Asrael did not like the unexpected, but as he had learned since the time of his resurrection, he could be quick to make last-minute adjustments to his plans. The adjustments he had in mind were, undoubtedly, both rash and vulgar, but Lita’s visions of her torments had reignited and refueled his hatred for the High Inquisitor and his cause.

“Ingvard’s men... are any of them fleshmenders?” Bartholomew did not look up as he nodded. Asrael smirked sideways. “Very well.” The necromancer strode across the dark room- his worn boots echoing in the hall of slaughter and he observed a complete lack of care and acknowledgement from what had once been his colleague. Bartholomew awaited the dagger to cross his throat, but instead... the dark figure extended a hand in the Sargerrei’s direction.

Asrael spoke: “I would say that it has been a pleasure, but the anhedonia prevents me from making such a statement.” Bartholomew scoffed and left Asrael’s hand to hang mid-air.

“We may not part as colleagues- or even friends, Bartholomew. But the least you could do is agree that we should part.” Bartholomew hesitated, but eventually rose from his chair to grab Asrael’s hand, all the while avoiding his gaze.

A sudden jerk of the hand preceded an explosion of pain in Bartholomew’s side and stomach. Asrael’s shoulder tapped against Bartholomew’s as all strength abandoned the Sargerrei’s legs. The necromancer’s surprisingly strong arm kept Bartholomew upright as Asrael retracted the dagger from the narrow opening in the side of the silver armor.

As a duelist, this was not the first time he had been stabbed, but the pain had never before been so exquisite- so profound. He grabbed for his stomach as he plopped back into the chair and looked up at the frowning necromancer’s green eyes and heard him speak:

“It remains to be seen whether you will thank me for this or not. But you should thank the one making your armor for having left only your strongest anatomy bared.” Asrael bent down to wipe the silver dagger against the already-bloodied white shirt of a torn-apart torso on the floor.

The treason aside and the emotional pain with it, Bartholomew imagined he would not survive the pain in and of itself. He was left pressing on the narrow gap in the armor and felt a trickle of warm fluids escape the tight matrix of chains dedicated to protecting his inner organs- for what use they did.

“Y-you... bastard...” Bartholomew muttered as Asrael turned to walk away- leaving the Sargerrei on his chair to battle the welling nausea.

“And here, I thought you welcomed the pain.” The necromancer scoffed his adieu- clacking his feet over the slate tiles. Bartholomew’s grunts and the worn boots were all that sounded as Asrael handed one of his soldiers by the door his silver dagger and departed to make his escape after his two, feeble-minded associates.

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As soon as the legionnaires caught sight of the broken gate, all knew that not even the Garrison had been spared the upheaval of the city. Ingvard raised a hand to stop his men just opposite of the bridge to view the aftermath of the slaughter- the torn-off arms and the lifeless torsos leaking their loose bits to the wood.

An eerie silence filled the air- one only broken by the gusts of winds molesting the bits of chain and bloody plates atop the ramparts.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

At Ingvard’s feet, countless arrows lay strewn about, but not one of the enemies seemed to have fallen. As was usual with the tranquil Sun, he did not reveal any emotion- nor his unnerve at the sight, unlike Ingvard, whose wide eyes struggled to process the impossible sight.

Had it not been for the state of the door and the fact that it had been blown inwards, Ingvard might’ve assumed that the men had viciously and brutally turned on one-another... even if he had been suspicious, he would never have assumed that mere men could unleash such brutality- such monstrous strength on one-another. Very few of the men had been cut- most had been torn apart.

All drew their weapons at the sign of the battle and followed after their stoic General and Purged- over the bridge to see the battlefields up-close. Ingvard pushed past the debris that seemed the only leftovers of the door and stared into the courtyard, where little remained of Pilta’s inquisition save from piles of flesh and strewn-about, stripped armor.

In all his years of service, Ingvard had never seen anything like it. But a lesson he had taken from his time under the High Inquisitor was, that he should never seem surprised nor unnerved before his men- and it had worked thus far. Following his example, the men kept their eyes peeled for intruders and not one of them seemed to question the aftermath- not aloud. With their spears, shields and swords at the ready, the legion pushed forwards, but not a single enemy could be seen... not that they could tell, at least.

Several of the bodies had been stripped clean of their armor and then gouged open and had several of their organs... consumed, by the looks of it. The silence and the continuation of the bloody aftermath up the stairs leading into the Garrison spoke of a similar fate for the inhabitants of what was supposed to be a well-defended keep.

“Spread out. Maintain your squadron formations- one Purged per Inquisitor. Find Titus!”

Ingvard and Sun followed after the sweeping squadrons, down the halls of butchery- passing half-eaten women, children and men. Ingvard was as deeply disturbed by the sights as he was at Sun’s continued lack of emotion and his straightforward gaze as the soldiers shuffled around them to verify that the path ahead was clear.

A roar from up further down the hallway guided Ingvard’s hand down to the hilt of his blade, where he gripped the metal and sprinted onwards- closely followed by his Purged manservant. In a matter of seconds, Ingvard and Sun had turned around the corner and the aged man came upon a most unexpected sight.

There, in the hallway leading up to the Council’s chamber- a room Ingvard had spent countless hours over the years, he saw two of his armored men holding their blades above a pair of unusual forms of life, or so they thought.

The men of the first legions were warriors with few to match their skill, speed and strength and they had thusly been quick to react as the two dead leapt from the council’s chamber- their teeth bared and as bloody as the rest of their naked bodies. With swift swings, the squadron had disarmed the enemy by decapitating both- immediately depriving them of locomotion. By the time Ingvard had arrived at the scene, their heads were already thumping with hollow thuds down the stairs, where their bodies were soon to follow.

The pale, naked corpses thumped down the many steps and came to a halt on the carpet between Ingvard and Sun.

“T-those markings...” Sun whispered- a shimmer of fright on his voice. It only took Ingvard a second longer than his companion to see them- the ornately carved runes in the two headless men’s flesh. As opposed to Sun, Ingvard suspected- no... he knew he had seen those markings before- he had seen this before.

“Lord Bartholomew!” One of the men up the stairs shouted and leapt into the shadows, closely followed by the rest of his squadron. Ingvard hesitated not a second in following suit- up the dark steps and into the dim, dark chamber, where Bartholomew lay slumped forward on the table- his hand still gripping the wound at his left flank.

“Get a fleshmender!” Ingvard shouted as he saw his ward’s state.