Labyrinth of the lost, p.1
Labyrinth of the Lost, page 1
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Discover more stories set in the Age of Sigmar from Black Library
~ THE AGE OF SIGMAR ~
THE GATES OF AZYR
An Age of Sigmar novella
~ THE REALMGATE WARS ~
WAR STORM
An Age of Sigmar anthology
GHAL MARAZ
An Age of Sigmar anthology
HAMMERS OF SIGMAR
An Age of Sigmar anthology
CALL OF ARCHAON
An Age of Sigmar anthology
WARDENS OF THE EVERQUEEN
An Age of Sigmar novel
WARBEAST
An Age of Sigmar novel
~ THE BLACK RIFT OF KLAXUS ~
PART ONE: ASSAULT ON THE MANDRAKE BASTION
PART TWO: IN THE WALLS OF URYX
PART THREE: THE GNAWING GATE
PART FOUR: SIX PILLARS
PART FIVE: THE SCARLET LORD
PART SIX: TEN SKULLS
PART SEVEN: BRIDGE OF SMOKE
~ BLADESTORM ~
PART ONE: VENGEANCE ETERNAL
PART TWO: RIGHTEOUS BLOOD
PART THREE: THE MANTICORE DREADHOLD
PART FOUR: IRON TIDE
Contents
Cover
Backlist
Title Page
Warhammer Age of Sigmar
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
About the Author
An Extract from ‘The Gates of Azyr’
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
Warhammer Age of Sigmar
From the maelstrom of a sundered world, the Eight Realms were born. The formless and the divine exploded into life.
Strange, new worlds appeared in the firmament, each one gilded with spirits, gods and men. Noblest of the gods was Sigmar. For years beyond reckoning he illuminated the realms, wreathed in light and majesty as he carved out his reign. His strength was the power of thunder. His wisdom was infinite. Mortal and immortal alike kneeled before his lofty throne. Great empires rose and, for a while, treachery was banished. Sigmar claimed the land and sky as his own and ruled over a glorious age of myth.
But cruelty is tenacious. As had been foreseen, the great alliance of gods and men tore itself apart. Myth and legend crumbled into Chaos. Darkness flooded the realms. Torture, slavery and fear replaced the glory that came before. Sigmar turned his back on the mortal kingdoms, disgusted by their fate. He fixed his gaze instead on the remains of the world he had lost long ago, brooding over its charred core, searching endlessly for a sign of hope. And then, in the dark heat of his rage, he caught a glimpse of something magnificent. He pictured a weapon born of the heavens. A beacon powerful enough to pierce the endless night. An army hewn from everything he had lost.
Sigmar set his artisans to work and for long ages they toiled, striving to harness the power of the stars. As Sigmar’s great work neared completion, he turned back to the realms and saw that the dominion of Chaos was almost complete. The hour for vengeance had come. Finally, with lightning blazing across his brow, he stepped forth to unleash his creation.
The Age of Sigmar had begun.
Chapter One
FROM THE WORLD BEYOND
The chamber was vast, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Its walls were smooth marble, black as night and dotted with false constellations of glinting silver. The chamber’s floor was formed from irregular flagstones of blue and purple crystal that interlocked in a chaotic tangle. Dark doorways studded the chamber’s walls, seemingly at random, while huge statues loomed menacingly along its edges. Sinister and avian beneath the stone robes that swathed them, these towering figures clutched burning braziers from which unclean firelight spilled.
At the foot of one of the strange statues, a figure stirred. A duardin Fyreslayer, clad in a dirt-stained loincloth and little else. The duardin’s hair and beard were a deep, fiery red, matching the crest that rose from his battered helm. With a groan, the Fyreslayer opened his eyes. He breathed out slowly, muted sparks dancing upon his exhalation. Then he jerked suddenly, as though shocked.
The duardin pushed himself to his feet and cast around frantically. Spotting his axe and pick lying nearby, he snatched them up. Beyond the weapons was his pack, a threadbare satchel, clearly empty. He grasped it close all the same, clutching the meagre thing to his chest as though it were precious ur-gold.
With his belongings secured, the Fyreslayer closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths before opening them again. He dragged the fingers of one hand absently through his unkempt beard as he took in the statues, the crystalline floor, the distant ceiling hidden in shadow. Lastly the duardin inspected his own limbs and torso, eyes resting on the ur-gold runes that glimmered dully in his flesh.
‘No,’ he muttered to himself, the word coming out like the rustle of dead leaves. The duardin coughed, more sparks billowing forth as he cleared his bone-dry throat. ‘No,’ he rumbled again, voice louder now and tinged with something like anger, or panic, or both. ‘This isn’t… It’s not…’
With a sudden cry, the Fyreslayer swung his axe, and forgeflame danced in its wake. He smote the base of the nearest statue, striking sparks and chips of stone from its taloned foot. With a hoarse roar, the duardin struck again and again, momentarily lost to the act of violence. On the fourth swing he stopped himself as suddenly as he had started, eyes widening and head darting left and right like a hunted animal.
‘Fool,’ he hissed at himself. ‘Witless fool. Too much noise.’
The duardin’s fears seemed borne out just moments later as, from a nearby entrance to the chamber, there came a low growl. Something bestial moved in the gloom, and keen, birdlike eyes glinted in the darkness. With a muttered curse, the Fyreslayer planted his feet and raised his axe in readiness.
‘Well c’mon then,’ he shouted into the darkness, ‘come and get it over with. You’ll not find Vargi Sornsson easy prey, you bird-faced bastards.’
There was movement in the darkened portal, and then a low, lithe animal emerged. Sornsson’s eyes widened as he took in the leopard-like body and proud, feathered head of an adolescent gryph-hound. The creature paced deliberately towards him, eyes locked on his. It emitted a low, warning growl as it came, clacking its beak menacingly. The Fyreslayer tensed, ready for the beast to pounce. Then another figure emerged from the doorway. Sornsson took in white and blue robes, a heavy warhammer, and dark skin, but his attention was still fixed on the animal that stalked him.
‘Goldclaw!’ called the newcomer in a deep, commanding voice. ‘Away, girl. This is no creature of evil.’ The gryph-hound bristled, then relented, circling protectively back to its master’s side.
The Fyreslayer did not lower his axe, simply shifting his attention from hound to master.
‘You’re not, are you?’ spoke the newcomer again, with a hard smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘A creature of evil, I mean. So you can lower those weapons.’
Sornsson shook his head, the gesture quick and jerky.
‘Don’t be so sure, stranger. Trust nothing in the tower. First appearances’ll get you killed.’
‘I have faith,’ responded the robed newcomer. ‘I am Masudro Yaleh. I am a warrior priest of Sigmar, and all I see is rendered clear in his light. Was there foulness in you, I would have seen it from the first.’
‘Aye?’ responded Sornsson. ‘That’s well and good, but how do I know you are what you say you are? I know I’m no servant of Tzeentch, but what of you?’
Masudro frowned thoughtfully, then held forth the small sigmarite hammer that hung on a cord around his neck.
‘Were I a thing of evil, a creature of the Chaos God of change, could I wear this emblem, or let it touch my bare flesh?’
Sornsson spat.
‘That could be as fake as the rest of your appearance. The tower… the tower cheats. It changes things. It lies.’
Masudro stared at Sornsson, gaze filled with concern.
‘If that is so then there is truly no way I can convince you to trust me, and for that I am sorry. But that is the second time you have mentioned the tower, Vargi Sornsson. Of what tower do you speak? Where are we?’
For a moment longer, Sornsson stayed as still as graven stone, weapons raised and ready while his eyes searched Masudro’s weathered features. Finally, as though he had come to some decision, the duardin let out a long sigh of exhaustion. His shoulders slumped, and he lowered his weapon.
‘You truly don’t know?’ he asked, and Masudro frowned deeper at the resignation in the duardin’s voice.
‘Truly,’ replied the warrior priest, ‘but my suspicions are bleak.’
‘Aye, and so they should be,’ rumbled Sornsson. ‘Welcome, Masudro Yaleh, to the accursed bloody halls of the Silver Tower.’
Man and duardin sat at the feet of the damaged statue, while Goldclaw pressed close to her master’s side. Masudro’s face was as grim as the sense of foreboding he felt. He absently rubbed his hammer amulet between finger and thumb as they spoke.
‘So this is the tower of which the legends speak? The lair of the Gaunt Summoner?
‘It is,’ replied Sornsson. ‘And it’s everything the legends claim and worse. A more evil place I’ve never seen, as twisted as the daemon that rules over it.’
The warrior priest nodded slowly. He looked at the duardin, sitting a few clear paces away, eyes watchful, weapons close to hand. Cautious as a hunted animal, thought Masudro.
‘You have been here some time.’ The priest’s words were not a question.
‘Aye,’ said Sornsson, his eyes hollow. ‘I’m a Doomseeker, of the Volturung Lodge. My oath brought me to the tower with… Well. They’re gone now. It’s just me.’
‘So you came to this place on purpose?’ pressed Masudro. ‘You know how you got here?’ For a moment the priest’s hopes rose, but they were dashed again as the Doomseeker barked a grim laugh.
‘I see where you’re going with this. Forget it. The tower lets you in, but it doesn’t let you out. It… moves. It changes. It cheats.’
The two were silent for a moment.
‘And how long…?’ began Masudro.
‘A span of time,’ interrupted Sornsson, suddenly angry. ‘But what of you, priest of Sigmar? Eh? You ask a lot of questions, but you’ve told me precious little of yourself.’
Masudro raised his hands in a placating gesture.
‘I am sorry, Vargi Sornsson. Truly. These are dire tidings, and in times of trouble I’ve a habit of looking to others’ problems before my own.’
The Doomseeker said nothing, watching from under beetled red brows with one hand wrapped around the haft of his axe.
‘I am a warrior priest of Sigmar, as I said,’ continued Masudro, ‘Goldclaw and I marched out of Azyrheim through the Clarion Realmgate. We accompanied an army bound for the siege of Darkenrift. We stepped through the realmgate and, instead of our staging area in the Sha’dena Valley, we found ourselves here. That was shortly before we met you. And honestly, that’s all I know. How we came to be in this hellish place, I’ve no idea.’
Sornsson was quiet for a moment after Masudro’s brief tale concluded, his expression unreadable. Then the Fyreslayer gave a grunt and pushed himself to his feet.
‘Well, newfound companion, there’s no point just sitting here forever. Eh?’
The warrior priest rose, and squared his shoulders.
‘No indeed,’ he responded, his resolve returning. ‘I have a duty to the God-King. Goldclaw and I are needed at Darkenrift. Let us find a way out of this Tzeentchian prison, Doomseeker. But which way do we go?’
Sornsson scowled at each of the scattered entrances to the chamber. Masudro saw his new companion’s eyes narrow in what looked like recognition, and gesture with his axe at an ornate bronze archway some distance to their left.
‘That one looks familiar. I think,’ said the Fyreslayer. Masudro nodded and, with Goldclaw prowling at their side, the priest and the duardin set off across the chamber.
At the companions’ backs, a robed figure melted silently from the shadows and drifted slowly in their wake.
The companions passed beneath the archway and found themselves in a long corridor with a low ceiling. Their footfalls rang upon interlocking metal plates that described twisted, Tzeentchian shapes. From the crystalline walls stared myriad yellow eyes whose pupils followed them as they passed. Masudro recoiled at the sight. Sornsson merely ignored the staring orbs and pressed on up the slow slope of the passage. Goldclaw pecked angrily at the nearest eyes, eliciting disembodied squeals of pain until Masudro called her away.
‘This place,’ he called after Sornsson as he hurried to catch up, ‘is it all so strange?’
‘Hah, strange?’ the Doomseeker shot back over one brawny shoulder. ‘This is nothing.’
The corridor became a spiralling crystal stair that wound upwards for what felt to Masudro like hours. In places the walls became translucent crystal, through which the priest saw what looked like churning cogs and whirling stars. Finally, the stairway terminated in what seemed to be a dead end.
‘Damnation,’ exclaimed Masudro, feeling the press of claustrophobia for the first time. ‘We shall have to turn back. All those stairs…’
‘Wouldn’t be so sure,’ replied Sornsson. ‘Look closer.’
Masudro stared at the wall where the corridor ended, reaching out a hand to touch its surface. He recoiled as the wall rippled like liquid silver. The priest looked to Sornsson for explanation. Ignoring his stare, the Fyreslayer stepped straight through the wall, disappearing into its flowing skin. Masudro felt a moment’s panic at the thought of immersing himself in such obvious sorcery. Telling himself that he could not afford to be left behind by the only ally he had found in this place, the priest plunged through, pulling his balking gryph-hound with him.
For a split second, Masudro experienced a terrible sense of vertigo, and felt a bone-deep cold wash across his skin. Then he was stepping into a new chamber, bombarded instantly by strange sights and sounds. The warrior priest had time to gain an impression of creaking bookshelves and stone tables, all overflowing with scrolls and weighty tomes. Parchment carpeted the floor in thick drifts. It fluttered upon the walls like layers of tapestry, and even papered the ceiling high above. Every sheet of parchment was covered with lines upon lines of indecipherable scrawl that glowed blue as it flowed across pages or leapt spiralling into the air.
From ahead of him, between teetering bookshelves as tall as trees, came the flash and clangour of fighting. Without a second thought Masudro broke into a run, hammer at the ready and Goldclaw loping at his side. Slithering down a slope of parchment, the priest saw Sornsson ahead, locked in furious battle with several fearsome looking figures. The first was tall and heavily muscled, clad in barbarous finery and with a mohawk of raven-black hair rising from his scalp. Strange tattoos swirled across his bare flesh, and he wielded a huge longsword, with which he was parrying the Fyreslayer’s furious blows.
The second figure was unmistakably a Stormcast Eternal, one of the God-King Sigmar’s holy warriors. The sight of him made Masudro’s heart leap. The armoured hero wore the silver livery of the Hallowed Knights Stormhost, and was using his tall shield to fend off the sorcerous blasts of a vile daemon of Tzeentch, his cloak billowing in the heat of each blazing impact. The thing was hideous, all rubbery pink limbs and leering, fang-filled maws, and as it capered back and forth between the stacks it flung bolts of kaleidoscopic fire into the fight.
‘Silence in the library,’ the daemon gibbered madly in a dozen voices, ‘silencesilencesilence!’
Masudro skidded to a halt as he heard a sudden whisper next to his ear.
‘The barbarian is not your enemy in this hour. Few are your allies in the tower. You must trust him.’ The warrior priest looked around frantically for any sign of the speaker, but could see no one.
Now, though, he became aware that the Fyreslayer’s opponent was not yelling war cries, but outraged curses. ‘Back, you Khorne-cursed lunatic! Get back, or I swear on the Eightpoints I’ll take your stunted head.’
Still Sornsson pressed his attack, ignoring the beset Stormcast and his daemonic foe as he sought to hack the barbarian limb from limb.
‘Sornsson,’ shouted Masudro, ‘stop! The daemon is your enemy, not him.’ The Fyreslayer shot a glance at Masudro, his expression incredulous.
‘Are you mad, priest?’ he shouted. ‘He bears the marks of the Dark Gods.’
Masudro’s mind reeled. The duardin was right, for the tattoos of the feral warrior were undeniably the runes of the Gods of Chaos. Yet he knew, just knew, that the barbarian was not their foe.
‘Sigmar speaks to me,’ Masudro shouted back. ‘This is no servant of Tzeentch. He is a wanderer like us.’
At that moment, the barbarian, seeing an opening in the distracted Doomseeker’s guard, kicked the duardin in the chest. Sornsson was sent reeling. Instead of pressing his attack, the dark-haired warrior spun and charged up the drifted parchments towards where the daemon leapt and capered.
Masudro watched as the barbarian wove around the Stormcast, using the bulky warrior and his scorched shield for cover until the last moment, then springing forth with the speed of a striking snake. His longsword lashed out, striking the daemon across its chest and ripping its unnatural body in two. Sulphurous flames leapt. Reeking smoke billowed. From the ruin of the unnatural entity, two smaller simulacra sprang, their hides blue and their single eyes glaring in sullen hatred.
