Darkness and vertigo seized Angar in a malign grip, hurling him into disorientation.

  He slammed against the chill flagstones of what might have passed for a foyer in a forsaken crypt, facing a semicircle of five doors, no exit to his rear.

  As he'd been repairing his armor, he was bereft of it, as well as his hammer and the sidearm strapped to his suit's belt.

  The air around him tasted of dust and decay, like a tomb enclosed for millennia had exhaled its fetid breath upon him.

  Garioch and Simo landed by his side, both clad in their light armor, the former helmed and gripping the axe he'd been oiling with grim resolve.

  Simo was helmless, though his Doombringer was locked across his back.

  No arching vault enclosed the chamber above.

  Instead, a yawning chasm of absolute black brooded overhead, emanating malevolence.

  And from that void, a colossal figure advanced, its presence like a malediction, an atrocity forged from withered horror, an ancient foe of the infernal depths.

  It was less a man, less even a corpse, more a blasphemy swathed in bandages blackened by the relentless march of time.

  Skin like cracked parchment stretched taut over muscle and bone, gray as the ash of a pyre.

  Eyes like two white-dwarf suns set deep in a skull that should long ago have crumbled, burned with malice that curdled resolve along with the soul, and jagged yellow teeth showed between withered, cracked lips.

  It drew nearer, swelling in stature with undead menace, hunched beneath a tattered crimson cowl that draped over bandages winding round and round its decrepit body and limbs.

  But beneath that shroud erupted cords of bulging muscle like gnarled roots.

  A monster of living undeath, a titan clad in sinew and shadow, the cowl flung aside like the trappings of mortality.

  A horned helm crowned its brow, and from its taloned hands arcing energies that twisted reality, fraying the mind.

  Upon its chest, seared in crimson like a brand of infernal decree, sat the sigil of the Hundred Undead Warlords.

  A glyph of dominion and damnation, marking this unholy creature as the Swarm.

  Though it emerged from gateways rated merely Severe, it was a Dreadfiend whose name evoked terror in the hearts of all.

  The Swarm was to the undead what Legion was to demons, a singular vessel harboring multitudes.

  A hundred warlords of the Underworld's necrotic hordes, all bound within one abhorrent form.

  It spoke then, and its voice rasped like stone grinding on stone, like a cursed incantation. "Welcome to my crucible, mortals. Welcome to your doom."

  As the three companions regained their footing, the Swarm inverted an hourglass, the sands within commencing their inexorable descent. "You have until these grains expire to decree which among you shall confront which of the five trials I've made available.

  "In its ordeal, the one named Angar shall face Ongora, the War King, brother to Otha, the Marauder Chief whom it dispatched in honorable combat, untainted by external meddling.

  "As ever, your powers are inaccessible while within my realm. Three have entered. Three of my warlords must fall for any of you to depart. Steel yourselves for the glorious test of battle, mortals."

  Angar exhaled a breath steeped in recrimination. He’d wrought this doom upon his friends. The full fault lay squarely and solely at his own feet.

  He had permitted the Marauder Chief to communicate with its kin before consigning it to oblivion.

  And now this retribution unfolded. A much greater retribution than he had assumed.

  But a sliver of solace pierced the gloom.

  Though the Swarm was an adversary impossible to defeat, it was not impossible to survive. Angar swore he'd extract his companions from this foul test.

  This entity was ancient, its legend woven into the earliest annals of the Holy Empire, but many had escaped its grasp, including Dentatus the Black in his early days.

  The Swarm defied the crude taxonomies of lesser undead, its essence spectral and elusive, capable of dissolving into the shadow realm or the Underworld at whim.

  It selected its subsumed victims with the precision of a connoisseur choosing a wine, curating the conflict it allowed, dictating the parameters, rendering its outright defeat an impossibility.

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  Still, Angar stood in oppressive guilt within the antechamber, the weight of his culpability pressing upon him like Hell upon a damned soul.

  The grains of the Swarm's hourglass sifted downward relentlessly, but slowly, giving them plenty of time.

  He turned to his friends. “I must beg your forgiveness," he said, his words echoing off the ancient stone. "This is all of my doing.

  "Soon after we arrived, in a fray against a Marauder Chief, I granted it grace. It lay broken, and begged for a pause to commune with its brother, to summon vengeance upon me. And I relented, of course, believing only myself to be the eventual target. As the fault is mine alone, I shall face all three trials and carve our path free."

  Garioch shifted on his feet, his axe gripped in a gauntlet, glinting in the spectral light filtering from the five doors arrayed about them. "Spare us the self-flagellation," he rasped out in his strange accent. "Apology noted, but dismissed. We're in this pit together, and we'll face it together."

  Simo nodded, a smile cracking his face. "Garioch speaks true. Blame's meaningless when we’re hip deep in the muck. Three trials, three of us. We choose with cunning, stack the odds in our favor against the Swarm's games.

  “Winning's our creed, the goal surviving and all of us getting out of here. Now, let's check these doors, see what trials await. Which fits each of our strengths? We need to strategize.”

  As the sands hissed in their descent within the hourglass, five doors stood in the chamber, each etched with glyphs glowing with fell light, portals to ordeals forged on the Underworld's unholy anvil.

  "I know these sigils," spoke the Saint as he stepped forward, his tenure in a Templar Company having steeped him in the deeper lore of such threats as the Swarm.

  “This one here,” he said, pointing at the furthest left door, “is the Gauntlet of Deadly Traps, a maze of perils to traverse. Acidic pits, impaling spikes, venomous blades materializing from gloom, all while pursued by a warlord's relentless hunt. Finish the course, and triumph is yours.”

  He strode a couple meters to the next door. “The Stalker's Hunt, a vast space where opponents begin at a great remove.”

  Looking at Simo, he added, “Ideal for a man with sniper skills and a lancer."

  He gestured toward the next door. “The Undead Siege, a forsaken village overrun by undead hordes. One man against the tide, culling the swarm. The more undead slaughtered, the weaker becomes the warlord faced at the end.”

  The next door. “The Arena of Unarmed Brawling. No weapons, no armor, facing a warlord one on one with your fists.”

  The last door. “Finally, the Arena of Battle’s Glory. All arms and armor allowed in this one. Again, a singular duel against a warlord.”

  Simo took his lancer off his back, checking if it had power. “I just can’t use Abilities, right?” he asked. “My lancer and pistol still work in the Stalker’s Hunt? How vast the starting distance? Open area, or no?”

  Garioch nodded. “Arms requiring ammo or cells will operate, but no Abilities, Capstones, items, or effects needing direct Energy or Charge infusion. I’m unsure of the exact distance and if it’s open space or not.”

  "Well, then,” said Simo, “it looks like mine’s picked for me. The Stalker's Hunt it is. My lancer will pick apart whatever filth I face before it closes the gap. If it has ranged attacks, I’ll still pick it apart, putting holes through its rotting face.”

  That choice made sense. A lancer versus a distant warlord was a safe wager.

  But no trial suited Garioch. Not as he was, not until he learned to unleash his wrath again, despite his greater Realm and Tier.

  Bereft of armor and hammer, Angar’s own choices narrowed like a sinner's path to redemption.

  The Gauntlet was a choice, a dance of agility through peril. But without foreknowledge of its layout, it reeked of a gambler's throw in the darkness. Still, it ranked among his most viable paths.

  If the Siege featured commonplace undead, it might prove easy. But the warlord at the end? Even if reduced to a Marauder Chief's power, confronting it unarmed spelled Angar's quick demise.

  The Arena of Unarmed Brawling was obvious, and would be his first event, where his leonine claws might turn the tide against Ongora, especially if the War King was only skilled with weapons.

  Could he pick that event twice?

  Garioch's gauntlet tightened on his axe's haft. “I’ll claim the Undead Siege. Hordes are my domain, even with our gifts sealed. My axe was forged for cleaving multitudes, reaping the chaff before the harvest. I should mention that failure chains a burden. If someone falls, the next must complete their trial twice, facing both warlords in succession.”

  Angar turned to face him, his mind churning, thinking of how to frame his argument tactfully, as doubt ignited into sharper flame, born of necessity.

  "No need, Garioch," Angar said softly, with all the sincerity he could muster. “Simo’s trial is a safe bet. Without Abilities granting damage shields, with only your light Strider suit, that’s just courting ruin. It's far too risky. I believe the safest path is me handling both the Arena of Unarmed Brawling and the Gauntlet of Deadly Traps. Can I do the Brawl twice?”

  Garioch's eyes flashed beneath his helm, a storm brewing in their depths. He held his ground, his massive shoulders squaring like a fortress. "While I skulk out here like a coward? No. I will not falter nor fail, this I swear on my immortal soul, here, before God. And I’ll do my trial last. The added pressure will help spur me to victory."

  Angar's gaze bored into him. The Saint has spoken those words with such conviction, a mix of worry and hope stirring in his chest. "Then embrace the fury fully, brother. You were wrought for rage, to drown in bloodlust during melee’s crush. I know you’ll rise to the occasion.”

  A long breath escaped Garioch. “Have faith, brother. The horde shall break upon me, and the warlord in its wake. I promise. Praise be to the Three for granting us this trial of hardship.”

  Angar nodded. “I’ll go second, then, in the Arena of Unarmed Brawling.”

  Simo clapped a gauntlet on Garioch's pauldron. “Looks like I’m up first. Let's kill some unholy filth. Since there's plenty of time before we need to start, mind if I lead us in the ‘Litany of the Soon Martyred?'”

  Angar inwardly objected, as he saw it as a poor choice, lacking in faith.

  But he kept silent and knelt along with his companions, wishing he could ensure not one of them would die this day.

  “O Holy Three,” recited Simo, “we faithful stand on cursed soil, surrounded by enemies. Grant us the fire to burn them, and the fury to crush them, as we fall. Our flesh is but dust, our lives a fleeting spark, our blood offered upon Thy altar. The screams of the unholy shall rise in terror as we loose our unending hate upon them, reaping death until we're martyred to the last.”

  All three men, together, intoned, “I swear before You, O Lord, to not cower, to not flinch from duty, for this day, I shall stand before Heaven’s gate. Amen.”

  How feverishly Simo and Garioch spoke the refrain unsettled Angar’s nerves, as it gave truth to his companions’ belief that they’d soon be dead.

  The hourglass’ sands had a while before they’d dwindle to empty.

  Still, the trio advanced toward their chosen doors in silence, Simo entering first, then Angar, and Saint Garioch last.