The Masque of Vyle Read online

  Hradhiri Ra advanced into the mutants, smartly swivelling his cannon left and right to punch out a steady rhythm. Red mist filled the air as the unfortunate survivors were blown apart in a string of fleshy detonations. The Death Jester’s long coat and bone-marked armour soon became slicked with gore but he pushed forwards mercilessly. The mutants had already been disoriented by Cylia’s hallucinogen and confused by Lo’tos’s powers, yet even through their insanity the appearance of a bloody deathdealer in their midst was too much for them. The survivors broke and tried to flee, scrambling up walls and slithering towards doorways in the low gravity.

  There was to be no escape for them. Hradhiri Ra turned his cannon onto those closest to the exits and more fountains of scarlet exploded before the disintegrating mass of serpentine creatures. The swaying crowd of mutants were driven back and forth, gibbering wildly in their terror. The Death Jester pushed in closer. Round after round from his cannon tore into the mass and produced a cacophony of dying shrieks. But Hradhiri Ra had come too close. Perhaps by chance or perhaps from a clarity born of desperation, the last few mutants turned on the Death Jester in an effort to drag down their nemesis.

  Hradhiri Ra found himself suddenly attacked from all sides and unable to use his cannon to best effect. Ashanthourus, Cylia and Lo’tos instantly leapt to his aid but it was already too late. The Death Jester disappeared entirely beneath the mass of writhing, coiling bodies. Claws flashed and fangs gnashed before bright crimson spurted in an obscene climax. Ashanthourus uttered a curse and was about to wade into the mob when they were rent asunder by another bloody explosion in their midst. Bone and viscera sprayed through the closely packed bodies like shrapnel, tearing them apart.

  ‘Hradhiri!’ Cylia shouted in disbelief at the expanding cloud of blood mist. Within it nothing moved.

  Lo’tos looked to one side and began to slowly applaud. The flat cadence of his gloved hands clapping was the only sound for a moment. Ashanthourus and Cylia gazed at the Master Mime, their masks tilted incredulously at his response to the death of a comrade. Lo’tos gestured apologetically.

  ‘I’d expected a better response from you,’ whispered Hradhiri Ra from behind them. ‘Are my death-defying feats now to be met with horror every time they occur?’

  They looked and saw the Death Jester emerging from the shadows. He strode jauntily past the astonished High Avatar and Shadowseer into the mound of serpentine corpses left by the last of the mutants. He retrieved his cannon from the bloody crater in the centre and shook the gore from it.

  ‘How did you escape them?’ Ashanthourus asked.

  Hradhiri Ra nonchalantly rested the butt of his cannon on one hip. ‘The secrets of the daring escape are for the margroach to know and his audience to guess at,’ he whispered dryly.

  ‘So many and yet so few,’ said Cylia as she looked over the dead. ‘Even a craftworld as small as this would be home to many thousands of souls, but I sense no one left now that these have departed.’

  ‘Been shuffled off their mortal coils,’ Hradhiri Ra quipped sardonically, earning him a sharp look from Ashanthourus as Lo’tos made a small retching sound by way of response.

  At last the leaders of the troupe came to a broad avenue which climbed in sweeping curves to a wide archway. Impressive gates had once guarded the area beyond the arch from intrusion but now they lay shattered on the steps like a drift of fallen leaves.

  Lo’tos crouched to examine the shards and stirred the blackened splinters with one long-fingered hand. He picked up a piece and crumbled it between two fingers. His implication was clear: whatever violence had struck the gate had been entropic in origin, an attack that struck at the very bindings between particles and rendered the fundamental material strength of their structure no more durable than rotting wood.

  High technology had destroyed the gate, more proof if any were needed that only eldar or their most dreadful enemies from the time of legends could have breached this innermost sanctum.

  Beyond the arch lay the craftworld’s dome of crystal seers.The psychically conductive wraithbone of the infinity circuit normally permitted the souls of the craftworld’s dead to roam throughout their former home. Ghost warrior constructs even permitted a physical manifestation for those that desired to move beyond the circuit. However most souls wished only to remain in the infinity circuit and they commonly coalesced most strongly around the dome of crystal seers.

  Eldar that dedicated part of their long lives to the path of the seer came to the dome to finally give up the mantle of mortality by gradually entering the infinity circuit. Within the dome their atrophying bodies were slowly transformed into psychoactive crystal that grew little by little over countless millennia into fantastic tree-like structures linked directly to the infinity circuit.

  This place should have lain at the beating heart of the craftworld’s infinity circuit. It should have been a place where wisdom and ancestral knowledge veritably pulsed in the air, where generations of craftworld dwellers had been painstakingly gathered at the moment of death to be protected from She Who Thirsts behind bulwarks and sigils for all eternity. Instead, to the

  psychically attuned Harlequins the dome felt dead and empty.

  The dome was part-filled with low dunes of scintillating sand; the air carried tendrils of brilliance where light scattered from drifting crystalline motes. The silent call had drawn the Harlequins to this place but by any metric they had arrived too late to save it.

  ‘Destroyed, utterly ravaged,’ said Ashanthourus in a voice that shook with cold fury. ‘Look, every spirit stone has been taken… or smashed.’

  They looked and saw that what the High Avatar had said was true. The curving walls of the dome showed thousands of hollow pockmarks where spirit stones had been interlaced into the infinity circuit. Every craftworlder carried such a talisman against the possibility of their death. The stone became a safe haven for their soul until it could be carried back to be implanted in the infinity circuit. Over the millennia a growing constellation of lambent spirit stones would have encrusted the interior of the dome.

  ‘Servants of the Great Enemy must have broken in here,’ Hradhiri Ra whispered uncertainly, ‘but I can’t see how the guardians permitted it. They could have called upon Khaela Mensha Khaine and thrown back the invaders, or sent for help from other craftworlds, or even abandoned this one and fled. I can see no sign that they attempted any of these things.’

  Lo’tos had crouched himself in a tight huddle with his arms wrapped around his knees. His tumbling, fractal-faced mask gazed over the shattered remnants of a people. The people of this craftworld had endured the Fall and all that came after it only to have their story end here. Even though he had seen greater evils than this one in his time the Master Mime still shivered involuntarily.

  ‘Cylia,’ Ashanthourus said abruptly. ‘You can discover what occurred within these walls. Your witchsight will show you past events. Look now, look and find out who was responsible for this abomination.’

  Cylia hesitated. ‘Such an action is not without risk, my Sun-King. If a greater daemon were here it could perceive me at the same instant I saw it. Even the protection of the Laughing God might not save me then, time and space would present no barrier to such an entity once it had tasted my psyche…’

  The Shadowseer’s voice trailed away apologetically beneath Ashanthourus’s gaze. She was unwilling to deny the High Avatar completely but knew the danger she sensed was very real. Violent events, heinous acts all left their mark on places in the material universe and brought them closer to true Chaos. The denizens of Chaos, potent entities that dwelled within its all-encompassing medium, required little more than a foothold to manifest outside their realm: a word, a symbol, even a thought could be all they needed.

  Lo’tos glanced to one side and his mask abruptly changed. It altered from the tumbling debris of explosion to the stylised, smiling features most commonly associated
with Cegorach, the Laughing God. The Master Mime nodded briefly in greeting.

  ‘I can spare you from the risk of looking,’ a new voice said. ‘You would find nothing.’

  Hradhiri Ra whipped around with his cannon raised to cover the newcomer in the blink of an eye. The slight figure being menaced by the Death Jester raised its hands in mock surrender.

  ‘Psychic screamers were used to obscure the scene,’ the newcomer explained brightly. ‘Whoever did this was careful to leave no such easily accessible evidence of their activities.’

  ‘Motley,’ Hradhiri Ra snorted, and angled his cannon upwards again.

  The newcomer was lithe and compact, dressed in an archaic costume that appeared grey at first glance. Closer examination showed it to be comprised of tiny diamonds of alternating black and white in endless repetition. Unlike the fully masked Harlequins the figure wore a domino, a half-mask that covered the upper half of its face. The lower, uncovered half showed full red lips and an overly-mobile mouth that was currently beaming a welcoming smile.

  ‘It is indeed I, Motley, one and the same my bony friend. I’m very glad to see you all – I thought you’d never get here – although I obviously hoped otherwise, of course.’

  ‘Spare me your protestations of familiarity and goodwill, spawn of Chaos,’ Ashanthourus pronounced coldly. ‘Justify your presence here – by what right do you call for a Masque to attend your vagrant wanderings?’

  Motley bowed deeply, appearing greatly chagrined.

  ‘Forgive your errant servant, my noble king, I intended only to lighten a dark moment with the warming gift of laughter. I call upon the Masque by my right of sacrifice, as one foresworn to the doom of our people and perched upon the razor’s edge between apotheosis and destruction. Would you see my credentials?’

  Motley raised one hand to his domino mask as if to remove it but Ashanthourus shook his head.

  ‘No need, fool, I recognise Cegorach’s touch upon you. Why else would you dare so much if not at the instigation of the Laughing God – unless perhaps now the other entity that you serve drives your desires?’

  Motley shook his head as he lowered his hand. ‘If that were the case it would be readily apparent to all. Your own souls would not be safe around me, for one thing. We are agreed, then, that I am who I say I am and no greater a fool or changeling than is usual?’

  Ashanthourus tilted up his chin imperiously. ‘Indeed,’ the High Avatar said, ‘although you are no servant of mine, errant or otherwise, and should make no such claim even in jest.’

  ‘Duly noted.’ Motley bowed again, almost planting his nose in the crystalline dust and keeping it there. ‘I am less than a worm and servant to none other than my own poor sense of taste – plus our mutual deity, patron and benefactor – and our mutual nemesis, the doom of our people…’

  ‘Enough of this, Ashanthourus!’ Cylia cried. ‘Motley has grave news for us, surely? Bid him to tell it and cease your posturing!’

  It was Ashanthourus’s turn to appear chagrined; he even flinched slightly at the Shadowseer’s hot jab of emotion. Nonetheless he quickly recovered himself and regally gestured for Motley to rise and speak.

  ‘Speak then, knave, tell us what has occurred here,’ Ashanthourus said a little sulkily.

  ‘The anticipation is killing me,’ whispered Hradhiri Ra with heavy irony. Motley flashed him a little smile of appreciation at the jest.

  ‘As you have no doubt surmised the people of this craftworld were attacked and swiftly overwhelmed. I’ve been to many, many craftworlds in my wanderings but this one was new to me when I found it. I discovered it in much the same condition as you see it now.’

  ‘We’d not believed you responsible for the damage, in case you were wondering,’ whispered Hradhiri Ra drily.

  ‘Well quite, but you would be correct in thinking that the damage is recent. It is not long ago that this place was ravaged. Judging by the number of spirit stones that used to be here.’

  Motley swept his arm around to encompass the whole dome and its empty sockets.‘ I think this craftworld was lost in the warp for quite some time and most of its inhabitants had already gone into the infinity circuits by the time it emerged.’

  ‘Then who attacked them and why?’ Ashanthourus demanded, having recovered some of his poise. ‘They could have posed no threat.’

  ‘Ah well, there is the quandary. From what I’ve seen they had barred all of the portals into the webway. They probably never even knew that others had survived the Fall and feared an influx of daemons or some such – not without good cause it must be said. Anyway, they had sealed themselves away and no one knew of their existence. I haven’t even been able to find anything that indicates the name of this craftworld.’

  ‘How did you find it in the first place, Motley?’ Cylia asked softly.

  ‘Why, by following my nose, your majesty, as I always do,’ Motley said, while ostentatiously tapping the offending organ with one finger. ‘I literally stumbled across it and soon realised... well, I recognised what is by now obvious to you all. Forgive me for not greeting you at the portal but I felt you needed to come in further to see it for yourselves before making any decisions.’

  ‘Focus, fool, your unnecessary prattling begins to offend my ears,’ said Ashanthourus solemnly. ‘Who were the attackers? What was their purpose?’

  ‘I am coming to that as rapidly as I can, your majesty, it is not a simple matter to explain and in truth I am not in possession of all of the facts. However, I can surmise from the few I hav–’

  Ashanthourus clapped his hands to his mask in a show of frustration before jabbing one finger at Motley and crying out in a thunderous voice: ‘Who. Did. This? Answer!’

  Motley became still and silent, hanging his head in shame. ‘That, I do not know,’ he admitted reluctantly.

  Hradhiri Ra laughed mordantly. Ashanthourus threw up his hands and stalked away, his footfalls scattering rainbow clouds from the dust. After a moment Cylia came forwards, a sliver of her mirrored mask peeping from beneath her cowl like a newly risen moon.

  ‘What can you tell us, Motley?’ she said gently. ‘Ashanthourus did not tell you to stop.’

  Motley smiled and continued as if there had been no interruption. ‘I can surmise from the few facts I have found that the surviving inhabitants, for reasons we may never know, did in fact unbar several portals into the webway. They must have been desperate, I think, to have done so after so many millennia alone in the dark, or perhaps they had other reasons we cannot know.’

  Ashanthourus was standing away from the rest of them, but the arch of his back and the angle of his head showed he was listening despite himself. Motley chattered on, the words spilling out of him in a babbling stream.

  ‘So they unbarred the portals and daemons didn’t come swarming in and so they must have thought they might get to live on after all. They must have been happy at that moment and happier still when they found out that their own race, the eldar race, had survived the Fall. Somebody found them, you see, pretty quickly after they opened their craftworld. As quick as I was getting here, somebody was a good deal quicker. They must have been waiting and watching for a portal to open that hadn’t opened in millennia so they got here… first. I don’t really have to tell you who I think it was do I?’

  ‘Yes!’ chorused Cylia and Hradhiri Ra in frustration. Motley sighed volubly, seemingly unwilling to make accusations yet unable to deny the evidence of his own eyes.

  ‘I believe they had visitors from Commorragh,’ Motley said after a moment. ‘It was someone from the eternal city that found them first.’

  ‘It is obvious that is what we are meant to think,’ Ashanthourus threw dismissively over his shoulder. ‘The calling cards left behind as traps imply as much.’

  ‘I thought that too, at first.’ Motley shrugged. ‘Too obvious, but then I looked again and wondered why should r
enegades or craftworlders go to such trouble to do such a thing? Look around you… this place has been completely stripped of its spirit stones and wraithbone. The craftworlds would never take them – to even conceive of such a thing would be the blackest crime imaginable to them. Most renegades would not think to value them nor stoop so low as to steal them. No, only in Commorragh are such things as captive souls and stolen wraithbone given a blood-price so high that the kabals would commit almost any outrage to gain more.’

  ‘None of that changes what Ashanthourus has said,’ Cylia sighed. ‘A seer council may have determined that orchestrating this outrage will drive the craftworlds to unite and assail Commorragh. A single renegade with a grudge may have unleashed all of this as horrible revenge for some forgotten slight…’

  ‘Yes, to all of these things – yes!’ Motley crowed with delight. ‘I would much rather see this as some vile plot than a Commorrite kabal doing what comes naturally to them. That’s simply too dreary and depressing. I merely answered your question with my own beliefs. With your help perhaps we can prove me wrong, hmm?’

  Silence fell across the scene. Lo’tos remained squatting with his mask reset to a flashing kaleidoscope of images. Cylia and Hradhiri Ra stood before the slight figure of Motley, looking like a bony image of Death and a waif-like revenant menacing a child. Ashanthourus stood to one side appearing most kingly in his hauteur. Nonetheless, as final arbiter of the activities of his troupe it was the High Avatar who finally broke the silence.

  ‘So then what would you have me do?’ Ashanthourus said.

  ‘As I explained, I don’t really know who did this or why.’ Motley smiled. ‘But I do have one very pertinent piece of knowledge that can, in its turn, resolve all the other questions.’