The Masque of Vyle (11 page)

‘Believe what you will but go! For the love of Isha, get out of here if you don’t want to share our fate!’

Khaine crashed to the ground like a falling statue, his armour crawling with worms of vile hues before he shattered into a million blood-red shards. Ashanthourus darted to one side with an impossible twist and evaded Motley’s first rush. The two of them leapt and spun around one another with dizzying speed, each movement anticipated and countered before it could be begun.

Vyle watched the whirling conflict for a second, took two paces backwards then turned and ran for the exit. He was pursued every step of the way by the sound of Motley’s insane, daemoniacal laughter.

Vyle emerged, panting,
into the Confluence to find it strewn with corpses. The energy fields that should have been barring the entrance hall were down. At the end of the entrance hall, almost at the outer doors, Vyle caught sight of a figure limping away from him. The figure only shuffled away faster in response to Vyle’s hoarse challenge so the Shrike Lord gripped his sword and ran in pursuit of it.

At the doors the figure twisted around and for an instant Vyle caught sight of Olthanyr Yegara’s agonised face. The last Yegara was hunchbacked and broken. He had four ornate jars hanging from his flesh like obscene grapes, their buried heads seeming to suckle at him. With a mad cry Olthanyr heaved the outer doors open and ran out with Vyle hard at his heels.

Immediately outside Olthanyr vanished into a wall of smooth-skinned bodies as he was dragged in by the hooked claws of the waiting natives. Hundreds of saucer-like, unblinking eyes stared at Vyle as the shrieks of Olthanyr Yegara began to rise to an unbearable pitch. Vyle seized the door and heaved it shut in their faces. He experienced another cold chill at the nape of his neck as he realised that someone had used the distraction to get behind him.

‘And darkness and decay and death held illimitable dominion over all,’ whispered Hradhiri Ra as his thrust took the Shrike Lord through the heart.

As the life rushed from Vyle Menshas’s body he felt the unholy pull of She Who Thirsts waiting to consume his soul. Dimly he saw his skull-masked killer was holding something bright and hard before his eyes.

It was a spirit stone.

A tear of Isha, a sanctuary for his departing essence. A blessing.

Vyle Menshas almost wept with relief until he saw something approaching over the Death Jester’s shoulder. It was the slight, grey figure of Motley, no longer a flashing cloud but returned to his old self with his full, red smile. Vyle struggled for words, for a warning to shout, but he had taken his last breath. All that was left of Vyle Menshas was being drawn into the spirit stone. In his dimming sight it swelled to encompass his universe…

‘A quite stunning performance, don’t you think?’ Motley laughed wildly. ‘Very convincing. It’s a shame there’s no one left alive to appreciate it. Oh well, we’ll always have the troupe and each other, I suppose.’

Hradhiri Ra let the Commorrite’s corpse slide to the ground as he looked at the dimly glowing stone in his hand. He spoke to it softly, whispering the words.

‘Such a little thing, a soul, and all the same when reduced to this.’

‘For better or for worse we are judged by our actions, my skeletal friend,’ Motley said more soberly as he reached for the stone, ‘not for our potential. If the universe has one message to relate to us about universal justice it is surely that one. May I?’

Hradhiri Ra surrendered the spirit stone to Motley’s nimble fingers readily enough. However he chose to look away as, with an indescribable look of pleasure in his eyes, the slight Solitaire consumed the stone containing Vyle Menshas’s soul.

This was the price the Harlequins must pay to evade She Who Thirsts – one of their number already promised to her unrelenting hunger. Legend had it that when a Solitaire’s soul was parted from his body Cegorach might appear and try to cheat She Who Thirsts of her prize. Until then Motley’s pre-ordained doom protected the entire troupe from extinction – but only at a price.

After a moment Motley tittered, belched and excused himself comically. The Death Jester’s skull mask grinned sardonically, but inside it Hradhiri Ra could not escape the feeling of sick horror that crept over him.

Author of the dark eldar series, along with the novel
Survival Instinct
and a host of short stories,
Andy Chambers
has more than twenty years’ experience creating worlds dominated by war machines, spaceships and dangerous aliens. Andy worked at Games Workshop as lead designer of the Warhammer 40,000 miniatures game for three editions before moving to the PC gaming market. He now lives and works in Nottingham.

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Published in 2013 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

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