Kassais snorted but nonetheless made sure that his feet were situated properly in the hooped stirrups. ‘So, what is this trouble that you alluded to if it’s not the natives – and just what are we hunting, by the way?’
‘A reszix; big, cat-looking thing. The scouts saw one earlier today and drove it nearer the keep,’ Vyle replied distractedly, his eyes still on the looming treeline. Kassais noted its approach with surprise, they were travelling more quickly than he thought – the arcotheur’s smoothly undulating gait was deceptively fast.
‘And the other trouble?’ Kassais prompted.
‘Something’s wrong with the gates,’ Vyle said heavily. ‘As of a few days ago things can enter this satellite realm but they can’t leave.’
‘What?’ shouted Kassais, loudly enough to disturb flights of birds from the nearby trees.
Chapter Three
Windgrave
Olthanyr Yegara made his way across the crowded lawn towards Windgrave, sparing only a glance over his shoulder as they surged away to begin their hunt. He didn’t have much time. He sincerely hoped that Kassais and Vyle would die in the forest. There were plenty of dangers, not least of which were their own dangerous and temperamental mounts. Unfortunately Yegara could place little hope in the Shrike Lord’s imminent demise through accident or otherwise. The Commorrites were too tough and wary to fall prey to such things; they would be back.
Commorrites all seemed to have eyes in the back of their heads and a distressing degree of insight into what was going through his mind at any particular moment in time. It had taken Olthanyr Yegara a long time to understand what was going on. At first it seemed like some form of telepathy or empathy, a vestigial psychic ability that the Commorrites had somehow managed to sneak past She Who Thirsts. After a while he came to realise that Commorrites had deadened that part of themselves entirely – even more thoroughly than the Yegara clan had. The Commorrites could never have survived the Fall otherwise – or to be more accurate, only those of them that could deny their inherently psychic nature were destined to be counted among the survivors.
As he approached the keep, two retainers posted in front of the outermost doors hauled them open before him. Both of them were loyal followers of the clan, now chafing in the Shrike Lord’s livery. Yegara nodded to the retainers in passing and noticed how they studiously ignored the gesture. Too many of the Shrike Lord’s minions were watching – them and all the traitors among Yegara’s own supposed loyalists. He gathered up his pleated skirts and hurried inside.
The reassuringly thick wooden doors boomed shut behind him and he felt an illusory moment of safety. The greeting hall stretched away before him into the heart of the keep. Overhanging murder-galleries ran along either wall and were being paced by more of the Shrike Lord’s guards. The galleries were festooned with suits of antiquated armour peeking out between ornamental pillars so that the tall helms of the guards appeared to move among a still, silent crowd. Beneath them a series of abstract tapestries and ancient framed images decorated the walls of the hall. A few shafts of daylight angled down through high, narrow windows to pick out dancing dust motes in the warm, fusty air.
It was all a sham intended to put a visitor off their guard, a rustic camouflage that the Yegara clan had adopted upon their arrival in the Sable Marches millennia ago when Windgrave was built. The worn square flagstones beneath Yegara’s feet appeared crudely fitted, but that was only because one in four of them was a trap door that could dump its victim into a trench full of caustic slime in the cellar below. The tapestries hid secret doors to enable a quick escape or the unseen entrance of murderous accomplices. The hall held more sophisticated traps, too. The ornamental pillars concealed power field projectors that could seal off the greeting hall far more thoroughly than the impressive-looking carved wooden doors ever could. Such cunning and artifice had allowed the Yegaras to rule over the Sable Marches with a deft hand for centuries in spite of their many challengers.
To the Commorrites, to Vyle Menshas the Shrike Lord, all these defences were mere children’s games, tricks to amuse but not challenge. To them the Yegara clan were a pack of simpletons: weak, inbred and effete. It seemed to Olthanyr that his clan’s recollections of the great port-city of Commorragh had become fragmentary and not a little fanciful down the centuries when compared with reality. He had certainly not been prepared for what the Commorrites were truly like until it had become too late to prevent their arrival.
The Commorrites were hard, uncompromising in a way that the Yegaras had forgotten. While the Yegara clan had held sway in its own little fiefdom the great city of Commorragh had endured purges, revolutions, invasions, pogroms and regime changes in endless succession. Olthanyr understood now how they could seemingly read minds. The fact was that Commorrites – especially archons like Vyle and his relative Kassais – had been forced to learn to read expressions and body language with quite startling accuracy as a matter of survival. In Commorragh the obsessive perfectionism of the eldar race had been honed towards detecting the vaguest twitch that might indicate when someone was lying or an eye flicker that might indicate thoughts of betrayal.
Yegara hurried on through the greeting hall, avoiding the trapped slabs out of sheer habit. All the pit doors were locked now anyway at the insistence of Vyle, but in the past not a few clan members had discovered that locks can corrode – or just be left open when they shouldn’t be. Yegara was breathless and sweating slightly by the time he reached the octagonal chamber at the far end of the hall that was known as the Confluence. The Confluence lay at the juncture between the greeting hall and the seven different wings of the keep.
By tradition the wings were each known by their dominant decorative colours: Sapphire, Amethyst, Emerald, Amber, Crystal, Violet and Onyx. According to their fancy over the centuries the clan had added embellishments to the wings in appropriate hues. Over time it had become the case that the Sapphire wing, for example, contained nothing but blue: Furnishings, lighting, draperies, ornaments, frescoes, tools, looking glasses, hairbrushes – a thousand different tints and tones of blue. Likewise the Amber wing played host to a thousand different shades of orange, and so forth.
The wings had come to represent more to the clan than mere decoration. It became accepted that those beset by differing moods would migrate from wing to wing until they found the one that felt most closely attuned to their internal humours. Those gripped by feelings of introspection were drawn to the Sapphire wing, creativity to the Amethyst, vitality to the Emerald, boisterousness to the Amber, superiority to the Crystal, acquisitiveness to the Violet. Those gripped by despair had gravitated to the Onyx wing even after Qu’isal Yegara’s self-immolation had blackened it further and sent part of the keep tumbling into the sea.
In Olthanyr Yegara’s ordered existence the wings had all been a comforting symbol of control, that the clan had the ability to order things just so. Outside the keep in the howling chaos of the islands and the sea you would see colours mixed up all willy-nilly every day, but not inside. Inside the keep the clan kept a perfect kind of order, one so slow and unchanging that the centuries had rolled by almost without notice. Olthanyr stopped for a moment and sighed inwardly. On some levels he still missed his clanmates. Being the last surviving member of the clan was proving to be harder than he had anticipated.
Still, Windgrave held many secrets that the Shrike Lord and his minions had not yet uncovered. The last Yegara glanced around furtively and decided that he had more than enough time left before he had to attend to other duties. He turned his feet towards the black wing and vanished rapidly into the sooty gloom.
One moment they were surging across the grass, the next they had passed beneath the shadowed line where the forest began and plunged into a green ocean. The thick boles of trees whipped past and clutching branches were smashed aside by the rippling arcotheurs. Kassais grimly clung on to the saddle of his mount and concentrated on keeping pace with th
e Shrike Lord as he none-too-subtly demonstrated his superior prowess when it came to riding the ribbon-like creatures.
Whether by accident or design none of the attendants or guards kept pace with the two archons. After a time Vyle slowed his mount and they came to a coiling halt in a clearing torn by the recent fall of a forest giant. Weak daylight filtered through the canopy from above; the open space was already being filled in by reaching branches from avaricious neighbours. The fallen trunk was sprouting vines and fungi all along its stupendous length.
Now that they had halted Kassais could hear the crackling progress of other riders all around them but no one else was visible through the riot of foliage surrounding the clearing. He cleared his throat meaningfully.
‘Well, dear cousin, are you going to expound on matters at all? I would like to know how vast a mistake I made in coming here,’ Kassais prompted.
The Shrike Lord was looking suspiciously into the trees but couldn’t seem to pinpoint the source of his discomfort. Eventually he turned his face to Kassais and spoke.
‘When Asdrubael Vect sent me here he gave me two tasks to complete before I could truly call this place my own,’ the Shrike Lord said. ‘The first was to bring the native population under control. The Yegaras allowed them to breed without any controls and their sheer numbers have become… a problem.’
Kassais brightened immediately at the prospect of some good, old-fashioned slave culling. Vyle read his expression and shook his head.
‘It’s not as easy as that. They hide out in the water and breed like orks. I’ve done all that can be done through direct methods. I needed more warriors to complete the task and that is why I sent for you.’
Kassais looked pained as he replied. ‘I’m afraid I only brought enough forces for a secure visit, not a war.’
Vyle merely shrugged. ‘That time has passed anyway. I’ve taken additional steps of my own.’ The Shrike Lord fell silent for a moment, absently twitching his goad-lance to keep his restless arcotheur in one spot.
‘And what of the second task set for you by our beloved Supreme Overlord?’ Kassais asked finally.
‘He ordered me to triple the exports of protein from the Sable Marches to Commorragh,’ Vyle said off-handedly. Kassais blew out his cheeks at that. Vect’s avaricious cruelty seemed to know no bounds.
‘I wait with bated breath to hear your plan to achieve this miraculous twin feat of reducing the workforce and increasing their productivity at the same time.’
Vyle favoured Kassias with a thin smile. ‘I have poisoned the oceans,’ the Shrike Lord said conspiratorially. ‘Don’t gawp at me like I’m an idiot! Understand this: by doing so I have destroyed the natives’ food supply and so they will soon starve to death. Meanwhile I have gathered enough produce in the keep to survive until the seas recover their fecundity. When they do so, little of that bounty will be needed to feed the inhabitants of the realm as they will all be dead. When the gates re-open I will bring in more slaves to ensure deliveries rise to the specified amounts.’
The other archon had his eyebrows arched in a manner that indicated he remained unconvinced. ‘We were all very thrilled in Hy’kran by your elevation to suzerain of this sub-realm. It’s beginning to sound like it has become a poisoned chalice. You don’t think the natives may come knocking on your door looking for dinner?’
‘Let them try,’ Vyle spat arrogantly.
‘Hmm, perhaps we should move on to what’s happened to the gates, dear cousin? Why am I stuck in this benighted realm and how long is it liable to last?’
‘My artisans are at a loss to explain it,’ Vyle replied irritably. This matter evidently vexed him more than the natives and the harvest. ‘They say the portals are inactive from this side. They can’t explain why the portals will activate briefly to allow things to come in but nothing can get out. They assure me that temporary failures like these are not unknown and that eventually Commorragh will remedy the problem.’
‘That seems a little unsatisfactory to me,’ Kassais remarked.
‘I concur. Several of my artisans are now decorating the exterior of the keep to encourage the remainder to greater efforts. Little has been forthcoming.’
‘So how do you intend to pass the time while we wait for the gates to open and for the natives to starve?’
‘I’m going to hold a banquet,’ Vyle said, smiling with genuine pleasure.
Kassais smiled in appreciation of the jest and opened his mouth to reply. It was in that instant that he became aware of a flicker of white in the corner of his vision. It was something large and cat-like, and getting rapidly larger.
Chapter Four
Hunting
High in the forest canopy four lithe figures stood, lounged or sat as fancy took them on slender branches above the quite dizzying drop to the forest floor. Silent as statues they had watched the progress of the hunters on their rippling arcotheurs as they surged across the lawn and wove through the trees. Ashanthourus, Cylia, Hradhiri Ra and Motley noted the progress of Vyle and Kassais with particular interest.
The troupe members ran lightly along the springy boughs to keep the archons in view when they finally drew to a halt in a clearing. Cylia used her powers to conjure a tympanic membrane to allow them all to eavesdrop on the archons’ conversation about the problems of the realm and the Shrike Lord’s plans to combat them.
‘We should simply take them here and now,’ Hradhiri Ra whispered as he tapped impatient, bony fingers on the fluted barrel of his cannon.
‘Nonsense,’ Motley replied smartly. ‘We don’t know that either of them has done anything wrong.’
‘“Wrong” can be a highly subjective term,’ Ashanthourus observed. ‘Based on what we’ve just heard they both deserve death many times over. Why should we not grant it?’
Motley shrugged and drew up his legs before placing his chin on his knees. ‘I am only a fool,’ he said. ‘You are the great king, great wisdom is your prerogative.’
Ashanthourus tilted his grinning mask towards the slight, grey figure perched on his branch. ‘Just so, and great wisdom has taught us that to interfere without cause only brings more harm,’ the High Avatar said. ‘That and… suspicion.’
Motley grinned appreciatively at the king’s disquieting words. ‘Well quite, and suspicion serves no one in the long run – only the facts can bear fruit. Still, the noble Hradhiri Ra makes a salient point in an oblique fashion. Why not simply capture them and question them at our leisure? We could soon get to the bottom of things that way.’
Ashanthourus did not deign to reply so Cylia took up the gauntlet. ‘Because then we should be left with one guilty and one innocent, but we couldn’t simply let the innocent one go.’
‘Innocent also being a relative term in this case,’ Hradhiri Ra noted drily.
‘The truth is that neither of these delightful specimens may be the one we want,’ Motley nodded. ‘I mean yes, the trail from the craftworld leads here, and lo! Verily there are Commorrites on hand… but that’s the worst kind of circumstantial evidence. The attack itself may have emanated from here and have nothing to do with these two, although quite honestly I sort of doubt that. I do wish that you would have let me go with Lo’tos, we would have worked well together and might have found an answer by now.’
Ashanthourus looked down his mask’s long nose at Motley before responding. ‘The Master Mime has his own tasks to perform. If your role has a part to play in this performance then it will occur at the appropriate juncture and not a moment before.’
‘Ah now, look!’ Hradhiri Ra whispered. ‘While we procrastinate Nature takes a hand.’
‘Or Fate,’ added Cylia seriously.
From their elevated position the Harlequins could see what appeared to be a large, pallid shadow slipping between the trees. A big feline-like creature was creeping towards the clearing with surprisingly fluid grace. The archons
seemed ignorant of its approach until the point where it pounced, its muscular body hurtling across the clearing with claws outstretched and fangs bared like a white-furred thunderbolt. The Harlequins fell silent and watched the ensuing battle through to its conclusion without so much as twitching a muscle.
In the depths of the Onyx wing Olthanyr Yegara stopped nervously at a crossroads and glanced behind him. He listened carefully but there was no repetition of the sound he’d heard, or thought he’d heard. The Onyx wing was deserted. No slaves or servants would come there; they shunned the place with good cause, and no guards troubled to patrol the smoke-blackened corridors. Olthanyr strained his ears but he could only hear the distant hiss and crash of the waves striking the cliffs far below.
He soon hurried onwards, navigating the twists and turns of the Onyx wing unerringly even through areas of pitch darkness. Eventually he came to Qu’isal’s old chambers and pushed his way in through their warped ebony doors. Inside, cracks could be seen on the blackened walls and floor from the intense heat that had scoured the chambers at the height of the fire. The light and the sounds of the sea hissed in through ragged gaps where the outer wall had buckled and collapsed.
Olthanyr ignored the view of looming clouds and restless seas beyond the rents in the stonework and crouched in the centre of the chamber. He fumbled for a hidden stud and pressed it, causing a panel to slide aside at his feet. Inside the space revealed were four rounded shapes that shone dully in the light trickling in from outside. Olthanyr crooned as he scooped them out one after another: four round-bodied, beast-headed jars with
jewelled eyes. Olthanyr arrayed them before him like a miniature court and sang to them in a low, twisting voice for a time before reaching out to caress them one after another: toad, lion, snake, fish.
These artefacts had been one source of the Yegaras’ old power in the Sable Marches. Ancient pacts and rites had secured the future of the clan at the small cost of a little spilt blood and a few mumbled incantations. Some of the family had believed them to be a slow poison, a corrupting influence on the bloodline. After Qu’isal’s death they had been hidden out of superstitious fear.
The Masque of Vyle Page 4
