Labyrinth of the lost, p.2
Labyrinth of the Lost, page 2
The warrior priest now stepped forwards, ignoring the murderous glare of the still-winded Sornsson, and raised his amulet high. In a booming voice, Masudro spoke aloud the holy words of Sigmar. Cleansing light leapt, a holy brilliance that lanced out and struck one of the daemons square in the chest. The unclean thing howled in pain, its flesh boiling away to smoke and steam until nothing remained.
At the same moment, the Stormcast lunged forwards, dropping his guard and whipping his lightning-wreathed blade in a crackling arc. It struck the last of the daemons, which burst once again in two. Dancing yellow haemonculi leapt from its dissolving corpse, small things of flame and sulphur that shrieked angry curses.
‘How many times must we kill these things?’ cursed the barbarian, as he and the Stormcast stamped and battered at the diminutive daemons. They crushed out the imps’ fires one by one, recoiling from the scorching flames. They were joined by Sornsson, and quickly the three warriors extinguished the last of their unnatural foes.
In the lull that followed, Masudro watched the three warriors catch their breath. The warrior priest had spent decades keeping the peace in the shadowed quarters and cosmopolitan marketsprawls of outer Azyrheim. Always empathic, Masudro had become adept at seeing when common cause could be found between disparate peoples, and he saw that potential here. Then, quick as lightning, the Hallowed Knight’s sword whipped up to point at the barbarian’s throat, backing the dark haired warrior up against a tome-strewn stone table.
‘We were not done talking,’ grated the Stormcast from behind his helm’s expressionless facemask. ‘You still had to explain to me who you were, and why I should not slay you where you stood.’
Sornsson appeared at the Stormcast’s shoulder.
‘Just do him,’ urged the duardin. ‘Look at the tattoos on his chest. The talismans about his neck. This one’s a slave of the Summoner, no mistake.’
Masudro started forwards, possessed once again by the sure knowledge that they could trust this barbarous figure. He stopped, conflicted. There was no denying that the warrior bore marks of devotion to the Dark Gods. So where did the compulsion to trust him come from? Sigmar? Or something else?
‘I’m not your enemy,’ growled the barbarian warrior, ‘nor am I your friend. I’m Hathrek, Darkoath Chieftain of the Gadalhor, and my only duty is to my people.’
The Stormcast was unmoved, the point of his sword unwavering.
‘So you said before the daemon attacked us, Hathrek of the Gadalhor. But do you deny that you worship the Dark Gods?’
‘Of course I worship them,’ spat Hathrek, ‘but I’m no servant of the Summoner. I came here to bring that daemon to its knees. The same as the rest of you, yes? I had thought to walk my path alone. I don’t have time to coddle the lovers of lesser gods.’
With lightning speed, the chieftain whipped his blade around, striking the Stormcast’s weapon away from his throat. Throwing himself backwards, Hathrek rolled over the table and came up in a fighting crouch. The Stormcast and the Doomseeker went to follow him.
‘Stop, you fools!’ roared the Darkoath. ‘We’re surrounded by enemies beyond count, by dangers untold, and you want to fight me? The only damned Chaos worshipper to walk the halls of the tower who cares not about seeing you dead?’
‘All servants of Chaos are my foes,’ replied the Stormcast, advancing relentlessly around the table. ‘Sigmar commanded that I defeat the master of the Silver Tower, and you bar my path. You are my enemy in the war eternal.’
‘But I’m not barring your damned path,’ snarled Hathrek in exasperation. ‘And I’m not your enemy, though you’re working fast to change that. I’ve never even seen a Stormcast Eternal before, nor a… a whatever the stuntling is.’
Sornsson growled angrily at this and his eyes flashed with furnace light.
‘Don’t worry, Chaos slave, I’ll soon teach you to fear the Fyreslayers.’
The two warriors had now flanked Hathrek, who was backing slowly away on the balls of his feet, keeping both foes in sight and his guard up. Masudro could not help but notice that the chieftain’s expression was less one of fear than sharp anticipation. This one was truly dangerous, he realised. And yet he’d rarely seen a servant of Chaos try to talk their way out of a fight before.
‘Fine,’ said Hathrek with forced lightness. ‘Say I’m your enemy then. Say you insist on this fight. I have to win. I have to. The lives of my entire tribe depend upon it and I won’t fail them. So I hope you’re both ready to die, because I won’t let you stop me.’
At this, the Stormcast paused.
‘What lies are these? The champions of Chaos care not for protecting the lives of others. Explain yourself, swiftly.’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ urged Sornsson, still edging forwards. ‘Everything in the tower is lies. They flow through this place like lava through a forge.’
Masudro saw his opening and took it.
‘Hold,’ he said, his voice the commanding boom that afforded him such presence upon the battlefield. ‘If we assume that all here is false, Sornsson, then we are lost. You and I should have killed each other on sight, were that true.’
‘Still wondering why I didn’t,’ muttered the duardin, but he stopped his advance all the same.
‘Hathrek, what lives do you speak of?’ asked the priest. ‘And do not try to deceive us, for I see with Sigmar’s sight and I will know if you lie.’
‘My tribe,’ replied the chieftain, ‘the Gadalhor. Several hundred souls residing in a walled village atop the Splintered Hills. For years now we’ve fought the Gor-kin and the orruks as they encroached upon our lands. We’re losing. And so, through the wisdom of my village’s shaman, I chose to walk the dark paths to this terrible place. I seek the power to protect my people. That’s all.’
Masudro sensed unspoken desires behind the chieftain’s words, but nothing he said seemed false.
‘Noble intentions, perhaps,’ said the Stormcast, ‘but there is no true succour to be found in the promises of the Dark Gods. Had you turned to the light of Sigmar…’
‘We tried,’ snapped the chieftain, eyes flashing. ‘In the early days we prayed to the heavens for salvation, and all we got was blood and sorrow. Your God-King could not help me, Stormcast, so I turned to those who could. Don’t presume to judge me.’
‘He speaks no lie,’ said Masudro quietly, reading the pain in Hathrek’s furious expression.
The Stormcast looked to the priest then, and with a slight nod, he lowered his blade.
‘If it is as you say, then we have common cause. But I will watch you, Hathrek of the Gadalhor, and if you endanger my mission here I will strike you down with the fury of the heavens.’ Sornsson shook his head in disgust, but stowed his axe and pick.
‘Fine, I’m outnumbered ‘n’ I can’t fight you all. But we’ll regret trusting this one, mark my words,’ he grumbled. Hathrek responded by sketching a mocking bow.
Ignoring his companion’s displeasure, Masudro turned to the Stormcast.
‘And what of you, my lord? What name should we know you by?’
‘I am Avanius,’ replied the Stormcast, ‘a Knight-Questor of the Hallowed Knights. It is my honour to make your acquaintance, priest of Sigmar.’
‘And mine yours,’ replied Masudro, ‘though I wish we had met under better circumstances.’
‘Well,’ interrupted Hathrek, blade still in hand, ‘I’m delighted that we’re not all planning to kill each other for the moment. Truly. But if that’s the case, I need to move on from this place. I don’t imagine the master of the Silver Tower will simply come to me.’
‘You can seek the Summoner all you like, Chaos worshipper,’ replied Sornsson sourly, ‘I only wish to leave this hateful place for good and all.’
‘Whatever we seek, Hathrek is right,’ said Masudro. ‘We won’t find it here. So where do we go next?’
‘We?’ sneered the Darkoath. ‘What we? I’ve no interest in letting the likes of you slow me down, or put a sword between my shoulder blades when you decide again that you cannot stomach the tainted company of a Chaos worshipper. I wish you whatever luck you deserve, but I fight alone.’
With that, the chieftain strode brashly up to the nearest door and wrenched it open. Masudro moved to stop him, but Sornsson grasped his arm.
‘If you really want to ally yourself with this one, you need not chase him. I’ve seen this before.’ Masudro frowned at the duardin as Hathrek vanished through the darkened portal, and it slammed shut behind him.
‘He’s gone,’ exclaimed the priest after a moment, frustrated. ‘Sornsson, what sense was there in such trickery?’ The Fyreslayer crooked one eyebrow and scratched his ear.
‘Just wait,’ he muttered. ‘Any moment.’
Behind them, the portal through which Masudro, Goldclaw and Sornsson had entered the library flared with light, before disgorging the Darkoath Chieftain. Hathrek pulled up short. An expression of surprise flashed across his features, followed by anger.
‘What trickery is this? How…?’
‘It’s the tower,’ interrupted Sornsson with grim certainty. ‘This is what it does. It thrusts people together. Binds their fates. Whether they like it or no. At least ‘til they stop breathing.’
‘Troggoth dung!’ exclaimed Hathrek. ‘Lies!’
‘Why would I lie?’ Sornsson shot back. ‘I’d be glad to see y’gone. Or dead. But we’re not in a position to argue. You go back through that door, same thing’s going to happen, and you’re going to start looking like the fool you are.’
‘Unless I kill you all,’ snarled the Darkoath, brandishing his blade.
‘Isn’t that precisely what you were just arguing against?’ asked Masudro. Hathrek drew breath to reply then stopped, defeated.
‘How in the nether-realms do you know so much about it anyway, stuntling?’ he demanded. Sornsson blinked, and cleared his throat.
‘Been stuck here a while. Seen how the place works,’ he replied. The others waited for more, but it seemed that was all the explanation the duardin was planning to offer.
‘Well,’ said Masudro, breaking the uncomfortable silence. ‘I’ll ask again then. Which way?’
They stood for a moment amongst the riffle and stir of the daemonic library, looking around at the handful of doorways and portals. None seemed more promising than the others. Then the Stormcast’s helm twitched up as though he had heard some slight sound.
‘That way,’ he said, pointing to a heavy door of ironoak and purple crystal. ‘I’ve a sense that what we seek is that way.’
Hathrek shrugged.
‘It’s as good as any other route for now,’ he said, mockingly. ‘If I must travel with you people then… lead on, oh great warrior of Sigmar.’
Avanius shot a look at the chieftain, before leading the way towards the doorway he had chosen, his cloak flowing behind him. The others hesitated for a moment, then followed the Knight-Questor, weapons in hand.
Once more a faded figure drifted in their wake, something diaphanous and ethereal. As he made to step last through the doorway, Masudro’s head jerked round, his eyes searching the library intently. Yet there was nothing to see, for the figure had vanished the moment the priest turned his head. Frowning, Masudro stepped after his newfound companions and into the darkness beyond.
Chapter Two
FIRE AND BLADES
The Silver Tower moved. It writhed and twisted. It changed by the moment. Complex beyond mortal comprehension, the tower’s portals and corridors twined through time and space in a never-ending serpents’ dance. Storms of raw magic raged through its chambers. Arcane machineries churned and hissed in the dark spaces between caged stars. Horrors of every twisted sort slunk through the tower’s depths, or hunted its strange reaches in search of prey. The tower was like some vast spider’s web, and the uneasy companions moved along its gossamer strands like wary flies.
‘So what is it that makes you think you’re leading us the right way?’
Avanius stopped at Hathrek’s words, turning in the middle of the T-junction to face the rest of the group. Goldclaw trilled softly and cocked her head, as though seconding the Darkoath’s question.
‘I do not know,’ replied the Knight-Questor honestly, feeling at a loss to explain himself. ‘But more than once these last hours, when faced with a choice of paths, I have felt as though Sigmar has spoken to me, and told me the way.’
Hathrek cocked an eyebrow at this, looking around pointedly at the interlocked metal of the corridor in which they stood, and the crystal lights that spread their flickering illumination across it.
‘Well then I hope that your God-King knows what he’s talking about. I for one have absolutely no damned idea where we are.’
‘Nor I,’ agreed Masudro. ‘But I trust in Sigmar’s power. I wonder, though…’ The priest glanced back, up the winding glass stairway they had just descended.
‘What troubles you, Masudro?’ asked Avanius, dismissing the Darkoath’s barbed irreverence and following his companion’s stare.
‘I’ll tell you what troubles me,’ Hathrek cut in, ‘I must have been in this tower for hours now, days maybe. Yet I’ve barely slept, and I feel next to no hunger. How is that?’
‘Get used to it,’ replied Sornsson gruffly. ‘It’s the tower. Stops you needing things like food and rest. Mostly, anyway.’
‘You seem to know a lot about this place, duardin,’ said Hathrek. ‘One would be tempted to say too much. Perhaps you should lead us, if you already know the way?’
‘What are you implying, Chaos slave?’ growled Sornsson, hefting his axe.
‘I think we’re being followed,’ blurted Masudro quickly. The others all turned to look at him, and Goldclaw growled protectively at their stares.
‘Followed?’ echoed Hathrek. ‘By whom? Or what?’
‘What makes you think this, Masudro?’ asked Avanius, his voice earnest. The Stormcast was glad to hear his own suspicions aired by another.
‘A sense. A presence. Several times, trailing at our backs and watching… You say you’ve heard the voice of Sigmar, Knight-Questor. Well so have I – a whisper when we were in the library that told me to trust Hathrek.’
‘A whispering voice?’ said Sornsson, surprised. ‘Like something speaking in your ear, or your mind? Y’ve heard it too?’
Masudro nodded, and the group stared at one another in alarm. Avanius nodded slowly.
‘Really?’ asked Hathrek after a moment. ‘You’re all following directions from an unknown whisperer, and yet I’m the tainted one? What made you fools think this was anything but Tzeentchian trickery? You of all people, stuntling. I didn’t think you even trusted your own shadow.’
Avanius looked at the others, half angry, half confused. The Questor could see the same emotions upon the faces of his comrades.
‘It didn’t seem an evil thing,’ replied Masudro eventually. ‘I felt…’
‘That I could trust it,’ finished Avanius for him. ‘That it was not of this place.’
‘Oh, well, that decides it then,’ spat Hathrek contemptuously. ‘It must be some benevolent force for good that’s sneaking after us through a daemon’s lair, whispering in our ears. What else could it be?’
‘Well,’ replied Sornsson, not rising to the chieftain’s bait, ‘actually there is one other thing. The tower crawls with monsters and traps. I’ve fought more Tzeentch worshippers and dodged more stabbing spikes and fiery pits than I’d care to say since I came here…’
‘And yet, aside from the daemon in the library, we have met only each other,’ said Masudro, ‘as though some benign agency guides our steps.’
The Fyreslayer nodded at this, but Hathrek chuckled sourly, his arms folded across his broad chest.
‘Hthrak’du. Wishful thinking. You’ve all been deceived, and like a fool I’ve followed you this far. I’m doubtless further from the Summoner than ever. Enough. As I seem to be the only one the gods are defending from this bewitchment, I will lead the way from now on.’ Hathrek turned towards the left-hand fork of the junction. ‘I say we go this way. Follow me, or lose yourselves to the whispered path. I don’t care.’
With a clatter of armour, Avanius blocked his path. The Stormcast understood Masudro’s urgings for unity, but the scorn of one who had sold his soul to Chaos was hard to stomach. Moreover, Avanius felt little trust that the Darkoath would not lead them all into a trap, given half a chance. He held little concern for his own safety, for the energies of Sigmar flowed through his veins, but Avanius felt a duty to protect the priest and the duardin.
‘You are not this group’s leader, Chaos worshipper.’
Hathrek stepped close, his face inches from Avanius’ sculpted mask. ‘And you are, holy hero? Who named you our leader? Say Sigmar, and I’ll run you through right now.’
Masudro stepped forwards, Goldclaw growling at his side.
‘This is not helping. If we turn our blades upon each other, nobody wins.’
‘I might,’ smirked Hathrek, ignoring the look that Masudro gave him.
‘I hate to agree with the Chaos worshipper,’ sighed Sornsson, ‘but he could be right. What if it is the tower, and he’s the only one it can’t touch? What if it’s just leading us into a trap?’
‘Exactly,’ exclaimed Hathrek. ‘Listen to the stuntling, not this great heap of ironwork and pious thoughts.’
‘Enough!’ barked Masudro. ‘Antagonising one another is pointless. Hathrek, you believe you can lead us upon a better road? By all means try, and let us see what happens.’
Avanius shook his helmed head. ‘This sits ill with me, priest. I heard Sigmar’s voice, I know it. But perhaps you are right. I will not find my way to the Summoner’s lair through falling prey to manipulation and whispers.’
