"Incubi!" One of the sisters shouted as the heavily armored Eldar sprinted across the forum. Bolters were raised and the dim room was lit by the flashing strobes of muzzle flashes. Though fleeter of foot than human, two of the Incubi fell to the massed firepower of the faithful servants of the Emperor. Suddenly, one of the young sisters clutched at her chest, staggering to her knees. The sister next to her reached out in concern, "Juliana?"
Sister Juliana shook her head, "I feel…I feeee…AHHHHH!" Her wavering voice erupted in a scream of torment. Waves on intense pain cascaded through her, emanating from her heart. Her scream became a choked gag as she threw her head back, the skin of her neck and face blossoming scarlet as though sunburned. She spasmed as though stricken in some seizure then…
…exploded.
The sisters on either side of her were tossed back like leaves blown in an ill wind, blood and viscera raining over the others in a fine mist. On the other side of the room, Nwalcalindë laughed in sadistic glee. The Úrtalasercë…the Blood Boiling, was one of the most terrifying powers she had at her command, heating the blood of the hapless victim until it boiled…and they literally erupted.
The Celestians braced themselves as the Incubi assaulted them with long, wickedly barbed glaives. Swords met polearms and blades crashed off armor as the Incubi attacked, their weapons nearly blurs with their speed. Each was at least a century old, with the experience of many battles and raids. Though outmatched in style and puissance, the Celestians fought valiantly, courage and faith in the Emperor their bulwark.
The Aráto, Falmasercë, sprang in like a dancer despite the bulk of his armor of deep violet and black. His glaive glowed with an eerie greenish light as he engaged Jezibel, the Sister Superior. She parried aside his first swing, pivoting and countering with her own power sword. He took the blade on the long, elaborately carved haft of his weapon. Spinning it around his body with deceptive speed, he whipped it upwards, cutting her from hip to shoulder. The Vestments armor split like paper and she stumbled backwards in alarm, blood running in rivulets down her pure, white armor. Though the cut was shallow, her body suddenly seized, her face in a grimace of pain. It felt as though tendrils of fire were rapidly spreading from the wound, coursing through her veins. She lost control of her limbs and she fell to the tile floor in a clatter of ceramite armor. Poison! The thought passed through her mind as she lay, helpless, the hellish burning sensation reaching her heart…
Rachel met the incoming blade of the Dark Eldar leader, the Prince Mornathulë, with her own. Her riposte was glided aside with the ease of one who had spent decades perfecting the art of killing. She backpedaled in alarm as her blade could find no path through his defenses, and his own attacks she avoided only with the greatest desperation. Never before had she faced so great a warrior and she knew immediately she was outclassed. His parries flowed effortlessly into counterattacks as their blades flashed and whined as they cut through the air.
She cried out as his glaive slipped past her guard to slice through her armor, gashing her upper, left arm. The disquietingly graceful Duke of the Eldar slid away from her counter like flowing liquid. With narrowed eyes she circled, understanding now that only a desperate ploy could save her and bring this bastard low. As his glaive came about again she threw herself forward in a simultaneous strike. Her power sword cleft through his heavy armor, cutting into his thigh nearly as deep as the bone. His weapon sheared the pauldron completely from her left shoulder, narrowly missing her carotid artery.
Unseen behind his high, ornate helm, Mornathulë's face twisted into a mask of rage. The mortal bitch had dared to strike him? He spun the glaive about, entangling Rachel's sword arm and twisting it, forcing the blade from her fingers. In complicated and strangely dance-like steps of footwork, he pivoted around her and slammed the glaive into the soft spot of armor underneath her right arm. The Palatine gasped, fine droplets of blood from her punctured lung spraying outward.
Chapter 28: Out of Pain are Heroes Forged
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