The Masque of Vyle by Andy Chambers

extinction, or the intercession of a higher power.
    I chose the latter and gathered my knowledge carefully,
    I went forth to the eternal city to trade my secrets for my heart’s desire. ’
    Olthanyr spoke with shaky bravado as if he were the hero of the piece. However behind the last Yegara an exaggerated simulacrum of himself – ably played in this instance by Lo’tos – gave lie to his words through its actions. This false Olthanyr crept forth like a thief in the night: listening at keyholes, peering through windows, digging through piles of detritus in forgotten chambers. At length this creeping, snivelling figure was seen in silhouette before a webway portal and then vanished.
    To the watching audience it seemed as if they no longer stood in Windgrave’s stuffy hall. The horizon became distant, jagged with razor-edged spires and barbed steeples. High above them limpid, poisoned suns swam slowly past, dripping their corpse-light across the dark landscape below. In the foreground Olthanyr was now on his knees before a coven of pale-skinned, black-armoured Commorrite nobles. Olthanyr hid his face in his hands so Motley spoke again, his clear voice full of rich irony.
    ‘ No fun, these friends.
    And no help either.
    Yet a show of weakness was all it took,
    To bring them rushing hither. ’
    The Commorrites smiled cruel smiles and menaced the quailing Yegara with evident pleasure. They pushed and pulled his cringing body between them, squabbling at times like a flock of vultures over a choice piece of carrion. At length the Commorrites seem to tire of their sport and gradually drifted away until only one remained. This lone noble had sharp and predatory features, the face of none other than the Shrike Lord – Vyle Menshas.
    The landscape of spires silently shattered before the viewers’ eyes. The shards flew apart and reassembled into a new scene while the figures of Vyle and Olthanyr remained unmoving. Now they stood on the rugged coastline of the Sable Marches as shadowy ranks of Commorrite warriors marched past in the background. Motley spoke again.
    ‘ Not to aid,
    Not to help
    But to claim a weakling realm,
    The Shrike Lord spread his sable wings
    And the Marches all fell down. ’
    Olthanyr surged to his feet, his face flushed and his eyes filled with tears. He stared about wildly as if seeking an escape route but there was none to be seen. A cacophony of wailing, shrieking, pleading voices suddenly burst across the scene from invisible lips – although Olthanyr evidently recognised the speakers. It was his whole clan, each and every one of his relatives being wiped out of existence by the Shrike Lord’s torturers. Olthanyr pressed his hands over his ears but the voices still resounded inside his skull. The performance, the Harlequins and even Vyle Menshas were completely forgotten now. As the last Yegara reeled in horror Motley stepped smoothly forwards to continue speaking.
    ‘ A whole clan consumed
    Burned root and branch.
    Save one that kept his life
    By surrendering all he had ever known
    To survive the coming strife. ’
    The vision of the Sable Marches and Vyle’s troops had faded away. Only Olthanyr was left, shuddering alone in the darkness, and for a long time no one moved or spoke. Then an arid breeze swept through the wall and brought with it the smells of burning. Red flames kindled in the distance and by their sullen light a ghastly form was illuminated. Olthanyr recognised it at once as the corpse of Qu’isal Yegara as it had been found after the fire in the Onyx wing. It was eyeless and blackened with charred strips of flesh hanging from its scorched bones. The dreadful apparition raised an accusing finger at Olthanyr and intoned in a dry, parched voice:
    ‘ Last among us and last to die.
    Damned forever by word and deeds.
    Be judged now and forever, you worthless cur.
    As a warning of where too much self-interest leads. ’
    Perhaps Olthanyr’s mind broke in that instant. Cylia had noted