VRRRRR-TIG-TIG-VRRRRR.
The sound vibrated in their teeth, a high-pitched mechanical scream that bounced off the cold stone walls of the Torture Wing.
The Butcher didn't rush. He stood in the center of the hallway, a mountain of stitched skin and rusted metal.
He revved the gasoline engine strapped to his back, sending a cloud of oily, black smoke choking into the narrow corridor.
The circular saws replacing his hands spun into a blur of silver death.
Behind Leona, Grandmaster Brokk stood protectively in front of the open cell doors. He wasn't alone.
Master Orin, gaunt and pale but eyes burning with vengeance, clutched the heavy Magitech Cannon Brokk had given him.
Behind them, supported by Isabelle, were the other two legends of the Ironclan: Mistress Kida, the Rune Scribe, and General Thorgar, the Commander of Heavy Infantry. They were weak, starved, and barely conscious, but they were alive.
