League of Legends: Short Stories

Pantheon: The Spear of Targon

A lone figure awaited the armed convoy, standing silhouetted against the sun. His heavy cloak and the long plume atop his helm billowed in the hot, dry desert wind. A tall spear was held at his side.

The convoy was thirty strong. Most of its number were hired mercenaries – rough, warlike men and women garbed in hauberks, leather and chain, bearing crossbows, halberds and blades. They walked the dusty path alongside heavily-laden mules, though they came to halt, crude insults and jokes dying on their lips, as they saw the warrior standing motionless before them. The dark-clad leader of the expedition frowned as he pulled his coal-black steed to a halt.

The figure atop the rocky outcrop made no move to stand aside.

"You come with murder in your hearts," he said.

His voice was as hard as iron, and strangely accented.

"I am of the Mountain. You shall go no further."

The mercenaries smirked and scoffed.

"Piss off, madman," one of them shouted, "lest we plant your head on a spike to mark our passing."

"You are a long way from home, friend," the leader of the convoy said. "We journey to the mountain ourselves. There need be no blood spilt here."

The lone warrior was unmoved.

"We are simple pilgrims, and still have a long journey ahead of us," said the leader. "And besides, there is no way back for us now. Our ships have sailed, see?" he said, gesturing behind him.

Behind the convoy, less than a mile distant, the sea glittered like dragon-scales in the dying light. A trio of galleys could be seen, sails unfurling as they turned north on the long journey home.

"We come with no ill intent, I assure you," the leader continued. "We merely seek wisdom."

"Your tongue is forked, serpent," said the lone warrior. "You seek the blood of the Seer. Turn aside, or be slain."

The rider's frown deepened, and he turned away with a dismissive shrug.

"So be it," he said. "Kill him."

In an instant, crossbows were hefted to shoulders and the air was filled with loosed bolts. The lone warrior was not punched from his feet, however; the bolts clanged as they ricocheted from his heavy, circular shield. Then he began to advance.

He appeared to be in no hurry. He strode forward with grim resolve, still silhouetted against the sun, the tip of his spear lowering toward his enemies. Another flurry of crossbow bolts. Again they were turned aside by his shield.

The first of the snarling mercenaries launched herself toward him, a jagged-bladed scimitar arcing in for his throat. She died in the blink of an eye, the warrior's spear buried in her chest. The next two died almost as quickly as the warrior's spear slashed a crimson line across one man's throat and the rim of his shield cracked another's skull.

"Take him!" roared the expedition's leader, drawing an exquisite, bespoke pistol from his waistband.

A cloud passed in front of the sun, allowing the warrior to be seen more clearly. He was bedecked in armor of archaic design, though his arms and legs were bare and tautly muscled. His cloak was deep crimson, though in the twilight it seemed as if stars gleamed in the shimmering fabric. That starlight also glittered in his unrelenting gaze, shadowed within the visor slits of his helm.

The lone warrior moved like liquid, every movement smooth, efficient and deadly. He was impossibly fast, faster than any man should be. More mercenaries died, their blood staining the dry desert ground. None could land a blow upon the deadly fighter. He moved effortlessly through the battle, closing inexorably on the horseman. One by one, the mercenaries were slain. In moments, those still standing turned and fled in the face of this unstoppable foe.

The rider levelled his pistol at the lone warrior and fired. Impossibly, he swayed aside at the last moment, and the shot merely scraped across the side of his helm. The leader swore and cocked his pistol for another shot... but he was too slow.

The warrior's shield took him square in the chest, and he was hurled from the saddle. He fell heavily and grimaced as the warrior's foot came down on his torso, pinning him to the ground.

"Who are you?" he hissed.

"I am your death," said the lone warrior. "I am Pantheon."

The leader of the convoy turned his head to the side, seeing his pistol lying in the dust nearby. He reached for it, but it was a hopeless act of desperation.

"Rejoice, mortal," said Pantheon. "It is a great honor to die beneath the Spear of Targon."

The broken man made to speak, but his words were cut short as Pantheon's spear drove down through his chest. Blood bubbled from the dying man's lips, and then he lay still.

Pantheon pulled his weapon clear and turned away. Twilight had given way to dusk, and countless stars lit the night sky.

A comet of burning fire streaked down toward the distant mountains, a hundred miles east.

Pantheon's eyes narrowed.

"It is time, then," he said to the darkness, and began the long journey back to Mount Targon.