the living, only pain and woe. Do you see it now? What is there to fear?"

There was still fear inside her, but rage boiled as well. Her fear of the lich abated a little, knowing that she could not agree with his cruel ideology. Her heart clenched in guilt for the two poor siblings. Somehow, she felt that they suffered a fate more dreadful than hers – at least she could protect herself, those two were just children after all.

"Life itself is a gift," Shyvana spoke with a firmer tone, the quiver in her voice more controlled. "It's not for you to decide that all mortals should die in the ways you favour,"

The ghost laughed. "Lies you fools keep telling yourselves, until you forget what is true and what is not. It matters not. Belief is, after all, the death of reason, an illusion that clouds you mortals' judgement. Soon enough you'll see through this fallacy you so desperately cling to,"

He rose higher and higher, his death aura swirling in a storm about him. Remnants of ghosts and shards of souls whirled around his sceptre as he spread his arms, their wails escalating into a shrill crescendo, the music of the tortured souls.

"I said what I had to say," his voice echoed to all corners of the ship, breaking the silence. "I'll leave the rest to the Shadow of War. That fool only knows killing, and none other. Know that I'll be watching you, half-dragon. When your end comes, we will meet again, and I'll make it worthwhile,"

"The Shadow of War?" she muttered under her breath.

The ghost only laughed. "Everywhere you go, death follows,"

The whinnying of horses was what caught his attention. Already he had had his seventh kill, another undead put to rest at the tip of his lance. The cries of the ghosts had gone down a little, only to be replaced with what sounded like the clops of horse hooves, which he found absurd.

Horses on a ship? Jarvan frowned. Gangplank sure is a queer man. Unless they were to be butchered for meat? But what pirate would load animals on his ship?

His question was answered when a loud neigh startled him. From his far left, something charged towards him. The prince quickly tossed away his torch and rolled away, the remaining embers smothered upon the deck.

The being charged past him, before changing its course and halted. Jarvan took the time to catch a glimpse at the being, and the sight of the spectral glow simply made him shudder.

A headless spectral man, fully clad in worn steel armour and mounted atop an armoured spectral steed. Their glowing green forms were sealed by the pieces of armour they wore, binding them forever to this mortal world. He held a glaive, its curved edge aimed directly at him. The horse whinnied impatiently, its empty eyes staring at the prince disturbingly. If the horseman still had his head, he would be looking directly at him, glowering.

"Hell," Jarvan cussed. "I had enough spooks for the night,"

The horseman responded by snapping his reins, and the horse charged.

The horseman was fast, his speed almost as fast as a blink of an eye. Jarvan's eyes widened in horror as he realized he couldn't dodge the glaive, so he raised his lance protectively, hoping to block the attack. The glaive and the lance clashed, the glowing blade hissing as it crossed with real steel, and the speed of the horse threw Jarvan off the ground, making him fall.

The prince cursed, recovered from his fall, and spun his lance overhead as it met another attack from the horseman, their blades clashing again. Jarvan fell on his back, but the horseman now pressed his glaive hard against the lance, forcing him to the floor. The horse loomed over him, snapping and biting while its master pulled cruelly on its reins.

"Give up," a voice growled, and Jarvan knew it was from the horseman. He expertly pulled on the reins on one hand and held the glaive in another, forcing the prince on his back. Jarvan's steel hissed and rattled, and it wasn't long before he noticed green mist emerging from the edge of his lance, and the image of his weapon slightly fading.

Knowing that his lance could not win in this struggle, Jarvan mustered his strength and rolled to the side, the glaive lurching forward and stabbed deep into the wooden deck where the prince once was.

"Your lady is slain. General Hecarim will replace her. Now you will join her!" the horseman spat, spun his glaive and charged again.

"You obviously got the wrong person!" Jarvan shouted. This time he was ready, and did not even bother blocking. He rolled to the side, the glaive swung in a wide arc right above his head. And instead of slashing the prince, the glaive struck the body of a pirate cowering in a corner. Jarvan wouldn't have known he was there had he not screamed.

And the prince watched in horror as the blade that was buried deep in the pirate's throat glowed twice as intense.

The pirate had stopped screaming, his eyes fixed in terror and fear, his hands clutching the shaft of the glaive. Then the pirate glowed as well, and before he died, his skin instantly aged from a middle-aged man to someone who was centuries old before crumbling into dust. His flesh fell from his bones, before his bones fell and laid scattered on the spot, until the bones and flesh disintegrated into nothing but a pile of ashes and ragged clothes.

The horseman freed his glaive, turned to the prince who stared, his expression akin to one who just woke from a nightmare.

He took a step back in fear, like a deer cowering before a lion.

The horse reared and neighed, and the horseman raised his glaive, ready to deal the fatal blow.

"Long live the Iron Order!" he snapped the reins, and the horse sped towards the prince.

As his last resort, Jarvan raised a hand. Instantly, a bright yellow orb surrounded him, and bathed the darkness with the light of the Golden Aegis. The familiar hum of the ancient magic that was passed down generations of Lightshields echoed in every corner.

The horseman was caught off guard and tried to pull his reins, but it was futile. He slammed full force into the shield, leaving his horse dazed and throwing themselves to the deck. The glaive fell from his hand and clattered a few feet away.

Without hesitation, Jarvan dispatched his magic shield and instantly thrust his lance, using his fear as a will to survive. His weapon extended to thrice its length and pierced deep into the headless horseman's armour, before emerging from his back. Jarvan then gripped the shaft of his lance with both hands, and twisted.

The lance spun and made a wide slash across the horseman's armour, breaking the steel breastplate completely. The spectral horseman screamed in pain, as the rest of his armour started crumbling bit by bit, turning into dust. The pale green essence beneath the armour lost its foothold upon this world, and the spectre only screamed louder when the air around threatened to tear its uncaged soul to shreds.

The horseman screamed and screamed, the wind suddenly picking up and spinning in a twister about his unbound form. It then collapsed inwards, and imploded, leaving nothing in this world.

The horse was gone as well, leaving only scraps of its armour upon the deck. Jarvan breathed heavily, trying to come to terms with what he had just seen.

Another whinny from afar caught his attention. He turned instantly to the source of the noise, and found who he was looking for.

Shyvana. Yet something was obviously very wrong. She stood still, her hands clenched at her sides beneath those gauntlets she never took off. Her hood had fallen off, revealing her mane of red hair, unruly and wild. She was motionless, save for the tremble of her hands, and he found it odd that she had her gaze fixed in a distance, in the horizon where the Black Mist just took dominance.

He saw a horseman pulling the reins on his horse, the same spectral glow and black binding armor. Except that this one had a head, wearing a sinister, black helmet. The same glaive gleamed with a moonlit edge, its tip pointed straight at the half-dragon's back.

"Shyvana!" he sprinted towards her, preparing his magic for another Golden Aegis. Shyvana then jolted, finally awaken from her trance.

Shyvana instantly saw the charging ghost and raised her arms in alarm, trying desperately to put up a weak defense. The prince unleashed another surge of magical energy, encapsulating the half-dragon in an orb of golden light, forming a temporary shield against the charging horseman.

The spectre crashed into the orb just like his comrade did, yet he did not fall from his horse. Still, his horse teetered as it tried to regain itself, and the horseman pulled on its reins desperately to make it comply.

That was all Jarvan needed to pierce his lance through the horseman's armor. Again it broke through the breastplate, before extending and piercing right through his back. The horseman roared, swinging his glaive in a frenzy while snapping the reins about. The horse screamed, rearing on its hind legs and nearly throwing off its master.

Knowing that he would be dragged around if his lance remained buried in the horseman's chest, he slashed sideways, pulling his weapon out of the specter's chest and watched as the breastplate broke into bits and pieces. He witnessed the death of the horseman again, as the rest of his armour disintegrated to ashes, revealing the swirling mass of green energy beneath, before it grew violent and collapsed inwards.

The Golden Aegis fell, and the half-dragon still stared in shock, her hands still raised as a feeble attempt to protect herself.

Furious, he slammed the pommel of his lance upon the deck and stormed towards the half-dragon. Her eyes were wide with surprise, obviously not expecting his sudden burst of anger.

"What were you thinking?" he yelled. "You could have been killed if I wasn't here any sooner!"

She blinked twice, before her face contorted with fury. "I don't need your concern,"

"Of course you don't, you were nearly impaled by a ghost,"

"You didn't have to care!"

"If I didn't, you would have been dead, you ingrate!"

"I could have dodged it. I was waking," she spat furiously, her demeanour not even shifting when the prince glared down at her. Upon hearing that, his face switched from anger to worry, before settling on confusion.

"Waking?" he asked. "Waking from what?"

She paused. "N-nothing," she answered timidly. Her eyes drew away from his a little too quickly, and he knew that she was afraid. She turned away from him, so that he couldn't see her face. But he noticed how her shoulders stiffened, and her hands trembling slightly.

Jarvan watched her with a frown. "Something happened. You're scared,"

"I'm not," she snapped.

A pirate fired a few gunshots at a reanimated, rotting corpse, which collapsed with a hiss. "Then what is it?"

"Why do you care?" Blades crashed, then the sound of gushing blood. A pirate howled in pain.

"Shyvana, please. Have I not proven myself enough?" the prince pleaded, clearly zoning out the ongoing chaos around them.

The half-dragon looked at him with a stoic face, her expressions unreadable. It was a long pause before she said, "Everywhere I go, death follows. There has to be one more,"

Jarvan raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"One of them brought a message to me," she hesitated. "He said that my fate is weaved in suffering. And one more will die, if this journey goes on,"

"I don't understand,"

"One of us will die," she snapped. "It's a foreshadowing. There are chances that you or your men might be killed. I don't know when or how, but my vengeance will cost one of you your life,"

Jarvan shook his head. "You'd rather believe the words of a ghost?"

"Spirits don't lie," she argued. "And I don't need any of you risking your lives for someone you don't even know. You and your men, you don't belong here. You have a home, Jarvan. A family. After we get out of here, go back to Demacia,"

The prince stared at her with astonishment clear on his face. He shook his head. "I made you a promise,"

"Promises are made to be broken," she whispered, her tone filled with sadness. She diverted her gaze from his, but she did not turn away.

At that moment, he saw not a fierce, formidable warrior, but a woman who had been alone for far too long and betrayed so many times, she simply couldn't find joy in anything anymore. His anger for her ebbed away, replaced by the need to comfort her. But what if she pushed him away?

"No," his voice softened. "Not this time. You don't deserve this kind of torment," He reached out with one hand, and held her gently by her chin. She did not pull away, nor showed any grimace.

Her golden eyes still shone with fury, but a single tear shed. She clenched her jaw, swallowing her anger and sadness. "What if you die? I owe you too much. I can't forgive myself for that,"

Jarvan chuckled without mirth, his hand moving from her chin to her cheek, his fingers lightly brushing the tear away. Again, she did not resist or shy away from his touch. But her eyes were unyielding. Defiant and firm, yet so beautiful.

"Then send my ashes back to Demacia, with my lance and armour in one piece. Escort my men through the perils of the Great Barrier, so they may get back to their homeland safely. Tell my mother I'm sorry, and my friend Garen. That is how you can repay me,"

Shyvana gave a hoarse laugh, choking on her own tears. "You ask too much, prince,"

"Perhaps," he laughed lightly. "But for now, we fight. And we'll live,"

She nodded. And he noticed how her eyes burnt twice as bright. Somehow, he felt hotter around her, being so close to her.

Her eye twitched for a split second, but he noticed. Without warning, he ducked.

And Shyvana breathed a jet of flame right above his head.

The flames roared and spread to a few undead crawling up on them, burning them to a crisp. Jarvan brandished his lance as he rolled to the side, spinning it above his head with such grace and finesse. A few undead, donning rotting rogue armor and wielding rusted weapons, clambered upon them clumsily, which Jarvan speared rapidly right through their unbeating hearts.

They took down many, yet more took their place. Occasionally a pirate would be dragged into the battle unintentionally, but there were too many of the undead to worry about the welfare of their temporary allies.

Then the shrill cry of a battle roar shook them, among the chaotic war going onboard. Jarvan ignored it at first, but that shrill cry soon grew in numbers, as if an army was chanting their battle cry, ready to launch an onslaught.

He threw an undead off his back, and called out for the half-dragon. She stopped what she was doing, and stared at the prince, asking the same question.

The undead still hissed and advanced upon the pirates, whose bravery and savagery were something to be admired. But out of nowhere, a formation of horsemen stormed through the crowd of undead, their speed terrifying with the hooves thundering loud. Wisps of spectral light followed behind their wake, and around the Dead Pool, the Black Mist swirled and groaned, growing twice as strong when the horsemen appeared.

They ran down both the undead and the pirates, the loud, beating hooves surpassing the chaos earlier. People screamed and died. Shyvana and Jarvan stood there stunned, before they quickly got out of the way from the charging legion.

The formation stopped at the end of the deck, then like a disciplined army of soldiers, they turned with such perfect timing, and prepared to charge again.

And that was when Jarvan noticed that these weren't just men on horses. He tugged on Shyvana's cloak roughly, begging her to watch.

She noticed, her mouth slightly agape with horror.

The soldiers of the formation had the body of a man and a horse, fully clad in armour. However, it was as though some evil force fused those beings with their steeds, binding them together for eternity. They all held a glaive, the wicked curve of the steel that could kill with just a touch.

They all looked the same, except for the one in the middle. This one looked a lot larger, his shoulders broader than even Gangplank's and Illaoi's combined. His glaive was long and huge and held a ghostly glow to it. Beneath the helmet, the being grinned, his eyes fixed on the half-dragon and the prince.

"Karthus," the one in the middle spoke, and his voice was similar to the rumble of an earthquake, strong enough to send tremors through the Black Mist. "You were here,"

Jarvan noticed how he was staring at Shyvana, and he looked to her. He was even more puzzled when he saw how the half-dragon gritted her teeth in frustration, her fists clenched tightly and shivering in fear.

"Who is he referring to?" he asked her.

"I don't know," she answered. Somehow, he felt that she was telling the truth.

"This is the Deathsinger's gift!" the leader of the legion roared, and charged. The rest of his kind followed closely behind as well, their thundering hooves sending clouds of dust and black wisps of mist into the air, clouding their vision.

Jarvan dashed ahead of Shyvana, knowing her panic had dulled her reflexes. The prince twisted his lance and raised it forward, watching as the blades of his lance spun and grow in length. It clashed with the being's glaive, and Jarvan put all his strength into his lance, the being and his legion halted briefly behind the prince's weapon.

His forearms were burning in pain, and he broke out in cold sweat. Yet he held his lance firmly, holding them back.

The spectral glow of the glaive flowed about its blade. Jarvan swore that that thing was alive, as though speaking to him and spiting him for his efforts. He nearly gave in when the being leaned close to him, his soulless eyes staring deep into his.

The glow of the glaive spread slowly along his lance, like a disease.

"None can resist the might of the Iron Order," he growled. "None can resist Hecarim, the Shadow of War,"

"Then resist this!"

From behind, he saw the half-dragon leaping into the air, her flaming gauntlets held above her in a menacing pose. The being who called himself Hecarim, turned back in surprise, and quickly withdrawn his glaive in a wide, arcing sweep, hissing as Shyvana's gauntlets connected with the glaive.

Flames were conjured, followed by an explosion that engulfed Hecarim and Shyvana. The sudden withdrawal of the glaive threw Jarvan off guard, and he panted in exhaustion as he stood shakily on his feet, his hands almost white around the hilt of his lance.

Among the smoke, Hecarim charged. His speed dispersed the smoke into nothing, and Jarvan could see Shyvana ducking back and forth, using his heavy weight as her own advantage.

"You fight well, Halfling! Like a thief!"

He charged in one direction and swept his glaive. Shyvana easily evaded the attack, and the glaive crashed into a pile of crates.

Then Shyvana was running towards the prince. Hecarim roared in frustration and pulled out his glaive angrily, turning to face the half-dragon.

"Jarvan!" Shyvana shouted, drawing his attention. "The magic shield! Use it!"

He wanted to tell her he had little energy left to conjure any more shields, and even if he did, it would be a weak one. But behind her Hecarim charged, this time faster than ever, and his legion of souls that expanded to twenty men abreast.

The prince mustered what little energy he had left, and summoned the Golden Aegis again, just as the half-dragon went past him.

Hecarim did not slow nor stop. He kept speeding forward, and crashed head-on into the shield. The whole ship felt its tremor.

Jarvan grunted and held the Golden Aegis, which was threatening to shatter. Hecarim forced himself into the shield by pressing forward, the spectral energy from his glaive flowing through the prince's shield. It was obvious that Hecarim was taking over.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Shyvana in mid-air, her feet on fire as she executed a spinning kick, aiming for the horseman's head.

Hecarim was so into breaking Jarvan's Golden Aegis, he did not see the half-dragon's attack. Her foot collided with his head, knocking him back as the horseman grunted in pain. The spectral energy that was seeping into Jarvan's shield dissipated the moment the glaive was not touching the shield.

At once, Hecarim's formidable legion of ghosts disappeared. Not even a wisp was spared.

He stumbled backwards, his horse hooves clopping clumsily upon the deck. Jarvan dispatched his shield instantly, his head pounding with headache and his muscles burning with fatigue. He was beyond exhausted.

But Shyvana's bloodlust was burning. She encased herself in a capsule of fire, speeding towards the stunned horseman. She launched a fiery punch on his chest, but Hecarim recovered quickly, and caught her fist in one armoured gauntlet.

The prince saw her frantically tried to pull away, but his grip was strong. Hecarim leaned in and stared into her eyes, sending shudders down her spine.

"You give good sport, Halfling. I'll enjoy gutting you,"

She only roared, and answered with a punch with another hand.

At that moment, Jarvan saw Illaoi behind Hecarim, but Shyvana was still amidst battle.

With alarming speed, Hecarim dodged the punch, and threw her to the ground. The half-dragon recovered from her fall halfway, skidding a few feet away. The horseman galloped forward and swung his glaive around him in a crescent slash.

And Jarvan acted quickly, rushing to her aid and parrying the blow with his lance. Hecarim's glaive bounced away, but he used the shaft and thrust it towards the prince. Jarvan hopped a few steps backwards, pulling the half-dragon with him.

Illaoi slammed her golden idol upon the deck again, and summoned the visage of her god. Tentacles shot towards Hecarim and wrapped around him, immobilizing him.

The Shadow of War did not howl in rage. Instead, he laughed, and it was a thunderous sound that rumbled across the ship. "The servant of the Kraken God? A God who needs his apostles to do his bidding? And you want the sons of the Shadow Isles to take you seriously?"

"Your words don't matter. Only actions do," Illaoi spoke confidently. "And your kind does not belong here. Men, fire!"

The click of a mechanism drew the prince's attention. He turned to find three pirates firing a ballista, the metal spear launching in the air towards the spectral horseman with such speed, it went through his armour and out from his back. On the left and right of Illaoi, pirates heaved and threw their spears and fired their harpoons, each one embedding itself in Hecarim's armour, piercing his glowing form.

Soon Hecarim's form was embedded with spears. And Illaoi called back the tentacles, the appendages disappearing from the horseman. The Shadow of War dropped his glaive and fell to his knees, but he refused to keel over.

All on the deck was silent. Pirates lowered their weapons, Shyvana and Jarvan stood aside and watched him closely, Illaoi only rested her Eye of God on her shoulders.

But Hecarim laughed, and laughed, and laughed. His voice sent terror to all their hearts.

"Does not belong here," he gripped the shaft of a metal spear with both armoured hands. Without a sign of pain, he pulled it out effortlessly. "Of course we do not belong here," he reached for another spear, and pulled it out as well. "That's why the Ruined King bequeathed us the Black Mist – to wreak havoc upon the mundane,"

They all drew their weapons at once. Even Illaoi looked astonished.

"Pierced by spears…" this time, he pulled out another spear angrily as he spat those words. "This reminds me of someone… Who was it?" Spear after spear clattered upon the deck. "Doesn't matter. But I must kill," the last spear was removed and laid in his hand. He eyed a pirate cruelly.

That pirate pulled out a gun, but it was too late. Hecarim hurled the spear towards him, and it was so fast it speared through his head, his gun never fired.

Picking up his glaive, Hecarim went on a rampage. He summoned his horsemen again, except that this time his legion was no longer tailing him. They all ran in all directions, slaughtering pirates in their wake. A few pirates howled and battled the spectres, even though their chances of survival were mild.

Jarvan went into a frenzy, barely knocking back a charging horseman with his lance. Shyvana was having a hard time defending herself as well.

"Prince!" Illaoi approached him, nonchalantly slamming a horseman away with her idol. "Heed me!"

"Not now, priestess!" Jarvan shouted, deflecting a spinning glaive.

Illaoi ignored him, and grabbed the prince by his shoulder. "Listen to me, you haven't much time. Go with the half-dragon, to the south of here, there's a latch that will lead you to the bottom of the ship, through the captain's cabin. Your men are there, ready with Gangplank's boats," she pushed him away, urging him to go away.

Of course, Jarvan only got more confused and frowned at her.

"Are you touched in the head?" Illaoi chided. "Go, before Gangplank finds you both missing,"

"Why are you helping us?" he can't help but feel suspicious. "Why should we trust you?"

"Like I said, you are meant to go home, to lead. With that half-dragon," she said impatiently, summoning a few tentacles. "You are not needed here, but elsewhere. Go before I bash you in the head and feed you to the sharks,"

Jarvan still looked hesitant.

"And I released your friend, stubborn prince," she hissed. "Do you want to stay here to be killed by Gangplank?"

"If this is a trap, I'll make sure the whole ship sinks with us," Jarvan snapped, and turned away from her, from the mass slaughter by a legion of spectral horsemen. He went to Shyvana, who had just taken down another horseman, ready to escape with her.

Deep beneath the dark waves, the metal titan struggled to stay afloat. It was difficult swimming in this enormous metal hunk of an armour, what more swimming with one hand, and holding onto a dredge chain in another while being pelted by a shower of spears and harpoons and cannonballs.

Better me than them, he thought sadly. Better me than them. It echoed like a mantra, turning his emotions into a storm of anger and desperation.

She needed his help. A harpoon through the tail, she had told him. She sounded so sad. Her kind had no tears, (neither had he, not anymore) but her eyes were full of desperation and hopelessness. He had not told her, and went forward in her stead. It took him days to chase the ship, recognising it by its large masts and formidable strength.

A harpoon through the tail, he thought. Another cannonball blasted his head, igniting an explosion but it only dented his helmet. His red eyes raged. Sad. She's sad. Better me than them.

He could not remember his name, but he knew hers. That was all that mattered. And he would do everything he could to take that sadness away from her.

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