Legends of Runeterra

Chapter 1063 To be revised

The mere mention of the Trifarii Legion made Erath stand a little taller. He examined the scroll. The paper was bleached to a brilliant white, while the parchment of the military orders his compatriots had received seemed coarse by comparison. He had never seen white paper before. The scroll felt incredibly delicate and exquisite.

"It seems fate has a special path for you, child." Yahavi looked at Erath kindly, his expression a tribal blessing for a warrior about to embark on a life of war. He grasped Erath's shoulder with a scarred hand and said his final goodbye. "Go bravely."

Erath moved through the throngs of people, the entire city bracing for war. To a child raised in a deserted nomadic village, everything seemed massive and awe-inspiring. Towering monuments and buildings of stone, steel, and glass lined the streets, the ground smoothed by the footsteps of troops rushing to the next battle. Erath was so engulfed in the throng that he couldn't even raise his hands. He had never imagined so many people, so many languages. The onslaught was overwhelming, but he never lost sight of his mission.

Few of his tribe spoke the Noxian language, but Erath could communicate in the common spoken language of Var-Noxian. He also had a passing familiarity with the official written language of the Empire, enough to decipher the general meaning of the signs and inscriptions and follow the directions to the Ninth Gate. His destination lay just ahead, where he would report to his new commander.

Erath slung the cloth bag he carried onto his shoulder. His free hand slipped under the collar of his vest, brushing against the bone pendant he wore on his chest. He rested his hand on the pendant for a moment, soothing it. Then, in his bosom, he found the military order, the tightly wound scroll of white paper. This small item was priceless, and he couldn't help but imagine who his new master would be, and the significance of their mission. So absorbed in his thoughts, he didn't even notice he had entered the courtyard before the gate, nor did he see the two massive shadows cast upon it.

"Courses-go-Feuillard!"

A sharp metallic clash froze Erath in his tracks. He looked up to find himself facing the sharp blades of two halberds, longer than he was tall, both aimed at his heart. Wielding them were two monsters in black iron armor, blood-red cloaks billowing from their shoulders like raging waves. Two pairs of eyes glared down at him from within their spiked helmets.

Erath's breath suddenly hitched. The Trifarii. He had just noticed that the gates here had no bolts. Because of these two Noxian elite warriors, they were the bolts.

One of the legionaries repeated his battle cry, a sonorous roar that seemed to grow deeper as it reverberated off his helmet. The words sounded foreign, with a strange accent.

Is that Va-Noxian? Erath looked away, trying to recall what he had learned. The soldier tilted his head and cleared his throat with a sound like gravel sliding.

"Where are you going, Little Knife?" the Legionnaire shouted again, this time with a little more clarity.

Erath gasped, like a drowning man rising to the surface. He finally understood. But his tongue was still tied, and his teeth chattered. He slowly reached into his pocket, offering an awkward, wry smile to the two more nervous legionnaires, and finally pulled out the scroll.

The two soldiers exchanged glances. The soldier who had shouted earlier, his halberd raised, approached Eras with rumbling steps, coming within a foot of him. Eras raised his head, his height just reaching the soldier's chest, and then he handed over his orders.

The legionnaire plucked the scroll from Erath's hand. Between his thick, gloved fingers, the paper seemed comically small. With a gentle squeeze, he crumbled the wax seal. A trickle of red wax shavings slowly fell, and the scroll unfurled. After examining it for a moment, the soldier spun on the spot and struck the polished stone floor three times with the blunt end of his halberd. Each blow echoed lingeringly in the dim archway of the gate.

A few seconds later, Erath heard the sound of sandaled footsteps. A figure in a robe emerged from the shadows just inside the doorway, its red hood hiding her face. She stopped before the legionnaire, unfazed by his ferocious presence and bulk, and took the scroll from his hand.

"You come with me," she said to Erath, and without another glance, she turned and began to walk to the other side of the courtyard. Erath hurried after her, looking back to see the legionnaire slowly walking back to his position, each step sounding loudly.

Erath followed the robed woman, crossed another canal, and wound his way toward the center of the city, following side roads and avoiding the broad thoroughfares where the marching troops lay, and where military tents were neatly arranged on either side.

Soon, Erath began to smell a strong odor. Hay, fresh grass, and feces—smells all too familiar to any herder or animal trainer. He heard the low, droning calls of animals, some he recognized, many he didn't.

They emerged from a narrow alley into a wide square, where many people were tending to animals. Huge beasts of burden were kept in enclosed compartments. Various people were checking on the sheep in the pen and counting the chickens in the shed. Erath guessed that this empty space had once been used for something else, perhaps a park or public garden, but had been requisitioned as part of the general mobilization.

A familiar feeling comforted Erath, and his mind was at peace as they stopped in front of a tent on the perimeter of the square. The robed woman returned the scroll to Erath, drew aside the tent curtain, and gestured for him to enter. Once she had confirmed he was inside, she vanished.

The air inside the tent was cool, but the strong aroma of the incense was so spicy that it brought tears to Erath's eyes. He stood at the doorway, squinting to see what was inside. The only light in the tent came from a half-kneeling figure in the center. Her arms waved in the air, weaving a series of runes. The runes surrounded a sword, emitting a green glow. The sword hovered in mid-air, facing her.

Erath watched the magic unfold, entranced. Runes danced gracefully, imprinted on the blade's side, and then vanished one by one. He recalled, as a child, watching the shamans of his tribe transform air into fire in rituals.