Asrael could hear the legionnaires approaching from behind. He had dawdled too long. Bartholomew had required some attention, but much time had been wasted in hopes that he might move as many of his men as possible out of the Garrison and back into the tunnels, but was slowly realizing his folly. Even when he had ordered his soldiers to pack their bodies tightly into the chamber ahead, their escape was slow. The necromancer felt a passing nausea as he arrived down in the dungeon to see that several frames of pale, dead, blood-covered wretches were pressing their way into the cellar room leading down into the shafts- all the while, the clattering of plates from behind grew louder by the second.

“The steps sounded down here, men!” A voice echoed from up the stairs.

Whoever these men were, they were far stronger than any warriors or magi Asrael had ever encountered. The blown-open door and the determined slices that had decapitated his men spoke of better training and, he imagined, more talent than any of the wretches he had under his own control. Depending on how many were now chasing him down into the darkness of the cellar, he imagined he might soon find himself in more trouble than he could deal with.

“Damn you, Bartholomew...” The necromancer muttered as he came to the realization that his predicament called for desperate, rash, painful action. He had next to no chance of squeezing himself into the room- past his dead soldiers, not without risking to fall victim to collateral damage.

The two squadrons, a dozen men all-in-all, ran down the stairs in a tight, well-practiced formation. On the front line, the offensive Purged led the way into the depths- their white robes swaying in the still air as they descended the cobbled stone. Behind them, the six sword-wielding men glared out into the darkness, while the three remaining supportive Purged followed shortly after them.

They rounded the corner of the well just in time to see the starved-looking, crazed civilians as they leapt from the hallway leading up to the shaft-access-room, but the Purged were quick on their hands. With swift movements through the air, the air and floor between them and the charging mass of pale, open-mouthed, bloody, inscribed dead exploded into a vibrant field of red, white and green sparks- chilling and melting Asrael’s soldiers simultaneously, but stopping very few of them.

“What in the Hells!?” A male Purged’s voice shouted and took a step back to dodge a barrage of strikes from the charging madmen.

“Down!” A swordsman from the second file roared at the first-line defenders, who all obeyed the command with honed reflexes. No sooner had the Purgeds’ white hoods disappeared beneath the swordsmen’s line of sight, the six blades swung out- cleaving, decapitating and dismembering the dead. One, in particular, near the right flank, had been slashes across the chest- cutting deep into his torso to bare lungs and his heart. The blade stopped before it succeeded in cleanly cutting across the man’s spine and to the squadrons’ horror... the dead man simply looked down at his gaping wound before he bared his teeth and continued lunging forward- biting into the face of one of the first-line Purged.

The bitten man roared in panic and attempted to strike the assailant away, but the teeth gnawing at his nose only sunk deeper and deeper into his face with every slap and jerk.

Being furthest from the action, the third line of supportive Purged were spared the spray of blood. Perhaps that was why one- a pyromancer- took the initiative and pushed the soldier blocking his view away and summoned forth a ball of crackling, wild fire into his palm.

Before the dead assailant could fully regain his footing, the Purged had leapt out and slung the ball into his fellow Purged’s face- reducing him to little more than a spray of boiling blood and gore. The ball continued to strike the undead soldier’s chest, to an astounding result.

As his flesh caught fire and began to dissipate into a thick, black smoke; sparks of green stood out from the gaping wound in his chest. The arms- now connected to little more than bones from atop his shoulders, began reaching out and clawing for the remaining members of the squadron, but to no avail. The leftover flesh of the Purged and the Undead fell together in a pile of a burning robe and smoldering embers on the floor.

“K-Kill them all! Leave none of them alive!” The Squadron leader screamed from the back.

________________________________________________________________________________

Asrael leapt down the ladder and felt his ankles and knees crackle upon his arrival on the hard mine-shaft stone. It seemed this day would only continue to worsen, as the situation up in the Garrison was quickly devolving into a fresh slaughter. The Purged were, like Petrus had been, a caliber apart from him and his apprentices. Though none of them fought with academic magic, the expressions of their natural magics made the entire city shake as they reduced his stragglers to little but dust, shards of shattered ice and neat piles of butchered flesh. The swordsmen of the legion were no worse- equally talented with their blades as the Purged were with their magics... with every passing second, a dozen of his men were being sliced and diced with ease- all because of his greedy, stolen minutes with the detestable Bartholomew.

His greatest mistake, by far, had been his attempts to spare himself a few seconds by jumping into the shaft and sacrificing his men in the cellar room to have them stall the aggressors. Both his ankles were now sources of fresh agony and he struggled to take a single step forward, but the sounds of the slaughter up beyond the manhole were all the motivation he needed to keep going- at least until the Ogre could arrive to carry him to safety.

Asrael muttered curses as he pushed onwards. He had not expected to victor over this First Legion, but he never could have imagined the battle would be so one-sided.

In the darkness, he roared through the bond for his men to reinforce his position and slow his hunters- above all else, they needed to be prevented from chasing him down... he had suffered this fate before and he would not be hunted by Gustav’s hounds- not again. But these soldiers of his- they were unlike what he had encountered in his efforts to escape the Inquisition. That army of old had been trained to suppress to populace and to fight peasants and weakly magi- this army was something apart from what he had prepared himself to face, despite Bartholomew’s warnings.

As he crawled further into the darkness of the musty tunnel and heard his men’s armors echo from the distance, he cursed himself for his arrogance and his foolishness. Pilta’s assault had been little more than a test of their strength- a test they had passed with flying colors, due to their immortality. But the men he had faced had been soft- their strikes had been chaotic, meant to disarm and suppress, whereas these... these seemed almost accustomed to fighting men like his own- striking for cores and with the power to pulverize his soldiers in a flash of magic. Who were these legionnaires and what had Sargerrei and this Ingvard prepared them to fight?

He shook his head as the first of his green-eyed undead appeared in the distance. Lita’s vision had showed an army far beyond what he had mustered for Pilta- with beasts beyond his understanding. If it was a vision of the future, it was clear that there was still something for him to learn- secrets to unlock that would defeat even this ‘first legion’.

“Curse you, Bartholomew... You might’ve spent a little more time warning me, than sulk...” Asrael spoke as the first of his men arrived to raise him to his height and cradle him in his arms. The undead raced through the darkness- necromancer-in-arms, through the stream of a hundred men- all ready and willing to throw their undead flesh at the army above.