The thunder and fury of Eldar artillery cannons bellowed down from the clifftops onto the front lines of the sieging Commorrite formations. The Biel-Tan gunners, for all their resentment in taking part in this fight, put up a firm resistance against the pounding hordes of the Covenites and malicious gunboat strikes. Chariath held herself against the railing of her Raider, her strike force circling just outside of the range of their weapons. Steam seethed from her respirator and she gripped her lightning claws with anticipation. The raid was not going as planned, these mon-keigh were entrenched and she'd never known Biel-Tan Eldar to side with any alien. Something was wrong, and why Salendrid continued to press the assault she did not know. Nevertheless, her role was to break the enemy gunlines, and she would not be found wanting in the eyes of her mistress and patron.
A supersonic crack broke the sky above them as several jets dropped from the clouds, dashing straight at the offending cliffside. The Craftworld gunners reacted accordingly, shifting their aim and lighting up the skies to limited effect. Some of the Jetfighters jinked away, but their wing leader was undeterred and annihilated an artillery emplacement with his payload.
Chariath turned around, her Blood Brides were eager to slay, many already hanging over the edge of the Raider with blades in hand. Over the noise and destruction Chariath shouted, "Move out!"
The Raider jolted forward, its shock prow crackling with heat as it built up energy. Several Raiders and Venoms behind them fell into formation as a Voidraven Bomber overhead was struck by a Falcon's pulse laser. Its engines sputtering, the payload it carried dropped limply from its bomb bay and into the cliffside, removing an entire chunk of the planet from existence. The Raider lurched around and then down, jinking as the Craftworld guns leveled on their flight. One of the Venom craft behind them caught a bolt from a Vibro-cannon to the hull. Chariath saw it shake violently, the controls completely seizing, before it dove straight into the cliff face.
The Raider circled and the Guardian crewmen drew their arms. Shurikens flew through the air and met with a hail of disintegrators, splinter fire, and plasma grenades as the Wyches fell upon their prey. Chariath leapt from her vessel like a lioness and gored the nearest Craftworlder. His mesh armor did nothing to protect him from the power weapon and he fell before her, his torso almost completely severed. Chariath looked up as her Blood Brides slaked their thirst on the delicious agonies these Craftworlders bore. She felt their energies course through her veins and the intoxicating effect began to take hold. It was as delectable as it was familiar. Suddenly, for the briefest moment, a pall flew across her mind. It reminded her of Kylendris.
Screams reverberated off the cliffs, rising at once into an unholy wail that nearly drove her to her knees. Chariath clasped her ears with her oversized gauntlets as the sound grew closer and her Blood Brides cowered. A flurry of bone white and flowing, colored manes dashed to and fro, their ghostly forms cutting between the stationed war machines with a speed to match the finest of her Wyches. Sobering herself, Chariath resumed the fray, rushing forward to meet these new warriors.
A Blood Bride's corpse sunk to the ground, sliced cleanly in two by the power sword in the Howling Banshee's hand. The Blood Brides and Banshees clashed, their weapons and form dancing over the cliffside like a choreographed routine rather than a lethal battle, and had it been lesser combatants it would have indeed been a slaughter. Unpracticed Wyches might have been culled by trained Aspect Warriors, though Chariath's hand-picked Blood Brides would have cut down even them, but as her lightning claws crossed her opponent's blade, Chariath realized these were no ordinary Banshees.
With sweeping strikes, Chariath kept her opponent on the back foot, the Banshee parrying and dodging the steady blows until a lightning claw was caught by the graceful power sword and the Banshee struck back. Chariath had just enough time to wince as the Aspect Warrior knocked her upside the head with an armored fist and cut a claw's blade straight through with her power sword. Chariath backed off a moment, stunned, then regained her balance. The Banshee surged forward, her blade singing in the air as it wisped back and forth. Chariath blocked one, two, three blows, and then felt the warmth of powered metal graze her stomach. Crimson wept from her Wych suit as the blade skirted under her defenses. Grasping her wound, Chariath looked up and saw her opponent raising her weapon.
Instinctively, she threw her claws up in defense and another prong broke from her trophy weapons as the power sword crackled against her, the claws' primitive human design no match for Eldar craftsmanship. Striking out with what remained of her weapons, she desperately tried to stab at the elusive Craftworlder, but the Banshee was as nimble as she was lethal. Every blow seemed to float across her armor, grazing it but never landing firm. At last the Banshee stopped her assault cold, kneeing her in the chest and grabbing her throat. Chariath coughed and grinned, grabbing her opponent's as well. Realizing her mistake, the Banshee struggled to tighten her grip, but Chariath's towering stature and great strength were more than a match for her agility now. Clenching the Aspect Warrior's throat, Chariath threw the Banshee through the air and slammed her into the dirt, crushing her body against the hard stone. The Aspect Warrior pulled at her hand for dear life, armored fingers gripping her wrist in terror. Chariath smiled, feeling of the Aspect Warrior's desperation seething into her spirit. But then she began to feel something else caressing her mind. The Howling Banshee's mask slowly drew her gaze, and then…
A shriek overwhelmed her senses and blasted through her consciousness. Chariath fell to the ground, her ears and eyes bleeding as the reverberations of the Banshee's wail pounded in her temples. She waited for the killing blow, her senses were throbbing and it took all her strength to pull herself to her knees. As she wiped the blood from her eyes however, she found herself sitting on the ground, surrounded by what was left of her Blood Brides. The Aspect Warriors had stepped back, now encircling a Dire-crested commander.
"What… is this?" Chariath shouted, unable to hear herself for the ringing in her ears.
The commander spoke in her mind, "So this is the best the Cult of Claws has to offer? Considering the prestige of your patron Kabal I expected a bit more… guts."
Chariath said nothing, her head was still woozy and she fought to keep her vision clear.
"Perhaps the Dark City is growing softer for riffraff like yourself to be making such great strides. Back in my day your kind would be lucky to be scraping by as dregs and street gangs, but then, the same could be said of the Craftworlds."
"Who are you?" she spat.
He stepped forward and the Aspect Warriors moved with him as one, "My name is Sir Allison Concord, Autarch of the 1st Biel-Tan Armored Division. And you, Syren, are my prisoner."
"Prisoner?" she choked. Those of her Blood Brides that remained look at her with indignation and terror. Being taken prisoner in Commorragh was well known to be a fate worse than death.
"Of course," Sir Allison said, his hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed power sword. "There is no reason to protract this senseless loss of life."
"We… I shall not be taken… by anyone…" Chariath replied, forcing herself upright.
"Well you are in no position to argue," Sir Allison said frankly.
A menacing growl escaped her respirator as she took a trembling step forward, "Your pretty armor… will adorn my mistress's throne…"
Instantly the Howling Banshees moved to block her path, blades at the ready, but Sir Allison raised his hand dismissively. "Ah, the eternal Commorrite hubris." He motioned over his shoulder, "Shadowseer, are these ruffians really as you say?"
Chariath stood motionless as a silken figure glided before her. She had seen the Harlequins perform from afar in the grander arenas of the city but never in person, and even to her addled senses she could tell this was no ordinary member of their fraternity. Strangely, she could only wince when she looked directly at its mask, and every move the Harlequin made seemed to radiate a pervasive fluidity that even the greatest of her Wyches could not match.
"They are indeed," he said, a dozen voices coalescing in her mind from all around. Her Blood Brides seemed to hear it too as they staggered closer to her, weapons clenched, willing to fight but as unsure as their mistress.
"Very well then," Sir Allison said. "Lay down your weapons, Syren, and we shall show you quarter."
Chariath grit her teeth, "The only thing we shall lay down is your corpse, Autarch."
"That decision is rather unwise," the Shadowseer interjected, softly moving between them.
"You would stop me? Then your life is forfeit as well."
A mist began to descend upon the clifftop. All around her, time seemed to slow, as if reality itself were muffled by the serene air. Even the Blood Brides at her side disappeared into the fog, ceasing to exist the moment she turned away.
The Harlequin drew his staff, "I would stop you, Chariath. You have a part to play on this stage too important to be throwing your life away on such senselessness."
"Your tricks do not scare me, Harlequin."
"Nor would I expect them to," he said, his lilting voice growing more somber. "Sir Allison is offering you a chance to end this peacefully, and you have every reason to take it."
Chariath bared what remained of her lightning claws, "I would sooner die than kneel before my foe."
The Harlequin cocked his head slightly, readying his staff, "That is your decision."
Chariath dashed at the Shadowseer, swinging her claws wide but never so much as grazing his impeccable form. With every lunge and strike the Harlequin seemed to simply stand aside as though waiting for her to move. She dove back and forth, chasing the damnable Harlequin to and fro before realizing she was virtually running after him, his body encompassed in fragments of checkered light.
"Fight me, coward!" she screamed.
The Harlequin laughed that iconic, condescending laugh, "Oh, you are going to have to try harder than that I'm afraid."
"You dare taunt me!?"
"My dear," he lifted a crooked hand to his swirling mask where a mouth might be, "The short-sighted antics of your kind leave me no room for any additional mockery."
Chariath took a deep breath through her respirator and felt a warm sensation flood her spine. The array of vials on her back surged into her body and she felt her senses align. The warped reality the Harlequin summoned seemed to twist and distort as the Splintermind took hold. Muscles swelled and released, her eyes twitched, her heart jumped to her throat.
The Shadowseer straightened up a bit, "Impressive, most impressive. Almost seems as if you were…" his hand raised to his chest, "compensating for something?"
With a feral scream, Chariath attacked. The Harlequin danced away but this time she was able to match his speed, her strikes slipping in between his limbs as he tried to distance himself from the maddened Syren. Reeling back, he struck her with his Miststave, the psychic energy of the weapon knocking Chariath clean off her feet, but as soon as she landed she was in pursuit once more.
"Now this is the warrior I knew was in there!" he cried, deflecting her claws as she loped after him.
Chariath dove at the clown, and as he flipped backwards, she spun back and prepared for the landing. The moment his leg touched earth she swept it and landed a firm blow with her fist into his side. The Harlequin rolled on the ground to the edge of the cliff and she pounced on top of him, her respirator seething steam as her labored breath fought to keep her tortured body at maximum.
"Very… good…" he said as her hands gripped around his collarbones. Then he spoke in her mind, "But I am afraid our dance ends here."
Chariath felt a kick in her mind and she fell off the Shadowseer. At once he wrapped his staff across her neck and pinned her to his lap, looking out over the cliff. Though she was stronger by far, the leverage he had over her already damaged windpipe was more than enough to ensure she didn't budge.
"You… unhand me! Fight me!" she insisted, pushing against the staff for her life.
"And spoil this lovely view? Why? Look at how the burning wreckage plays across the streets in the city," he said, motioning towards the scene below. The fog cleared around the city streets beneath them where she saw the burned out husks of numerous Eldar, Commorrite, and human vehicles littering the ground. Among them was the unmistakable scrap of a familiar Razorwing Jetfighter.
"No…" she muttered, ceasing her drug-addled fits for a moment.
"Captivating, is it not?"
"Kylendris!" She struggled again against the Harlequin's staff, and this time he let her go. Chariath crawled to the edge of the cliff, her raspy voice beginning to break even more.
"Hmm? Who is that?" the Harlequin asked, amused.
"…I should have kept him grounded."
"Do not tell me you…care… about this Kylendris, Chariath."
"Be silent!" she spat, turning to face the Harlequin again.
"It truly is for the best," the Harlequin said. "After all, most genuine affections tend to be lethal in Commorragh." He gave a sarcastic shrug, "At least you know who is actually responsible for killing him."
"ENOUGH!" she swung madly at the giggling Harlequin.
He pranced out of the way, "Unlike last time, when you let your Succubus die!"
Chariath charged towards him but he leapt away in a flurry of colored checkers. "Then you teamed up with the one who actually killed her to dethrone your Cults' best patron!"
She threw another strike and the Harlequin retaliated with his staff, sending her bouncing off the hard rock of the cliff.
"And now here you are, hunting down Erinyes Irons." With the end of his staff stuck against her throat he lowered his cowled head, "It seems everyone you serve or try to protect ends up the same way, Chariath. Betrayed or dead."
The Syren grunted in response, trying frantically to pull the staff from her throat but it hung in the Harlequin's grip like iron.
"It is as if…" He flicked his Miststave up, sheering her respirator from her face, before jamming the end of it into her sunken scar, "…there is a hole you cannot fill."
Chariath doubled over, the pain cutting through the combat drugs as she heaved, desperate to catch her breath.
"Listen to me closely, Chariath." The Shadowseer leaned over her, his mask nearly touching her face. "You reap all that you sow. You yet have a part to play in this grand orchestration, but longer you cling to the hate and misery of your kind, the closer you come to being no different than the shriveled husk you were sent here to retrieve."
Gripping the edge of his staff for dear life, she could not help looking into the Harlequin's mask in front of her. What was previously a shifting mass of hated and terrifying faces now showed only one. Her own withered visage, as clear as the clearest mirror, stared back at her with worn, lonesome eyes. It was not the youthful reflection of her physical self, but the haggard and frail form of her spirit. In that moment, in that scared and pining face, she felt the weight of her own hatred, anger, every vile and contemptuous whim that passed across her mind leveled squarely at herself.
"Be gone from me, Harlequin," she muttered through short, gasping breaths.
He shook his head, "There is far more yet for us to do."
"Take this vision from me!" She shut her burning eyes, "I can endure it no more!"
The Harlequin released Chariath and she slumped forward, holding her scar as she gasped for air. The fog began to clear around her and she found herself standing beside the cliff, her body aching and throbbing from the violence and drugs. Her Blood Brides stood limp, mouths agape at what they had seen, while the Autarch simply grunted.
"Impressive, Carlin," Sir Allison said, "Most cannot defeat a Syren in one deft strike."
"Oh, it was not as easy as I made it look," the Shadowseer humbly replied.
"I am sure," he added knowingly. Turning to Chariath he spoke, "Now, Syren, lay down your weapons."
Chariath looked at him, and then back over to her Blood Brides. It appeared none of them saw or heard most of the battle that transpired. She cast one last glance at the clown and saw the shimmer of her eyes in his mask. Then, slowly, she dropped her broken lightning claws.
"My Syren, what are you doing!?" one of her Blood Brides cried out.
"What I must," she replied, placing her respirator back on her face. "The Shadowseer has bested me."
One of the Blood Brides ran forward, eyes wild with rage. "How dare you?!" she shrieked. "You shame our Cult, Chariath! You are a disgrace!" She drew her knives and eyed the Howling Banshees gathering tighter around the Autarch. "We shall stop only when the last of your flesh is flensed from your bones!"
"You shall do no such thing," Chariath replied.
Another of her Wyches stepped forward, "But, mistress—"
"They will kill you like dogs," she said, standing before the remnants of her squad. "Salendrid brought us here for a parade, to proclaim the power of his own Kabal, and what do we find? A prepared and entrenched foe, mon-keigh reinforcements," she gestured to the artillery cannons across the cliffside, "An entire division of Craftworlders waiting to ambush us."
"What are you suggesting, Chariath?" the upstart Blood Bride spoke, her tone suspicious and pointed.
"Salendrid has either underestimated this raid, or we are being culled for his benefit. Either way I will not lose my best Wyches for his bravado."
The Blood Bride snickered, "You doubt the strategic prowess of Lord Salendrid?"
"I doubt many things about Salendrid, but not his ambition, nor the lengths he will take to slake his thirst and secure his power."
"Very well, Chariath," she cooed. Fixing the Syren's gaze, she held her weapons at arms length before dropping her blades and pistol. "We shall see if your suspicions are right. But if not, Lord Salendrid will hear of your betrayal."
The rest of the Blood Brides followed suit, their weapons clattering to the stony ground. Chariath turned to the Autarch, "You have your prisoners, Craftworlder."
"A prudent choice," he said. "And one I did not expect." The Howling Banshees moved forward, corralling the Wyches and gesturing with their blades to move. Reluctantly, Chariath and her Blood Brides complied.
"If I may, Sir Allison," the Harlequin said, stepping beside the indignant column of Wyches, "Allow me to relieve you of the Syren."
The Autarch rolled his shoulders, "Do you wish to teach her another lesson, Carlin? She is unarmed now, there is no honor in that."
"A lesson, yes, but not of that nature," he replied. "I have business of my own."
Sir Allison nodded, his crest lowering over his helmed brow, "Very well, she is in your custody, Harlequin."
Chariath stopped as her Blood Brides were taken away, led back with provoking jabs beyond the cliffside to the main forces of the Biel-Tan division. Left alone with only the Shadowseer, Chariath watched the battle continuing below, trying to avoid looking into the clown's mask again.
"What will you have me do?" she asked, her eyes drawn to the carnage taking place at the city gates.
The Harlequin stepped next to her, "As I told Sir Allison, you have more to learn."
"To what end, Harlequin?" she asked. "What interest do you have in me?"
"The Laughing God smiles upon this day," he said with a profound voice. "This is his theatre and what a lovely turn of events it has brought! And you!" he said, pointing his finger in her face, "You have taken your first, trembling step towards understanding your true self!"
Chariath scoffed, the steam venting from her respirator to wreath her face. "True self indeed."
The two Eldar turned as a loud crash echoed up from the Cathedral below. Three Ulthwé Falcons, guns blazing, plowed into the blast door barring the front of the structure, caving it in.
"Ah, the stage is set but the players are not all in place," the Shadowseer said. "Quickly, follow me!"
The Harlequin pranced down the cliffside towards the city below. Chariath followed, barely able to keep up with the clown's precise and nimble strides.
"Where are we going!?" she shouted from behind.
Without breaking his stride, the Shadowseer twirled his hand before them, "To the climax!"