It was Aracina all over again. The same frantic rhythm of steel on steel, the same copper tang of blood thickening the air, and the same desperate, clawing struggle for every inch of stone.
The legate stood atop the ramparts of the Western Bastion, his breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches.He breathed in and out, each one taking a whole handful of air.
With hate in his heart he saw as the enemy had made landfall. Their armored boots were clattering across the parapets, laying a blasphemous claim to the stones he had sworn to protect. The breach was a wound, and through it, the League was pouring its filth.
Unless they wished to witness the Bastion's final breath, the Third Legion had to act.
"With me!" Asag bellowed, finding his voice were there should been only a ruined rasp. "Iron and stone! Move!" His breath was a statement .
With the few air he held he roared ''Beneath the iron!''
They shouted back all as one.
''Hard blood!''
They came from the reserve stairs.
