Their sharp, clawed golden gauntlet dragged the ruined remnants of a Blissbarb archer along, dropping it before her onto the cavern’s uneven ground.
“I’d suggest we skip this dreadfully boorish diversion.” The Tzaangor crusader spoke. “Your minions have pestered His Templars long enough.”
If it unnerved the Lady of Hubris that Isthubar spoke in her voice and infection, she did not show it.
Instead, she smiled.
“Ah, their deaths have brought me great entertainment, so they have not been in vain.”
Sickly sweet perfume crept towards the Templars’ beaks, and the rustling of purple silk could be heard as she repositioned herself, alongside her Myrmidesh Painbringer bodyguards and Blissbarb followers.
The Lady of Hubris brought forth an intricately engraved amphora, turning quickly towards the Templars with another smile showing her sharpened teeth, before she removed the plug from the amphora’s neck. iInstantly, thick clouds of purple ink streamed from it, grew wider, more intense.
As dense deep purple fog filled the caverns, and as the Slaaneshi’s eyes bore into theirs with intense anticipation, Isthubar and Xshaeta noticed this sorcery was much more specifically targeted as it seemed.
Their minds were assaulted by promises of glory and slaughter, the deep desire to tear the Slaaneshi warband apart and to establish themselves as superior. The purple mist gently, but insistently pulled at their arms, their weapons, begged to come forward and take their due in blood.
Instead, the two-headed Tzaangor stepped back; in front of them, as if by an unseen command, the two Templar Chosen closed their shoulders, the warriors joined them but split seconds later, forming a shield wall.
“You failed, witch. You are not facing some simple-minded Khornate.” Xshaeta and Isthubar intoned, as one.
The Lady’s shark-toothed smile froze, but persevered. “We will see about that. We just have to apply… a little more pressure.”
With movements elegant and flowing, almost as if dancing, the Lady of Hubris advanced towards their line, challenging them to take the first stab, but the Templars remained unmoving, forming a wall of golden plate and Faith.
Barbed arrows plunged into runeshields, quick cuts of jagged swords rained down upon them.
The Slaaneshis’ fighting style was artful and precise, full of flourishes and feints. With an elegant riposte, one of the Myrmidesh Painbringers skevered one of the Templars’ sariant warriors, and let him glide back down his sword with theatrically exaggerated disdain. Meanwhile, the Templars stayed on the defensive, only striking if they could strike true.
The two-headed Tzaangor recited scripture in the face of the Slaaneshis’ laughter, and at least one Painbringer stopped as a Chosen rammed his sacred greatsword through his armpit deep into his chest.
Xshaeta could see the purple fog, and alongside the fog the beckoning voices in their heads, grew fainter and fainter. They only had to hold back for a little while longer… although the small wounds the Slaaneshi had inflicted upon the Tzaangor crusaders were mounting, and multiple of them were close to collapsing. They were not sure whether they could hold out long enough – when the sound of shattering ceramics resounded from the cavern floor.
Lady Shark, wielding an elegant rapier and main gauche, cursed in an unknown language; she had just brought one of the warriors to his knees, but now ignored him.
A flurry of barbed arrows impacted upon the cavern wall next to the sariant warrior who had just shattered their amphora, one grazing the Tzaangor’s neck before she quickly retreated.
As the Templars finally began a desperate countercharge, the Slaaneshi warband nimbly disengaged and fled, their leader no longer interested in the fight.
The Tzaangor crusaders, already bloodied, did not pursue.
__________________________
The Slaaneshi had left a wounded Painbringer, some equipment and luxury goods, and three Duardin prisoners -obviously marked by Slaaneshi captivity – behind.
Xshaeta and Isthubar had ordered the Duardin released, and to gather all valuables, to sell them at stakeholder’s bargain.
The Myrmidesh now burned upon the pyre in the midst of their campsite.
First, the man had laughed as the Fires hat reached him, then it had slowly morphed into agonized screaming. A most Holy melody, pleasing to Our Burning Saviour.
A Duardin stepped to Xshaeta and Isthubar.
In the light of the burning Slaaneshi, the many scars, wrinkles and majestic beard of the Fyreslayer could be seen illuminated in the darkness.
With a subtle gesture, the two-headed Tzaangor ordered their warriors to stand back.
“Hail, Templars.” The Fyreslayer began to speak. “I am Gelvan Brazenmantle from the Karvul lodge.”
The Templar Champions nodded, at once, in silence.
“My warriors have found their way back.” The Duardin continued. “I have heard we have you to thank that they did not share the fate of poor Hermdor.”
Xshaeta’s beak twitched slightly at the mention of Fate, but kept their silence.
The Duardin coughed, he obviously had hoped for a less one-sided conversation.
“I have heard of your kind. I have a proposition to make.”
They had to be very desperate.
“After all, we have the same goal.”
Foreboding, Vexshik spire loomed above them.
“Yes.” Isthubar spoke. “That we have.”
