The Emperor's Legion (Watchers of the Throne #1) - Chris Wraight Page 0,93
wide like a death shroud over us all. I tried to rise, stumbling on my useless limb, and realised then that I would be too slow.
I looked up, saw the axe head hurtle down, and knew, with all the certainty of my long training, that I could not evade it.
Aleya
The shaitainn was a brute. Its essence was so powerful and so profound that even our combined aura of suppression was only partially effective. At times, as we fought it, I even got brief flashes of what it must have seemed like to those with souls – a living furnace, a fire devil, a bull-horned beast that burned and burned and never went out.
But the rest of the time was bad enough. It was foetid, like they all were – the clotting aroma of slops and putrescence. It was a thing of death, steeped in the corpses of those it had ended, and the aroma clung to it like plague-musk. I was taken aback by the size of it, the sheer bulk of the thing, and our charges felt little more than suicidal.
That was before I saw the way the others fought, though. It pains me to say this, because I shared a mutual, unavoidable loathing with the knights of Titan and still find Valerian’s endless piety utterly maddening, but they were magnificent. I came to realise that my observations in the practice cages on the Enduring Abundance fell far short of the mark – in true combat, they were breathtaking. Alcuin’s squad were far faster than I would have thought possible, and the way they combined into a tight-edged force multiplier gave us killing potential far beyond our paltry numbers. They were everything I had been schooled to admire in the Space Marines – implacable, focused, absurdly violent.
Perhaps Valerian outstripped them by a fraction, but then there was only one of him, and in that armour he was always destined to catch the eye. I still remember seeing him leap up at the shaitainn’s chest and plant that ridiculous spear right into its heart. I could have laughed out loud at the audacity of it. Not only that, but he succeeded in getting out again, trailed by the black strands of the creature’s ghastly innards. Perhaps only we Sisters could see just how badly he’d wounded it then, for we didn’t have to cope with the phantom flames and the sham-roar of fractured psy-voices.
Of course, they would not have done as well without us. Four null-maidens acting in concert can generate a formidable dampening aura, and it crushed the spirit of the shedim. They became slower, they became weaker, and even their blood-mad lord was stripped of its monstrous braggadocio. We did our part with the blade, too. We hurt it, and that felt good. Every time my sword sliced a chunk of grey skin from the shaitainn’s greasy back my heart rejoiced. I was never going back to my flamer, I resolved then. This was far more rewarding.
Once Valerian broke the axe shaft I thought, dangerously, that we might have a chance. Reva was still alive and fighting beside me, and we rushed forwards, beating even Alcuin to the chance to land a blow.
Things moved too quickly after that. I saw Valerian take that pile-driver punch direct to his torso, and thought he must surely have been obliterated by it – the daemon’s fist was almost half as big as he was, and he should have been smashed into pieces. Instead, he just spun away, battered and broken but still grasping his blade and very much alive.
It wouldn’t stay that way. The shaitainn was maddened by the mauling of its weapon and raged after him, raising its axe-stump two-handed. The thing could move incredibly fast when it wanted, almost as if it could slip between time-states. In his half-crushed condition, there was no chance of Valerian evading the coming lunge.
By then Reva and I were running, acting on instinct, throwing ourselves after the huge creature in a frantic attempt to haul it back. I pounced, knowing I was too far away. I was nowhere close to damaging it seriously, but its trailing leg remained in range, and I somehow got my greatblade at the right angle and drove it down and down through the creature’s straining thews, parting the pale grey strands of slickened muscle until its movement ripped the hilt from my gauntlets.
That wouldn’t kill it, of course. It wasn’t even the greatest of the wounds we had