Legion

Legion had a sword, and he had his wand. He was wearing armor for the first time in his life. It wasn’t polished steel, or boiled leather. It was padded wool that was somehow heavier than any cloak he had ever worn. The three weeks leading to this battle he had been receiving a crash course in combat from his new acquaintances. Most of his lessons came from Cole and Frost, who were eager to pass on knowledge. Their methods for tutoring were gentler than Maya’s had been. He even received his first lessons in arcana from the bard Fern. Fern surmised that Death’s End was a dangerous instrument, but also conceded that it was Legion’s instrument to use.

None of those lessons involved what to do if a hallway collapsed on you. Legion was lucky he was beyond the explosion’s radius when it occurred. Another member of their team was rendered unconscious from a brick striking his head. Azeroth pulled him from the rubble so that Dirk could heal him.

Even though they were each shell-shocked, there was no time to let it fade. The explosion alerted the soldiers ahead to their presence. The throne room entrance became barricaded by coatlmade with pikes. Legion extended Death’s End. With his free hand he painted a ring in the air. That ring manifested before the wand at three times the size he could manifest with his palm. The shock wave and flash rendered the pike-men delirious long enough for the other members of the strike team to cut them down. From there they advanced to the throne room.

Legion did not know why he expected Ghetsis to actually be seated on the throne. The leader of the Order of Suffering stood at the chamber’s end. He gazed longingly at the closed doors to the courtyard, silently dwelling on the sounds of battle. Five soldiers flanked him on each side. On a balcony above four archers of elven descent prepared their crossbows. None of those warriors made a motion to attack, even after all nine invaders had entered the room.

“If only our enemy knew shame...” Ghetsis spoke to his soldiers in a wistful tone. “Perhaps they would realize which side of history they stand on. How regret-filled their ancestors must be, watching them fight for the volatiles of the world.”

Ghetsis turned to the strike team. From a sheath on his back he produced a resplendent greatsword of near-mirror reflective steel. His soldiers drew their own weapons in unison.

Ghetsis refused to look at any of the diablan warriors as he spoke.

“Some of you can still join the light. I believe you are good people, mislead by a devil in noble attire. Speak now, and come to the side of justice.”

Ten seconds passed. Not a word was spoken. Legion was slightly shocked, and wholly proud of the people he stood with.

“A pity.” Ghetsis sighed.

His voice was hoarse. His eyes were sunken with age and illness.

“When Scorpionnus divides your soul, you will realize how wrong you were.”

He pointed his imposing sword forward. The order was given to kill them all. Legion swallowed his breath. This was it.

Azeroth and Dirk made contact with the enemy first. Azeroth used sweeping kicks to unsettle those in bulkier armor. Dirk fought with a warhammer with a short haft. It allowed him to fight quite close to his opponent, denting their armor and forcing them back. He removed his glove with his teeth so that he could touch his opponent’s breastplate with his bare hand.

“Sahn, send me the heat of light.” He passionately shouted to the high windows.

Where Dirk stood the sunlight grew harsh. Wisps of vapor were visible off the soldier’s flesh. Their platemail was rapidly heating with them inside. This forced a retreat to the shadows, temporarily removing them from the fight. It was a fair tactic when they were outnumbered.

Counterwise, Legion had no close range spells. He was terrified of firing into the melee for fear of striking his own. A woman next to him cried out when an arrow passed through the slot of her helm. The elves on the balcony had easy aim on the strike team.

A book from the Pavilion of Scrolls had taught Legion that producing smaller manifestations was generally more effective for pitched combat. It required more control to restrain one’s arcana rather than let it unleash freely, but it also reduced the chance of him exhausting himself as he had in previous battles.

Legion turned Death’s End on the archers, firing a rapid series of arcane blades, each less than one-fourth of a meter. So quick were his spells that he forced all four into the cover of the railing. He was certain he had drawn blood on at least two, and perhaps even carved the crossbow of another.

There was a glow of faded blue at the center of the throne room. It was coming from Ghetsis’ armor. Deaths were occurring on both sides now. When it happened to one of Order soldiers they used the last of their life to struggle their way to Ghetsis to leave a bloody hand-print on his armor. With each print placed the aura on the armor pulsed stronger. The faded image of prints past ebbed into view. Ghetsis’ armor was covered with them.

“My beloved built me this armor. Her last act before her nature overcame her.” Ghetsis declared to the strike team.

“Perhaps she knew what I’d become, or what she’d become. This is my Armor of Martyrs! The blood of those who have died for me feeds its chassis, giving me the strength to avenge them!”

Ghetsis forced his way into combat. Weapons bounced off the armor’s aura, impairing Ghetsis as much as strong wind. With his greatsword, he engaged in an exerted counterattack on the strike team. Azeroth caught his attention by chucking a rock at his head. The half-orc was fast enough to avoid Ghetsis’ sweeping strikes, but his fists were useless. It was purely a distraction tactic.

The archers had recovered and were firing upon Legion and Azeroth in turn. A misfired bolt pierced Legion’s foot. He faltered forward, but caught his balance with his uninjured leg. Through the tears of his pain he conjured a black fireball that sailed straight to the balcony, detonating with enough kinetic force to collapse a minor section of it. All four archers plummeted to the floor below. Legion did not think they were dead, but they did not get up.

Satisfied, Legion turned his wand on Ghetsis. If a mundane attack couldn’t harm him, then it stood to reason a magical one might. His arcane blade managed to form a thin scratch on the General’s otherwise unblemished armor. Legion could harm Ghetsis, but the enchantment still diminished their lethality.

This revelation was not lost on Ghetsis, who felt the attack and looked for the source. He turned from Azeroth and began a slow march across the throne room. He lingered only to gut a soldier from Spiral City. Gore fell from his greatsword, refusing to stain it.

“Kill that volatile.” Ghetsis ordered.

Order soldiers eager to serve disengaged from their current opponents to advance towards Legion. The bolt in Legion’s foot made it impossible to run. He stood his ground with Death’s End at the ready. A coatlmade with an axe reached him first. She was diverted off course by Azeroth, who knocked her aside with a flying punch. Azeroth and Legion locked eyes.

“Kill that donzo!” Azeroth ordered.

Legion nodded. With Azeroth protecting him Legion fixed his sights on Ghetsis. The old man couldn’t accelerate with the speed of his soldiers, but he marched with confidence that he would reach Legion before he suffered any grievous harm.

Legion centered himself. Inside he felt a flame. The flame of his rage that he had used on Rerume. From the tip of his wand a channel of black fire coursed across the throne room. Order soldiers scattered from the attack. Ghetsis was enveloped, but he did not stop marching. The aura of his armor was acting as a shield. The flames were dashed aside like waves upon a cliff. Ghetsis’ sunken eyes were steeled with resolve. He was forcing his way through Legion’s magic.

Legion’s knees felt weak. He was ignoring what he had learned and was allowing his arcana to channel unshackled and raw. The battle was still happening around him. Fighters on both sides had to navigate around the stream of flames.

Dirk had his back to a wall. His right shoulder cascaded blood onto his armor. He could not heal himself, otherwise he would be aiding Legion. All he could do was observe.

“The enchantment is draining! Keep at it.” He shouted.

The shield of light was indeed fading. Char marks were forming on Ghetsis’ arms. There was a limit to how much the enchantment could withstand and Legion was slowly exceeding it with the power of Death’s End.

“I am the scourge of the divines!” Ghetsis shouted over the roaring flames. “I will purge the foulness from this fallen empire!”

Ghetsis redoubled his efforts to fight through the flames. Only a quarter of the distance remained between him and Legion. Legion could feel his strength fading. His veins bulged with tension. Sweat beaded his brow. His tail was taught as rebar. He didn’t know who’s magic would last longer: his, or Ghetsis’.