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Labyrinth of the Lost – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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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.

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.

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