The Masque of Vyle (10 page)

The shattering roar of Khaine’s anger swept through the hall like a psychic shockwave. Kassais’s instincts were honed by a lifetime of bloodshed and murder in Commorragh. He knew what was coming next. His sword was in his hand and he yelled a rallying cry for his warriors as he lunged at Khaine’s minions. It was a fight to the finish between Khaine’s myrmidons and the supporters of the ill-starred lovers Kurnous and Isha. Hot blood jetted amid bestial roars as the eldar fell upon one another with murderous intent.

A burst of splinter rounds careened sparks off Kassais’s breastplate and he rushed to gut the shooter with a sweep of his blade. Another of Vyle’s guards came screaming at Kassais with his rifle’s combat blade held low for a disembowelling sweep. Kassais punched the point of his sword into the guard’s open mouth and ripped it upwards to split the screaming face in two. Shouts, pleas and the high-pitched, hysterical crackle of weapons fire came from all sides. Above the embattled hall Kassais could vaguely sense two titanic figures, Khaine and Vaul, struggling just like their followers beneath their feet. Khaine’s hands were red with blood, he had become Khaela Mensha Khaine – bloody handed Khaine – and now he had set upon the annihilation of the eldar race.

There were greater intricacies at work among the other gods but Kassais had scant time to grasp them as he led his handful of warriors against Vyle’s guards. The Shrike Lord was nowhere to be seen but his minions were boiling into the hall like a swarm of angry ants. Kassais came to a lightning decision – they were too few to prevail. In an instant he had turned his path and cut his way over to a side chamber with a stairway that appeared to lead beneath the hall. As the last of his warriors fought ferociously to prevent any pursuit Kassais darted down the stairs without a backward glance.

Chapter Nine

The Final Banquet

+A reaction beyond expectations.+

+We knew that Kassais was a creature of passion, we could imagine what beasts might be lurking in his breast.+

+But still… not the one we seek.+

+With only one left the mystery is solved, we have our bird.+

+If the trail that led us here isn’t a false one. This could all be for nothing.+

+I would hear his story anyway, for the nonce.+

+I’ll grant a morbid fascination for that but cleaner to simply do away with him, surely?+

+He won’t allow us to perform again. Not after this.+

+He has no choice just as we have no choice, the path is set.+

+The cycle must be completed, there’s no turning back now.+

‘That’s him all
right,’ spat Vyle Menshas. ‘That’s the traitor.’

The guards had brought lights with them, but they seemed to only push the darkness back and not eradicate it in the troglodytic environs. The low, vaulted tunnel they had followed was pierced by so many archways it became little more than a row of pillars in some sections. The dust and cobwebs softening the hard edges of the worked stone gave mute testimony to how infrequently the Yegaras or their servants had traversed this part of the keep.

Before the Shrike Lord was a darker, vaguely circular area a few strides across that glistened in the wavering light. His nostrils could detect a strong coppery odour of fresh blood mixed with the dungheap stink of spilled viscera. In the middle of the area was an angular, black heap that constituted all that was left of the torn remnants of Kassais’s magnificent armour. Closer inspection revealed that it was still occupied by the torn remnants of Kassais himself, as denoted by a few cracked bones and shreds of flesh hanging from the cuirass, greaves and vambraces.

Vyle furrowed his brow and looked distractedly away through the arches as he gathered his thoughts. Nothing but a random collection of boxy, dust-covered shapes between him and yet another arch greeted his gaze. His guards were nervous, understandably so given the debacle of the previous night, and they kept glancing around as if they were on a raid into enemy territory. The Shrike Lord mused that while you could probably hide a whole army down here if you wanted to there was no indication that anyone other than Kassais had passed this way. Well that was not entirely true, Vyle corrected himself; Kassais and whatever had killed him.

Kassais had not been easy to kill, Vyle knew. Many had tried in the past and discovered the high price of failure as Kassais laughed off their killing blow and returned it with interest. From the very earliest days of his reaving, Kassais had been careful to cultivate close connections with the Prophets of Flesh, a Commorrite haemonculus cabal of consummate skill. With their help Kassais’s flesh had learned to re-knit itself and recover from all but the most grievous injuries, his bones had been laced with hardened metals and his vital organs rendered duplicate and, in some cases, triplicate. Vyle had never learned the price the Prophets had extracted from his cousin for their services but it had undoubtedly been impressively high.

None of that had saved him from whatever had stalked him down this tunnel last night.

The guards were becoming more nervous. One of them forgot himself so far that he had the temerity to speak.

‘What do you think killed him, my archon?’

Vyle looked at the fellow coldly for a few moments before the guard broke eye contact and lowered his head in shame. On a different day Vyle would have gutted the guard for his impudence and as a simple lesson for his minions not to ask stupid, unanswerable questions. Today he could not so indulge himself and that fanned his cold fury further. He calmed himself with a conscious effort. The question was a valid one, after all. The Shrike Lord stepped closer and looked again, the pool of coagulating blood sucking obscenely at his boot soles.

He decided that he was definitely meant to think that the cat-creature had done the deed – the reszix. The rents in the virtually unbreachable black metal of Kassais’s armour had the unmistakable look of claw marks. The cuirass was split open as if it had been crushed between mighty jaws and the tasty morsel inside it appeared to have been messily consumed, triplicate organs and all. Perhaps it was even true and the reszix had somehow been down here hunting him. It had been an unlucky chance encounter for Kassais if that were the case.

‘Clearly the reszix we hunted a few days past somehow got into the keep and lurked until it found him,’ Vyle pronounced confidently. ‘I’ve heard that once they have a blood-taste they are indefatigable in their pursuit of quarry.’

The guards looked unconvinced but Vyle didn’t care what they thought. It scarcely mattered what had killed Kassais – the important thing was that he was dead and Vyle’s opponents were leaderless.

None of Kassais’s warriors seemed to have escaped from the Emerald hall after their treacherous attack although there was still some confusion on that point. When Kassais had made his coup attempt, the Yegaras’ old servants had suffered an outbreak of divided loyalties. Some had joined Kassais, some had stuck with Vyle and some had tried their utmost to form their own faction opposed to both parties. During the confused melee some individuals had shifted their allegiances not once but several times.

Vyle was minded to impale every last one of the Yegaras’s former servants on the battlements and have done with it. Sadly Kassais’s warriors had proven to be exceptionally well-trained and exacted a considerable toll from Vyle’s own troops before they were wiped out. The casualties meant that he had barely enough to guard the walls. Holding the keep at all now rested on a knife’s edge.

The natives were massing in ever greater numbers outside as the hunger set in. They still had not dared to approach but they watched and waited, thousands of patient eyes glittering in the forest waiting for… what? Not Kassais’s treachery or they would have attacked last night. No, they waited for something that was yet to occur, something that Vyle was determined to forestall.

Vyle sneered and spurned the riven armour with his foot. ‘Bring this mess with you,’ he instructed. ‘We have our feast tonight and Kassais’s shade can sit in gloomy residence with us while we revel.’

‘Yes, my archon,’ the guards replied automatically.

‘Best break out your prettiest black garb,’ Vyle muttered derisively. ‘Tonight we feast in the Onyx wing.’

Chapter Ten

Penumbra

That evening, as
the watery light of the Sable Marches faded away into dusk, Vyle took his place of honour at the banquet table in the Onyx wing. Unlike the other wings the Onyx wing didn’t seem to have a central hall, rather it comprised a series of larger and smaller chambers that interconnected via twisting corridors that had no trace of overarching logic in their layout. In lieu of a proper banqueting hall Vyle had appropriated the largest surviving chamber in the wing even though it had partially collapsed. Gaping rents in the outer wall showed glimpses of fast-darkening skies and a chill, knifing breeze blew in from outside. Vyle grimly reflected that the part-ruined, smoke-blackened place was well-fitted to his mood.

He had been careful to ensure that the energy fields in the keep’s entry hall were properly activated. He even had the servants unlock the primitive pit traps that were ranged along it just to complicate matters for any intruders. Guards were posted on the battlements and at the entry, but most of their numbers were ranged about the walls of the banqueting chamber with splinter rifles, disintegrators or dark lances in hand. Vyle kept his own blade naked at his side and his fingers were never far from its well-worn pommel.

There was a palpable sense of fear in the darkened chamber. Vyle’s diminished coterie of slaves and courtiers eyed the remaining Yegarans with obvious signs of mistrust. The two groups quickly settled into mutually antagonistic islands around the handful of tables that had been dragged into the chamber. The heavily armed guards made them fear they had all been brought here to be massacred. Vyle glowered at them from his throne and did nothing to alleviate their fears.

Eventually Vyle drank slowly from the goblet at his elbow to give the sign that his guests might do likewise. Some were hesitant, no doubt fearing poison, but none of them had the courage to defy him and spurn his feast. Vyle watched and waited. Before long the banquet warmed itself a little as the food and drink served to lift the spirits of those present. Presently low conversations and muted, nervous laughter fluttered through the gathering.

It was instantly silenced as Vyle rose to his feet.

‘So… here we are,’ the Shrike Lord said menacingly as he began to pace slowly through the blackened chamber, his fingertips tapping on his sword hilt. ‘Our so-called entertainers have seemingly abandoned us after two nights of revelry, and now I must make my own entertainment…’

Vyle paused for a long moment, his eyes travelling to the shadowed corners of the chamber expectantly. The only sound to be heard was the rush and hiss of the waves crashing against the cliffs below. The Shrike Lord shrugged and continued speaking, although his gaze continued to rove back and forth constantly in expectation of some manifestation from the Harlequins. They were listening, he knew they were.

‘A tale was begun two nights ago by poor, un-mourned Olthanyr Yegara that deserves a proper conclusion. That fool only ever knew half of the story in which he was so instrumental. When he crept into Commorragh to bargain for his own worthless hide he did not suspect that his miserable little sub-realm held the keys to something much more valuable. Had he but known, he could have dictated his terms and I would have gladly seen them fulfilled. In truth, I would have given him my own concubines just to gain access to the Sable Marches.’

Vyle returned to his goblet and drank, finding so much talk to be thirstier work than he’d anticipated. As he drank he looked out through the torn gaps in the outer wall where the last, dying light of the day was flushing the undersides of the clouds a nacreous pink. Still no performers took advantage of the natural break to slip themselves into the scene. Vyle shook his head ruefully and carried on with his story.

‘I have little doubt that he sensed his error by the end. He must have realised he had given up a princedom for the laughably low price of his own miserable existence. There are doors, you see, and doors, and doors in Commorragh. It is a place of a million portals. There are doors that open onto palaces of wonder, realms of stunning artistry, undiscovered treasures, hellish pits, unrestrained Chaos and much more…

‘I’ve heard the young and the ignorant say that you can reach anywhere and everywhere using the portals in Commorragh, but that isn’t the truth. The truth is that some of those doors have long since been broken, some have been forgotten and some have not been opened in ten thousand years with good reason. What lies beyond the doors has been broken too, whole sections of the webway are gone and more of it unravels with every cycle. I have no doubt that soon there will be nothing left.’

Even this jibe failed to raise a response as Vyle had expected it would. Harlequins were nomadic citizens of the webway, this much he knew. They were supposed to know all kinds of hidden backdoors and secret paths through it. He’d thought they wouldn’t be able to resist gainsaying him about his knowledge of the medium. He gazed around again at his guests, all watching him fearfully and wondering what he would do next, and his guards, all poised and ready for action. Perhaps the Harlequins had fled after all. Vyle drank again and continued his efforts to draw them out as he warmed to his tale.

‘Anyway, I digress. My bloodline, the Menshas, have reaved and explored from Commorragh since before the Fall. We know a great many secrets. One such, just a whisper of a rumour from my grandsire’s days, spoke of a hidden portal leading from here to a faraway place in the void. This singular prize was alleged to be a world-ship lost among the Ghost Stars and left untouched by the Fall, its crew out of contact, naive and vulnerable as they awaited a sign that it was safe to return. The custodians of this knowledge – those who were to give the signal – first dwelled here, hidden in the Sable Marches, but they were driven out and had the misfortune of running into my illustrious forebears long ages past.’

There was a definite sensation of being watched and listened to now. It was not the guests nor the guards; something
else
was listening. Vyle could virtually feel the invisible eyes upon him. They were here all right. He licked his lips and gave a wry smile of satisfaction. He spoke more loudly now, his voice rising.

‘We kept this secret in the Menshas line but it was useless to us. As long as the Sable Marches remained unreachable the world-ship remained unreachable. So now you may understand my enthusiasm on hearing of Olthanyr Yegara’s arrival. I undertook the journey to High Commorragh, to Sorrow Fell, to the Core Spur, to abase myself before Asdrubael Vect and beg his favour…’

Vyle’s voice momentarily deserted him as he recalled the dark majesty of the Core Spur and its circle of giant, screaming statues of the Supreme Overlord. The memories evoked a sense of dread that surprised him with its immediacy. He swallowed and spoke on. His proud, hectoring tone was gone and his final whispers were more akin to a confession.

‘It was hard for me… I’ll admit that. The hardest thing I have ever done. I value my pride, but to speak with Vect my pride had to be… humbled, crushed before the great tyrant. I entered with thoughts of making a deal, of coming to a mutually beneficial arrangement for access to Yegara and the Sable Marches. Before I was permitted to leave I promised Vect everything – a vast plunder in wraithbone and spirit stones. In exchange I asked only to be permitted the honour of extending his rule over the Sable Marches as its appointed suzerain.

‘And so here we are,’ Vyle concluded, more to himself than to any listeners real or imagined. ‘Besieged, beset, belaboured by Fortune, with enemies without and within. I’ll see an end to it, I will…’

He stiffened and whirled at the sound of hands clapping politely behind him. The small, grey-clad Harlequin was there, the one they called Motley. Vyle smiled grimly and made a slight gesture. Immediately his guards stepped away from the walls and began to close in around the slight figure.

‘My colleagues believe the performance is unsalvageable,’ the small Harlequin said equably. ‘That the third act must remain incomplete, given the appalling auspices of the previous two.’

Motley smiled broadly and cocked his head at the closing circle of guards before raising empty hands in surrender. ‘I feel otherwise and I see that you agree with me, Archon Vyle Menshas.’ Motley grinned. ‘We’ve come this far, we have to see it through. Do you intend to capture me?’

‘Perhaps,’ grated Vyle as he levelled his long, straight sword at Motley. ‘I see now that you came here expressly to ruin me, you and your pack of players. You must be here for vengeance over the world-ship.’

‘Me personally?’ Motley shook his head vigorously. ‘No. I’m here for you, Vyle Menshas, you might say that you’ve summoned me here. Your lust and your cruelty called me into being as an inevitable consequence of your actions. It’s a fine irony don’t you think? Quite perfect in its conception if you connect all the dots. Don’t you see? We are the third act, you and I, in Ursyllas’s tale of the Fall. You’re the eldar race, and I’m She–’

‘Where are the rest of your troupe?’ Vyle interrupted. ‘Answer quickly or it will go hard for you, little clown.’

The guards had stopped a respectful distance from the Harlequin with their weapons aimed directly at him. Motley grinned and kept his hands up. ‘Would you believe that they’re right behind you?’ he replied innocently as he reached to remove his mask.

With his nerves already stretched tauter than steel wires Vyle could not prevent himself from reacting, nor could his guards. Their attention wavered for only a split second but in that instant the grey-clad Harlequin exploded into action. His solid-seeming image fractured into a blinding kaleidoscope of colours. The guards fired almost in unison, slashing the glowing cloud into fragments, but their splinters and beams passed through empty space.

The avalanche of glowing motes swirled and reformed for an instant to show Motley at one side of the ring. His hands were reaching out to touch two of the guards on the forehead, almost in an act of benediction. Vyle cursed and lunged at the Harlequin’s back but the little figure spun away again before his blade could connect, the laughing image disintegrating into a darting whirlwind of sparks.

The two guards began to slump but then straightened again, apparently unharmed. Vyle saw that they had a blazing, brand-like mark where the Harlequin had touched them. He also saw that their armour now swirled with sickly colours as they levelled their weapons at their comrades. Vyle slashed one of them down in an instant, but the second got off a rippling burst with his disintegrator cannon before he could be killed. Guards, guests and chunks of wall flashed into momentary incandescence before they exploded into spurts of grey dust beneath the unleashed power of stolen suns.

Amid the confusion Vyle saw two more guards reeling with the branding mark on their foreheads. Motley reappeared then vanished again and again, each time leaving two more victims in his wake. His loyal guards had grasped the situation and fought back furiously, yet each time the laughing Harlequin struck, the odds shifted against them. There was pandemonium in the chamber and Vyle caught sight of the same swirls of sickly colours and branding marks among the guests. The Shrike Lord felt fear shiver down his spine as he realised the situation was rapidly spiralling out of control. A familiar, mellifluous voice suddenly called to him out of the chaos.

‘Archon Menshas! Come quickly! We can protect you.’ It was Ashanthourus, the Harlequin troupe-master still clad as he had appeared last night in the guise of the Laughing God, Cegorach. Behind him were ranged the other gods Vyle had seen in the previous performance: Asuryan, Isha, Lileath, Vaul, bloody-handed Khaine and others were all there. The Harlequins brandished weapons and fought back-to-back to defend themselves against the rising tide of corrupted guards and guests being created by Motley’s rampage. After a moment of hesitation Vyle darted into the protection of their ranks.

‘The cursed one has gone mad, She Who Thirsts has consumed his soul,’ Ashanthourus called out to him, his voice edged with desperation. ‘Your only hope is to escape while you still can!’

‘So you’re still trying to play me!’ Vyle snarled in response and raised his sword. ‘Damn you and your games!’ In the same moment the whirlwind of sparks that had been spinning around the chamber returned and swept through the assembled troupe.

For an instant Vyle had the impression of Motley – no longer small and slight but a bloated and monstrous shadow – engulfing the goddess Isha. The other gods swarmed in to do battle with the entity but it swatted them aside like children. The first Harlequin it had grasped fell to the ground rippling with sickly colours, no longer the image of a god but a corrupted, mewling plaything.

Within seconds the ground was littered with writhing forms. Khaela Mensha Khaine, the god who had been namesake to Vyle’s bloodline, survived a little longer than most by wielding a great two-handed glaive with desperate vigour. Crouching behind the war-god, Ashanthourus was momentarily protected and the High Avatar turned to Vyle, shouting.