Grimoire V – Stem the Tide

The Story so Far
Skulltaker and his legion emerge first in to the lands south of Isamafu and are greeted by the thousand-times-be-damned Eldar of Biel-Tan. Reined in by his fellow generals, Skulltaker has to accept that to stay and fight would lose them vital momentum for a greater battle. The Daemonic leaders now plan lead their forces through the Eldar barricade to continue upon their insane rampage....

* * *

THE FAILURE OF Eldasay’s first wave had unleashed Skulltakers wrath. The Champion of Khorne stood on the plains before Isamafu, gripped by a feverish, wild rage. His fury had summoned up a storm, thunder and lightning, hail and rain buckling under the curtain of his black madness.
Tezcatlipoca and Kuhl’tyran stood beside the Blooded One as he raged against the heavens and threatened to tear down the walls of Isamafu barehanded. It was nothing new to them to see their Master so utterly devoid of reason or control, though that made it no less disturbing. U’zhul Skulltaker stood with his arms raised, hail and rain buffeted him as though the heart of the storm was drawn to him.
Thunder crackled, lightning flashed.
Behind him the masses of the legion watched, eager for him to give the order for the final charge as their Lord and commander turned to face them. “Look upon the fall of this world! See death rain down upon the forsaken Eldar! Behold! They tremble before our majesty! They fear our might! They fall to their knees and beg for mercy as the weak die and the strong survive!”
When he looked around Tezcatlipoca saw that Skulltakers eyes were glazed with a wild, all-consuming madness. The Blooded One wanted a battle and not even the combined wills of Eldasay Edimus and The Masque would stop him. “The Legion of the Skulltaker, Exalted One. Who could possibly stand against it?”
Skulltaker mounted Kuhl’tyran and pointed his finger at the Eldar and the huge Soul Grinders rumbled forwards. The Daemons shrieked and yelled and screamed and wailed and threw themselves across the plain in an inexorable tide of destruction. Others clung to the Soul Grinders, riding them as they stalked mercilessly towards the Eldar lines on their spidery, mechanical legs, their Mawcannons unleashing hell. When the masses of the Eldar lines responded it was suddenly Skulltaker who was the calm at the centre of this storm.
Isamafu would fall, Tezcatlipoca knew there was no way to resist it. This was the reality of the Daemonic legions. The roaring heads of the Soul Grinders cranked back and released scores of screaming energies and chemicals, catapulting deadly blasts of raw Chaos in to the Eldar fortifications. Stone ran like water and Eldar were either flayed down to their bones in an instant or were left mewling in twisted, agonized heaps as the impacts tore through body and soul like rags.
The Eldar returned fire with their weapons, the air filling with a deadly rain of gunfire and artillery, shots hammering down amidst the legions of Khorne, shattering bodies and caving in the occasional Soul Grinder with a lucky shot. Laser blasts hissed as they streaked through the air, burning through whatever they hit effortlessly.
Then came the volley of the Dark Reapers and more Daemons fell.
An untold number of Eldar died beneath the blades, claws and fangs of the Daemons as the fortifications collapsed beneath the onslaught of the frenzied armies of Khorne. Many battered and broken bodies were simply trampled underfoot as the Bloodletters pushed the Eldar Guardians back step by bloody step, Bloodcrushers and Flesh Hounds rending and tearing alongside them hungrily.
There was no safe place.
Death could come from any side, at any time, in any guise.
Tezcatlipoca could not begin to wonder what the defending Eldar were thinking as the unholy attackers threw the broken corpses aside like so much garbage.
To their credit, they withstood the second wave of horrors as well.
For five hours the deadly charge of the Khorne Daemons and the barrage of the Soul Grinders continued, smashing thousands of Eldar to bloody wrecks, powdering huge sections of Isamafu’s buildings, completely obliterating many of the hasty fortifications the Eldar had erected and setting light to part of the city.
It was merciless.
The air reeked of death, Tezcatlipoca breathing deeply to savour the smell.
Desperation gave the Eldar strength, but still the nightmares came as the forces of both Eldasay and The Masque joined the fray, adding weight of numbers to the battle and tilting it in the favour of the Chaos legions. Bloodletter clashed with blue armoured Dire Avenger, Plaguebearers duelled ferociously with Howling Banshees, Daemonettes danced through rank upon rank of Guardians as a moving tide of Nurglings capered over the dead and devoured the wounded. The Eldar line would fall, broken like the bodies of its defenders in to the dirt and allow all the fury of Chaos to pour in to Isamafu to exact their final, bloody revenge.
This was the last stand.
Already the plains had been churned in to mud, earth made sodden with the flow of blood and the press of the attack. Vapours spewed in to the air accompanied by low howls wherever a Daemon was banished, the Eldar gunning them down, setting them ablaze, hacking them to pieces and vaporising their bodies. Yet still the Daemons came on, unheeding the flames and bolts, sowing death wherever they went.
The main force of the attack – Skulltakers legion – was concentrated directly upon the centre of the Eldar lines whilst the forces of Slaanesh and Nurgle held back the flanks to ensure a breakthrough. Bloody hour followed bloody hour, an endless cycle of hacking, slashing, tearing, biting and clawing as more and more Daemons extinguished Eldar lives and more and more aliens fell back.
Always though, the Daemons were repelled at great cost.
“They are certainly resilient.”
Skulltaker licked his lips with a snake-like tongue. “Sheer weight of our numbers and their own fatigue will eventually drag them down, Tezcatlipoca.”
“Yes, Exalted One.”
Tezcatlipoa judged that the defending Eldar had perhaps an hour or two more left in them before they broke and ran away, but Skulltaker had held back. Hakan’duh a Herald of lesser standing, Tezcatlipoca and the seven other Castellans on their snorting Bloodcrushers, Skulltaker himself and of course the Pestilent One and his mighty Beasts of Nurgle, The Masque and her mounted Daemonettes. Unleashed now, the Eldar would not stand a chance.
The hours were filled with agony and death, the battered fortifications collapsing as the flames consumed them, Warlocks directing Guardians in volleys of shuriken catapult fire that felled entire ranks of Daemons. It made no difference. They were only peons, the day so far had yielded enough blood and souls to summon ten times the number of those fallen should the generals desire.
Skulltaker raised a hand. A simple gesture that commanded immense action as the packed lines of his legion began to move back in preparation for a final rush. He was giving the defending Eldar time for one last breath before he stole the air away from them forever. One of the aliens strode defiantly across the mangled fortifications and barriers, clad in the robes of a Farseer, their shining Witchblade steaming with vile Daemonic inchor, encouraging the defenders to stand and fight even when their fatigue threatened to betray them.
Farseer Sayone.
The woman had a warrior's soul. She might be a seer and a guide to her people but she was a fighter. Two older and more graceful than many of the bone-armoured Howling Banshees she stood beside, the Farseer stunned Tezcatlipoca with her endurance, stamina and determination.
“Castellans! To me!” Skulltaker commanded. It was almost as though Tezcatlipoca had read his commanders mind, but of course he had not done so, Skulltaker was simply an excellent tactician and knew much about the mortal way of thinking. He knew that the Eldar were weakening.
He pointed at the ragged line of Eldar.
Tezcatlipoca grinned wickedly. Beside him Hakan’duh nodded.
It was time.
There would be blood enough to satisfy even their greatest thirsts and as one the sea of crimson surged forwards once again. The Castellans thundered in amongst them, their fearless leader U’zhul Skulltaker at the fore on Kuhl’tyran as the followers of Slaanesh and Nurgle mimicked their final charge upon the Eldar.

“THEY ATTACK us again!” someone called.
The Eldar were beaten. Exhaustion weighed upon them and the respite from the assault of the Daemons had been brief. Was there no end to their number? Farseer Sayone hefted her Witchblade and walked down the line, offering words of encouragement to the troops under her command in the face of the horrific death charging them.
She rested against a piece of broken feroconcrete and watched the Daemons charge and seeing the faces of their leaders themselves in the midst of the pack.
“Stand tall, my friends. The next clash will determine whether we live or die, whether we damn an entire city to these fiends claws.”
“We will fight them until we drop,” Wrathlord Turil Brightwing intoned, towering above even the largest of the Eldar. “As long as I stand no human shall be slain.”
Sayone was weary, too long resigned from the battlefield it was only she who had opted to aid the humans instead of watch. She wore the robes of her Gods  so that every Eldar who had vowed to serve with her could take heart from her presence even as the madness overwhelmed them all. She was a Farseer, a diplomat, a wisdom, a psychic used to action with words, yet now when they saw her they saw one of Khaine himself striding through the melee, smiting the fallen and lifting hearts.
She would not fail them.
“Look upon them, honoured one and tell me...do you see victory?”
Turil Brightwing was a veteran of a thousand campaigns even before he had engaged in the duel with an Ork Warboss that saw his body broken. He had faced such odds as these before and prevailed. Yet that had been with the full might of his Craftworld behind him and not the woefully inadequate force surrounding him now. “I fear that this will be our end, young Sayone, for us and for the humans.”
“Not while I live and breath,” Sayone said passionately. “Not whilst I can fight against these vermin...look again. Look at the one on the gigantic machine-monster.”
Turil Brightwing turned himself slowly and scanned the red lines of the Daemons, noting in particular the monster among monsters on his massive steed. At over this distance and with but a glance Turil could see that this one was in no way sane, for such a beast would destroy the city only for the beginning. It could destroy the entire world if left untamed and perhaps that was its will.
“Their leader has lost whatever mind he had to begin with. He is insane.”
“Better. That is blood lust. That and fear, honoured one.”
“I have never known the Damned to show fear, young Sayone.”
“Believe me, honoured hero Turil,” she flashed a smile. “He looks at us and knows fear, for in failing to break our lines he fails his master.”
It dawned on Turil Brightwing what the young Farseer meant by her words; if they held the Daemons too long they may be forced to return to The Warp and in so doing would fail their merciless Gods. It was not fear of them persay, but fear that they might cause too much of a delay for the forsaken hordes. “I believe I may understand what you are saying, young Sayone.”
The Daemons reached the front lines and the first line collapsed under a volley of fire from the Eldar forces before battle was joined in earnest. “So be it, Turil Brightwing, let us make them work for our corpses, no?”
Sayone Mutatismandis had long since resigned herself to death. There would be no escape from this battle for her or any of her warriors, though the only comfort was that at least she would die a death worthy of remembrance. Not even Eldar could live for an eternity, so it paid to make the final death count.
Make it meaningful as Turil Brightwing had too long ago now.
A horde of Daemonettes suddenly came lunging for them, crab-claws slicing and cutting through a ragged line of Dire Avengers effortlessly. At their head was a fantastic howling thing whose very visage betrayed the taint of Chaos in her. It was the Daemonette who had spoken briefly with Sayone.
The Masque of Slaanesh.
Greeted by the sight of their ancient enemy the Eldar leapt to meet them breast to breast and within moments a mad melee swirled among the toppled fortifications and bloodied mud. “With me my brethren!”
Even as she spoke Turil Brightwing hacked down a shrieking Daemonette carrying a swirling banner, cleaving through it, the Daemonette and her hissing steed all with the power of a single blow. Sayone skipped amidst the fell creatures, her Witchblade split the first from throat to groin viper-fast, the sundered Daemon warping and coming apart in sweet, pink and purple vapours.
Sayone and Turil pushed forwards, Witchblade and giant sword flickered in unison to smite the Daemonettes. Whilst Sayone was more skilled than any human swordsman for every one creature she toppled, the massive Wraithlord hewed down four. Every now and again the Wraithlord would pause and unleash a bolt of energy from his Bright Lance to disintegrate his foes. The two of them formed an impenetrable centre to which others flocked to, blue armoured Dire Avengers and shrieking Howling Banshees chopped and shot their way through their inhuman foes. Wraithlord and Farseer were unstoppable by any foe that currently faced them, but their followers were not so lucky.
The ranks of the already depleted Guardians was thinning, Striking Scorpions in their green scale armour hacked their way through to assist the Farseer as overhead the few remaining Jetbikes harassed the titanic Soul Grinders. For a moment Sayone and a hulking Bloodletter bedecked in icons of the Blood God came in to contact. Shimmering blade met hell-forged black metal as the Bloodletter pressed her hard with great swings of his Hell-Blade, roaring with bloodlust. Sidestepping the creatures thrust gracefully, Sayone brought her Witchblade cracking against the Bloodletters ribcage. Howling, the thing backed away a step as molten inchor spurted from the wound that the ancient blade had torn in its flesh.
The second blow made it howl even louder.
Finally slain, Hakan’duh, one of the Heralds of Khorne was banished from the world by the hand of Farseer Sayone, his dark spirit lingered for only a moment before it was forced to return to darkness within the immaterium. One of the Chaos generals had fallen, but another quickly rose to take his place; a hulk of rotten meat almost as big as Turil Brightwing himself loomed head and shoulders over the Plaguebearers that slashed and cut around it. Huge warhammer crusted with filth, face sagging and tinged with a multitude of diseases, the once proud Space Marine was gone. The thing that stood in its place after the once noble Marines fall to Chaos was a cold-blooded killer. Whooping in excitement the Daemon Prince threw himself in to the thick of the fighting, his vile hammer smashing the skull of the brave Dire Avenger Exarch. More Daemons surged in to the Eldar defences, hissing and stabbing, pushing the Eldar back step by bloody step with their ferocity.
The preternatural speed of the Daemonettes coupled with the awesome strength of the newly arrived Bloodcrusher-riders made a deadly foe. Here in this vast melee where it was increasingly difficult to swing a sword the Daemons ability to use virtually their entire bodies as weapons was telling. For every one Daemonette slain five, seven, nine of the Eldar fell before their vicious claws and knives.
This was why it had to be her. Sayone was a fighter first and a guide second. She threw herself in to the fray, psychic energy assaulting a group of Daemonettes on their long-necked, hissing steeds. She caught a sword blow on the flat of her Witchblade, turned it against her would-be killer and stepped to the side as the creatures own momentum sent it off balance and stumbling. Sayone gripped her sword with both hands, rolling her wrists to deliver a killing blow, slamming the honed edge of the Witchblade in to the crane of the Bloodletters neck. It was a massive blow, her full strength behind it as the psychically-charged metal sheared through tainted flesh and crunched in to the bones of the vertebrae. The creatures head flopped forwards at the throat, half severed as molten inchor oozed thickly from the stump even as the Bloodletters body gave way and collapsed under it.
She met the attack of the following Daemonette head on.
Around her brave souls died. She could not allow herself to mourn them.
They had to hold. If they lost ground here then The Masque would lead the Slaaneshi in to the heart of the city. Images of debauchery and slaughter filled her mind as she swung her blade double-handed in to the ribs of the Daemonette, opening her up from shoulder to waist. The Farseer fancied she saw the death mask, a look of peace that betrayed the Daemons violent death, perhaps a flicker of fear.
There was nothing there but hatred.
A third Daemon fell beneath her Witchblade, the Steed of Slaanesh’ head splitting like an overripe fruit as the sword struck through it.  Ducking beneath a slashing sword, she turned and disembowelled a leering Daemonette with a staggering, backhanded sweep of her humming blade.
The Daemonettes and their alluring tricks would not work on her.
Sayone flicked inchor from her sword and moved to support part of the defence that was crumbling, sending a mental command for her Striking Scorpions to join her. A broken skull flew and shattered at her feet, spilling blood and brains over the base of her robes from the dead Eldar Guardian. The sounds and stench were terrible, all around it was nothing short of a bloodbath as several hulking Bloodletters rode upon their great steeds of metal and fire, crushing and maiming all in their way. Eldar toppled before them, torn to shreds by tooth and claw, torn apart by the Hell-blades of the beast riders and blown through the air as mutilated rags by the guns of the roaring Soul Grinders.
Khaine had acted to make Sayone Mutatismandis his avatar in this world, a curious notion to have yet perhaps it was true. She was Khaine’s spear made flesh, his fury cast upon the damned.
“I will not fail you,” she pledged, parrying blows from a pair of Daemonettes before taking them both down with broad cuts to the torso and head.
She saw the Blooded One.
If she had ever wondered what Death was like this confirmed it for her. The Blooded One was nothing short of a killing machine. The enraged behemoth with his leathery cloak hung with bleached skulls was fighting his way effortlessly through the outmatched ranks of the Dark Reapers to face her. U’zhul Skulltaker cut down a pair of Warlocks, his hideous blade cleaving through the right arm of one, severing it just before the elbow and the head of another.
“I see you, Farseer!” he yelled even over the din of battle.
Sayone gripped her Witchblade tightly and swallowed determinedly. “Come to me then, Blooded One! Come and face your doom, you wretched beast!”
Skulltaker barged another Daemonette aside before stamping down with his foot, almost nonchalantly caving in its face and part of its skull with his foot. Sayone could sense the power of the creature, the evil of Chaos in its veins threatened to singe her mind and its desire to shed her blood made her nauseas.
“Time to die, foolish girl!”
Sayone raised her sword in a guard and braced for the Daemons charge. It never came however, for Radah, the Warlock in their midst gave a mighty battle-cry and led his Aspect Warriors in to battle with the horned behemoth. “For Biel-Tan! To the last, my warriors! With me!”

AS SKULLTAKER WATCHED the Warlock raised his humming spear high above his head and threw back his head sharply. It cried out a series of incantations in the Eldars flowing speech. The words seemed wrenched from deep within the mortal, forming in to a conduit of energy that to Skulltakers eyes seemed to illuminate his veins. An aura leapt from the Warlock and touched the Striking Scorpions’ bodies, surrounding them in a corona of light, their armour shining brightly with an inner glow. They leapt in to action with an electric grace and energy, high cries of challenge torn from within them.
The Warlock was using his powers to enhance their skills and endurance.
Skulltaker charged in to the midst of the green-armoured warriors and struck left and right, killing as he went. Nothing could stand in the way of his whirling blade and no one sane nor sensible would have tried to resist it.
And yet these Eldar did not turn and flee as other Eldar might have. They did not even hold their ground. Instead they attacked with a passionate frenzy which matched that of their Daemonic adversary blow for blow. They sprang forwards, mandiblasters on their helms spitting, chainswords whirring noisily and for a moment Skulltaker was halted by the sheer force of their rush. The Herald held one thrashing Eldar at bay with his free hand, but others clustered around him, seeking to immobilise his deadly blade through sheer weight of numbers. It was an enormous ruck, a contest between the numbers and skill of the Eldar to the raw power and fury of the Herald of Khorne.
The veins in Skulltakers arms and neck stood out furiously, one blind swing cleaving the head of a Striking Scorpion effortlessly, the brutal punching of his fist sending two more proud Aspect Warriors tumbling away like broken dolls. Skulltaker chanted litanies of hatred and frothed at the mouth, the lunge of his deadly sword taking another proud Eldar through the throat. Skulltaker cackled dementedly and caught a leaping Exarch by the neck, bisecting him in two at the waist in a welter of gore. The triumphant Daemon held the severed torso over his head, bathing in a shower of blood and other, less describable bodily fluids.
Flinging the lifeless thing away, Skulltaker spread wide his arms. “Is this the best you can do little Eldar?! Cause me real harm!”
The first Striking Scorpion died instantly, beheaded with a casual strike from Skulltaker as he thundered back in to the melee. With a bellow Skulltaker drove the butt of his wicked sword in to the skull of another Aspect Warrior, the Blooded One’s left fist swinging round in a deadly arc.
Bones crunched and brains splattered.
Taking his sword in both hands for one final stroke, Skulltaker cut down the remaining two Striking Scorpions, howling madly as their lifeblood sprayed copiously from the stumps of their necks. Suddenly the Warlock was alone, facing one very angry and very dangerous Daemon of Khorne.
The Warlock lashed forwards with his ornate spear, almost catching the Daemon by surprise as he parried, sparks flying, deflecting the Eldars strike. The deadly whine of the Hell-blade cut the air and the Warlock ducked just in time to avoid the decapitating stroke, the edge nicking off a lock of hair from the Eldars helmet plume. The Warlock swung back instinctively. Skulltaker hopped backwards lightly.
“Die! Die! Foolish little mortal,” Skulltaker snarled, every word dripping with malice and raw hatred. He feinted a strike to the right and then drove his sword down viciously to the left. With the haft of his spear the Warlock blocked the deadly blow. Skulltaker came in close and butted his heavy head in to the bleached helm of the Warlock, snapping his head backwards. Kicking out with a booming roar Skulltakers foot collided with the left knee of the Warlock, snapping delicate bones like twigs and sending the howling Eldar tumbling to the floor.
Skulltaker raised his sword and skewered the thing through the ribs as the Warlock tried to raise his spear in weak defence. Blood bubbled from the grievous injury and the Warlocks voice gurgled and faded as it died. Skulltaker withdrew his sword, seizing hold of the glowing Soulstone at the dead Warlocks breast and wrenching it free with a savage twist to swallow it whole. The Eldars soul screamed every inch of the way down his throat in to his burning gullet to an eternity of nightmares.
Hell-blade dripping with blood and his entire form streaked and splattered with the gore and vital fluids of some fifty or so Striking Scorpions, U’zhul Skulltaker stalked closer to the stunned Farseer.
“Tch! So that’s all there is to your greatest warriors?”
Sayone whirled her Witchblade. “Then why don’t you try me, fell creature?”
Tilting his head to the side, Skulltaker rested his sword across his shoulder. “Sayone, you poor, pathetic fool...now, my dear woman, it’s time to take a trip to the Skull Throne and when you see my Lord give him a message for me. Tell him I cannot thank him enough for giving me the power to kill in his name!”
The Daemonic Herald froze in mid-step.
Sayone sensed it too, the passing of a powerful Chaos entity. It felt the same as when she had struck down one of the other Heralds of Khorne only different.  Not too far away one of the screaming Soul Grinders had been penetrated by the Bright Lance of Turil Brightwing, the energised bolt piercing through the Daemon engines torso and out of the centre of its back. The mortally wounded Daemon engine lurched and collapsed in a heap, the bio-mechanical elements of its torso crumbling away entirely.
Turning his head to watch, Skulltaker seemed unfazed.
“Well how fortunate for you,” his blazing gaze returned to hers and he turned to head towards the Wraithlord. “But do not concern yourself I will be back!”

* * *

HIS IMMENSE HAMMER took the heads from half a dozen of the black-armoured Dark Reapers with a single blow. Eldasay Edimus trampled their corpses and tittered as the cloud of flies that constantly buzzed around him descended yet again to infest the bodies of the slain with their diseases and rot.
Up ahead, the graceful yet mighty form of the Wraithlord lifted a struggling Flesh Hound in its hand, crushing it like an insect even as its razor-edge Wraithblade arched down to split one of the Beasts of Nurgle cleanly in two. Nothing could stop the towering Eldar construct as it scattered a group of Nurglings with spurts from a wrist-mounted shuriken catapult, the great sabre it wielded hewing a mounted Daemonette apart steed and all and splitting the skull of a Plaguebearer behind her.
Eldasay was about to engage the thing when a bloodied figure emerged from the melee, a pack of Flesh Hounds prowling around him.
Upon seeing this new threat the Wraithlord hammered more shuriken catapult fire from its wrist in to the Daemon ranks as it turned to face the approaching Herald. Skulltaker stood before it smugly.
For the thousandth time Eldasay tried to figure out why being in the company of U’zhul Skulltaker made him nervous at the best of times. Eldasay knew his strengths and weaknesses as well as he knew the martial strengths and especially their weaknesses of both Skulltaker and The Masque of Slaanesh. He could match well with the both of these fiends on most points and where he did not he had strengths in other areas that were to their weakness.
No, it wasn’t that.
Skulltaker was insane it was as simple as that. If there was a choice between a diplomatic solution and a violent solution he would always take the violent one, it was his way. The way of Khorne. U’zhul and every single one of his brethren lived to fight as much as mortals lived to reproduce, it was this that most likely unnerved Eldasay, but who wouldn’t be cautious around someone like that?
The answer was quite simply a fool and Eldasay had not reached his exalted position with a swagger and a boast that led to a psychopath beheading him in a duel. The fear of pain was a remnant of his once mortal life, for true Daemons were unconcerned by it and had even been known to welcome it.
Wishing he could watch the fight unfold he contented himself with charging himself at one of the Eldar grav-tanks instead.

TURIL BRIGHTWING AND U’zhul Skulltaker stood ten feet apart as around them a pack of snarling Flesh Hounds paced, keeping others back. This was to be a private duel and Skulltaker wanted no interruptions from his minions or the Eldar scum.
“It is about time,” the Wraithlord intoned. “I was worried that you might have gotten afraid and ran begging to your Master.”
“This won’t take too long,” Skulltaker spat and kissed his blade.
“For you to be banished from this world, Blooded One.”
Skulltaker sniggered nastily. “Prepare to be cast down before the Skull Throne.”
“Then let us commence,” Turil responded, moving with surprising grace to hold his sword in both hands. “You shall find that there are some powers in this Galaxy that you are not prepared to meet.”
Skulltaker assumed a guard, his tongue curling obscenely. “Good luck! Those are brave words for someone with no idea of what they are up against, Turil Brightwing.”
Their blades clashed.
Around their feet bloody mud rippled away from the shock of the impact. Wrenching his blade away with a shrieking howl, Skulltaker leapt back through the air, bracing his feet upon the hull of a wrecked Falcon Grav-Tank and pushing off like a missile, his blade striking sparks from Turil’s as they met yet again.
Stepping in closer as the Champion of Khorne landed with cat-like agility, Turil’s large sword collided with Skulltakers Hell-blade along the flat and shattered it in to two, the topmost half quickly splintering in to a dozen smaller shards.
The Daemon retreated.
From a gash across its forehead steaming inchor leaked as he beheld the steaming remains of his weapon in his hand. Turil Brightwing pointed his Wraithblade and then raised it grimly. “This is it. It is over, Blooded One.”
Seething, grinding his teeth until he tasted blood on his tongue, Skulltaker gripped the haft of his sword until his knuckles tensed close to breaking under the strain.
A War Walker came toppling in to view, stumbling hooves squashing a Flesh Hound in to the dirt as it lost control. The pilots compartment was smothered in flames and a swarm of flies retreated from the dying vehicle as it crashed down and exploded. An orange glow was cast over the scene as Skulltaker sprang to his feet and away, thrusting the broken end of his sword in to his black heart and wrenching it out. With a pulse of force that caused nearby Eldar to stagger, Skulltaker withdrew his completely regenerated Hell-blade and charged the Wraithlord with an intense roar.
They spun a deadly web of destruction in the air.
Skulltaker cried his joy to the heavens as lightning stabbed across the sky. Turil hid his sorrow as even as he pushed the Herald of Khorne back the Eldar began to fall back and break up under the never ending assault. They moved with the precision of masters as they sought an opening. Blades wheeled and shimmered in the half-light cast by the flames engulfing the dying War Walker, the fortifications and the city. Each moved too fast to follow, seeking holes in each others defences. Turil Brightwing felt the dim edges of satisfaction as he nicked a cut along Skulltakers arm, sneering as he cut open a nasty gash in the Daemons chest. Spurred on by his berserk fury however, Skulltaker battered against Turils defences with heavy, double-handed blows. Stepping back twice to gain some room to manoeuvre, Turil decided he would fight defensively for the moment and wait for the opportune moment to strike down Skulltaker to present itself.

* * *

TURIL WAS BATTLING with the malevolent leader of this host and her warriors were breaking from combat everywhere to flee back in the apparent safety of the city walls behind them.
The Daemons would not let them leave.
“To me! To me!” She raised her Witchblade over her head, calling for any surviving Eldar to rally to her side. As one large group they would stand a much better chance than if they fled randomly in groups of two or three at a time. Several of the Guardians were stood as though paralysed, unheeding their fellows rushing to her side.
The cause presented itself immediately as The Masque of Slaanesh leapt amongst them, moving like quicksilver, her clawed limbs claiming an arm here, a head there. Whenever one of the Guardians or Dire Avengers tried to draw a bead upon her she gracefully danced where their gunfire was not. Kariil, the skilled Dire Avenger Exarch met her at the charge and was disembowelled as easily as a child.
There was only one way to save her surviving people from this threat.
Farseer Sayone turned to Astariel, the Exarch of the Howling Banshees and one of the few remaining Aspect Warriors now that the pitiful few Dire Avengers had been torn limb from limb by The Masque. “I leave the fate of our survivors to you, my sister.”
Astariel’s face was streaked with black gore. “What will you do?”
Gazing at The Masque as she danced a sultry step around a Guardian before rending both his arms away, Sayone‘s face was set. “I will fight the Eternal Dancer.”
“Let me go,” Astariel said at once. “Our people need you. It is my sworn duty to protect them against such a threat and that means I protect even you.”
Sayone shook her head. “I do not doubt you could be victorious, my sister. But this is a battle I led us to...it is only fitting I serve as the rearguard. Goodbye my sister...be sure that we are not forgotten.”
With one last sorrowful look at the sibling she knew she would never see again, Astariel led the remnants of the Eldar force away in a controlled retreat with a small number remaining behind to serve as a rearguard action.
Sayone gathered her mental might and hurled concussive force upon The Masque, the shockwave clearing the mud away to the firm ground beneath it and causing a dozen of the Daemonettes to simply explode from the inside out. The Masque rose to her feet, madness in her eyes.
The Eternal Dancers mouth opened; she roared her anger and threw herself at her Farseer enemy. The Daemon hit Sayone full on, staggering her back five steps as she parried the initial thrust for her heart. She brought her Witchblade up, the shining edge catching The Masque a glancing blow across the neck. The Eternal Dancer screamed her fury, driving Sayone back with the sheer force of her attack as she hit the Eldar three times with dizzying speed. The punches and the kick snapped Sayone’s head back thrice over, bloodying her nose and lip in the process.
The Masque was rabid.
Sayone shook her head, tasting blood in her mouth and spitting a lost tooth.
“Time to die, you miserable little mortal!” the Daemonette rasped vehemently and launched a double attack, claws coming to the left that were blocked by Sayone’s sword even as The Masque slammed a kick in to her ribs. It was a punishing blow, but Sayone could not let it get the better of her.
She countered with a lightning quick jab that nearly took The Masque’s eye out as the blow smacked against her forehead and stunned her a moment. Sayone spun and smashed the butt of her sword across the Eternal Dancers cheek, sending her stumbling to the side.
The Masque rubbed a hand over her mouth; it came away slick with her blood.
They traded blows. Fierce blows. Deep down Sayone knew that death was coming to her and that it was inevitable, but perhaps if she killed this one Daemon she could disrupt the Dark Powers’ plans...even if only for a short time. Both warriors were merciless and pressed any advantage home, blades and claws whipping out again and again, nicking at Sayone through her armour, catching The Masque’s flesh, shallow cuts that stung and throbbed more than they bled.
Witchblade sliced deep in to The Masque’s upper right arm at the bicep, talons cut low in to Sayone’s left side. She winced as the Eternal Dancers talons sent stabbing pains through her, piercing her other side through her armour and tearing internal organs before they were yanked free coldly. Her vision swam for a heartbeat and she nearly blacked out from the pain coursing through her delicate frame.
Sayone Mutatismandis staggered but did not fall.
With an immense effort she raised her Witchblade, barely able to see through the veil of pain the Daemons cuts had pulled down over her vision. For all that, The Masque was wary too, bleeding herself from many small wounds, the tear in her right arm spreading blood down the length of her forearm. Sayone drew herself erect and raised her blade to a guard one final time.
She did not have long left and she knew it.
“I pity you, Daemon,” she said lightly. “For is this truly the limit of your skill? The terror that is the Eternal Dancer of Slaanesh? You are a feeble joke!”
The Masque’s eyes blazed with naked savagery just as Sayone had intended. She knew that she could not win were she to continue the way she had been going. The time had come for one last gamble. She saw with clarity now what she had to do to defeat this menace and banish it back to The Warp.
Tears stung her cheeks.
The Masque stormed forwards and sliced her talons through Sayone’s left shoulder in a spray of blood; the pain of withdrawal as the Daemon wrenched her claws free was horrific. A second thrust plunged in to her chest, between her breasts and in to one of her lungs. She had felt nothing like it in her long life. She was dead, but by sheer force of will she would not let it end.
The Masque smirked. “It would seem you were wrong, Farseer...for I win!”
Sayone swallowed the pain even as it consumed her. She looked at the lifeblood pouring out of her. This was it. This was her doom. With a primal shriek she threw herself at the surprised Daemon, her Witchblade raised and stabbing with all her remaining strength for the unholy foe.
The shining blade pierced The Masque’s chest between the third and fourth rib, bursting out of her back even as her talons flailed, slashing across Sayone’s face. The Masque’s eyes flared open in shock even as the dying Farseer fell to her knees, driving her blade even deeper in to the Daemons torso.
The Masque gagged, purple inchor leaking out of her mouth as she tried to speak. The Farseer could not make out a word. It did not matter. The Daemons grin told her all she needed to know. She would go before the Ancestors now in shame, knowing deep in her heart of hearts that such a wound would not stop The Masque for long.
Darkness took her.
The Masque’s right hand forced a way through the dead Eldars armour, chest and bone, breaking a way through to her stilled heart. For a moment the dead Eldar twitched as The Masque’s hand closed around the organ, but then it ceased as she wrenched the organ free, sliding herself off the Witchblade with a low hiss.
She took a bite out of the heart hungrily. It was tough, like old leather as she worked it with her fangs, taking another bite and chewing slowly before swallowing it down. Piece by piece she at Sayone Mutatismandis’ heart out and when she straightened, her various cuts and wounds had faded away in to nothing.
The Masque stood with the vast forces of Chaos all around her; the Eldar were all either fleeing or dead. Eldasay Edimus arrived close by, joined by a bloodied and wounded Skulltaker, surrounded by Kuhl’tyran and his Eight Castellans. The Champion of Khorne looked very pleased with himself.
“What now?”
“We must continue on to the city,” Eldasay responded gleefully, “the Eldar may have given word to our intentions beforehand and if the humans were not aware of us they most certainly are now.”
“That is an idea I am in favour of,” U’zhul said as he lazily tossed and then caught a brightly glowing Soulstone in his hand. It seemed as though he had gotten his wish to engage and destroy the Wraithlord in a duel which explained his good mood.
The armies of Chaos turned their attention to the city of Isamafu. Yet before then the wrath of The Masque of Slaanesh rained down upon the fallen body of the Farseer after she had nearly slain The Masque with her desperation.
The Masque had stripped the body bare and decapitated the corpse, taking the head and sewing its mouth shut, putting out its eyes and removing its ears before it was stuck upon a Warlocks spear for the carrion eaters. The body had been strung up to the side of a fire-blackened Falcon Grav-Tank, arms bound out to the sides with wire with elbows and kneecaps shattered, belly slit open and the entrails forming a grisly decoration to the headless body.
Satisfied with her grissly revenge, The Masque turned her gaze upon the city.
“Let us continue, my brethren.”