Labyrinth of the Lost, page 6
‘Aye,’ he said, as though dragging the words up from a deep well, ‘I’ve been here a long while. A terribly long time.’
‘And what is the ring she speaks of?’ asked Avanius.
‘When I first came here it was as a bodyguard,’ muttered the Fyreslayer, shame knotting his guts into a bitter ball. ‘A scholar. A human from Azyrheim. He sought the secrets of the tower and, for a sum of ur-gold, I oathed myself to his protection.’
‘Then where is he now, stuntling?’ asked Hathrek.
‘Dead. Bones, back along our path,’ replied Sornsson. In his voice there was a terrible depth of exhaustion, yet it was as the tip of a frostberg to the vast despair that lurked below. ‘They came upon us at camp. Too many. I tried. I… Well, he died, and my oath was broken. So I tried to find my way out. But it’s always the same. New people come. New faces. They try. They fall. Then I’m alone again, because the tower never lets you go. The ring was his, meant to be lucky. Thought it might bring me some at last.’
‘How many champions have you fought alongside, Doomseeker?’ Eithweil’s question was barely more than a whisper, but Sornsson’s eyes snapped back to angry focus at the words. His shame burned up like mine-gas before a naked torch, igniting into flames of rage that danced around him.
‘Lots, not that it’s your business, shadow witch! And my secrets don’t excuse yours. What else aren’t you telling us? Eh?’
‘There is nothing more,’ replied Eithweil after a moment. ‘We simply need to overcome the trials of the tower, and claim the amulet fragments. I can sense their magic call, and guide you to them. But I cannot claim the fragments alone.’
‘And hence you need us,’ said Hathrek sourly. ‘What do you care about facing the Gaunt Summoner anyway, witch? Do you seek his boon, or his death?’
‘Neither,’ came the response, the words seeming to come from behind, and then ahead. ‘I seek to change the fate of distant things, and events that have not yet come to be. More than that you need not know, but that your success will spell my own, one way or another.’
For a long moment, the companions looked warily at one another.
‘What choice do we have?’ asked Hathrek. ‘Do either of you know the way?’ Avanius shook his head, and Sornsson spat.
‘Not one that leads to aught but death and loneliness,’ growled the duardin.
‘Then we need her,’ asserted Hathrek. ‘I have to believe that we can reach the Summoner. That we can win. But if this is falsehood, witch…’ He raised his voice to the air.
‘Always, threats,’ came the Mistweaver’s response. ‘You have made plenty of those, Hathrek of the Gadalhor. So many that I wonder at their veracity.’ She shimmered back into view at the far edge of the cave, the glow from her staff illuminating a narrow passage hidden amidst a cleft in the rock. ‘But whether you mean me harm or no, it is a risk I must take. Matters of grave import hang in a balance you could not comprehend, and I will do what I must. Trust me, or rot here. Come.’
With that, Eithweil led the way from the cavern and into the darkness once more. Sornsson looked to each of his companions in turn, and saw that they meant to follow her, despite her duplicity. The duardin was surprised to find that he did too. Though it was clearer than ever that none of the champions were precisely who they claimed, the revelation of the amulet filled him with a sense of purpose he had long been without. It would do, he thought. For now.
Chapter Five
THE EMPTY HEAVENS
It might have been mere hours later, or perhaps it was years, when, amidst the silent gloom of a vast gallery, a mirror’s surface blossomed with violet fire. Glass seethed and bubbled, running like tallow. It began to churn, as though stirred with an invisible ladle. Faster and faster the liquid glass spun, purple energies billowing from it in clouds. The next moment, the companions spilled from the surface of the strange portal, tumbling across the dusty floor of the chamber. One by one they rose to their feet, casting wary glances back at the mirror that still spun like a whirlpool behind them.
‘Well,’ said Hathrek, ‘that was unpleasant. I’m still not sure even an amulet fragment was worth being immersed in that much filth, but at least the blood washed it off, eh? Now where are we?’ He watched as Eithweil raised her staff, and glimmering silver light spilled from its tip. A huge, dusty chamber was revealed, galleries stretching away above. Sornsson cried out and raised his blades as spread-winged skeletal horrors leapt into view.
‘Steady, friend,’ said Avanius, a slight smile in his voice. ‘Those can’t hurt us.’ Sornsson lowered his weapons, coughing in embarrassment as he realised the skeletons dangled from the high ceiling on wires like strange museum pieces.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ the duardin muttered. ‘I recall y’said the same thing about that glass statue that almost lopped off your head.’
‘True, he did,’ smirked Hathrek, privately glad that the duardin had reacted to the hanging beasts before him. ‘But all the same, try not to soil your loincloth, stuntling. The gods know when you might find another…’
‘Eithweil, what is the count?’ asked Avanius, evidently keen to head off another altercation between man and duardin. Hathrek shook his head; this conversation had become ritual for the Stormcast and the Saih, ever since they had recovered the third fragment from within the geared workings of a huge, mechanical gargant. The Mistweaver drifted high above them, robes flowing amid the shadows as she inspected one of the dangling, draconine skeletons.
‘Seven. We have seven fragments of the amulet now, Avanius. As well you know. But I feel the eighth. It sings to me. It is near.’
‘Then let’s not drag our heels,’ said Hathrek. ‘It feels like we’ve been wandering this place for a thousand years.’
‘Don’t even joke,’ snapped Sornsson.
‘Very well, we move,’ said Avanius. ‘Eithweil?’ The Saih faded like a dream, only to appear some distance away across the dusty flagstones.
‘Follow,’ came her voice in their ears. Steeling himself for the next ordeal, Hathrek led the way, tracking weary footprints through great drifts of dust that had not been disturbed for time unguessed.
At the companions’ backs, one more dark figure sprang from the surface of the swirling mirror and scurried into the shadows.
‘No,’ said Avanius, aghast. ‘No, this cannot be.’ The Stormcast stood in the flickering light of golden torches, feeling a mix of bewilderment and horror as he stared at the two huge statues before him. The statues stared lifelessly back from masks that mirrored his own, golden swords and shields clutched in their huge golden hands. Each of the Stormcast effigies stood at least forty feet tall, and dozens of lit torches flickered in sconces set about their torsos, shoulders and limbs. Between them, beneath a beautifully frescoed ceiling of angelic figures and glimmering stars, brass steps inscribed with Azyrite runes led up to a huge golden portal. Tzaangor bones and tattered cultist robes lay scattered upon the steps as though the Tzeentch-worshippers had been slain trying to pass through. Again his mind rebelled at the thought – all of the gates to the Heavens were sealed tight, save those the God-King had opened for his war against Chaos. There could be no such entrance here. Through the portal’s surface a marble floored gallery was dimly visible, its walls hung with beautiful tapestries and lit by brilliant sunlight that poured through some unseen window.
‘Is that daylight?’ asked Hathrek. ‘Real daylight?’ The longing in his voice was palpable, but he stayed where he was.
‘It is Sigmaron,’ replied Avanius. ‘And yet it cannot be. The God-King would not permit a portal into this nether-realm to breach the Heavens. This must be a trick.’
‘I can tell you only that the song of the amulet drifts from beyond that portal,’ came Eithweil’s voice. ‘As for the rest, I know not.’
Sornsson had been silent thus far, staring at the portal with wide eyes. Now he started forwards.
‘Wait,’ cried Hathrek, ‘I’m not going through there. Sigmaron? I’d sooner dive into a nest of vipers!’
But Sornsson was jogging up the bronze steps now.
‘I’ve never seen this place,’ he shouted back at them. ‘It’s a way out. It’s a bloody way out!’
‘No,’ called Avanius, starting up the steps after the duardin as he realised what his comrade intended. ‘There’s something wrong here. Sornsson, wait.’
But there was no stopping the Fyreslayer. He was running now, up the steps as fast as he could go. The others rushed behind him, but too slowly. With a wild cry, Vargi Sornsson plunged into the golden portal, and its energies leapt outwards in a roaring tide. Golden tendrils whipped and lashed, winding around the companions with incredible strength. Even Eithweil was plucked from the air, suddenly visible as the glowing tentacles grasped her. Yelling and fighting, the companions were borne helplessly up the steps, and plunged through the golden portal.
Hathrek pushed himself to his feet, skin still tingling where the golden energy had grasped him. The Darkoath Chieftain squinted against the sunlight, dazzling after so long surrounded by gloom. The light felt warm upon his bare skin, sinking through his flesh in a way that was almost healing. Then he remembered where he was, and cursed as he looked wildly about for foes.
Nearby, Avanius and Eithweil were also finding their feet upon the marble floor. Sornsson was nowhere to be seen.
Avanius shook his head as though clearing his thoughts, then looked about him in wonder.
‘Sigmaron. The city of the God-King himself. It is. But how can this be?’ He looked back, taking in the shimmering golden portal filling the passageway behind him. Beyond, the interior of the Silver Tower could dimly be seen. ‘I do not recognise this corridor, but there is no way that this portal could be here, or anywhere in this place.’
Eithweil drifted down the corridor. Hathrek watched her flicker in and out of sight as she crossed the golden sunbeams falling from high arched windows off to their right.
‘We must find Sornsson,’ came her whisper. ‘He may be in peril.’
Swiftly, the three of them hurried along the corridor. Hathrek’s eyes darted like those of a hunted animal, and he kept his blade ready in his hands. Panic tightened his chest, and his heart thumped in his throat.
‘If this is Sigmaron,’ he said urgently, ‘Avanius, you know I will have to fight.’
‘If it truly is,’ replied the Stormcast, ‘then I will speak for you.’ Hathrek looked at the Knight-Questor in surprise, but Avanius’ mask gave nothing away.
The companions reached the end of the corridor and passed through golden double doors into a wide, columned chamber. Motes of dust danced in the sunlight that spilled through the chamber and refracted from crystal chandeliers hanging high above. Gold and marble statuary lined the walls, and a great feasting table stretched down the chamber’s middle.
‘Where in the nether-realms is the stuntling?’ cursed Hathrek in frustration. He had thought the Doomseeker somewhat cracked, but this was lunacy. He could not fathom how no one had yet discovered them, and at any moment he expected a tide of holy warriors to burst from all sides and bury him in blades. Sornsson would suffer for putting him through this, Hathrek vowed silently.
‘Not just him,’ responded Avanius with a frown in his voice. ‘Where is anyone at all? If this is Sigmaron, where are my brother Stormcasts? Where are the scribes, the functionaries, the astromancers and cartologi?’
‘Should we perhaps divide, try to find him more swiftly?’ asked Eithweil, but Hathrek shook his head vehemently.
‘I’m not being left alone in this place. Bad enough with a Stormcast to vouch for me. Without one, well…’
‘Then we go that way,’ said Avanius, pointing with his blade towards the huge double doors that led out from the chamber. ‘It seems the most obvious route.’
They pressed on, emerging onto a wide spiralling stairway that ran both up and down from their landing. Its balustrade was engraved marble, twined with glimmering silver vines and twinkling star flowers. Warm golden light poured down the stairwell, falling through a stained glass ceiling high above.
‘Now which way?’ snarled Hathrek, exasperated. From above they heard the scuff of footsteps, and then a cry.
‘Hello? Hello? Anyone?’
‘Sornsson,’ said Avanius, and set off up the steps at a run. Despite his heavy sigmarite plate, the Stormcast moved like a man unburdened, and it was all that Hathrek could do to keep up.
They reached the top of the spiralling stairway, having seen not another living soul, then dashed on across a vine-hung courtyard in which a beautiful fountain leapt and chuckled. Above, sunlight fell diffuse through crystal panes.
‘This light is wrong,’ Avanius called as they ran. ‘Why do we not see open sky? Stars?’
‘We’re stuck in cursed Sigmaron, having been magicked through a portal from the hells-damned Silver Tower, chasing a deranged stuntling into who knows what danger, and you’re worried about not being able to see the sky?’ Hathrek was incredulous.
The two of them burst through another doorway and into a corridor, where they skidded to a halt. Sornsson stood ahead of them, before a tall, gilt-edged mirror. The Questor and the Darkoath advanced cautiously down the corridor, feet whispering across its rich mauve carpet. Eithweil swam into focus, drifting in their wake.
‘Sornsson,’ said Avanius carefully. ‘Friend. Do not run again.’ The duardin gave no response, continuing to stare with rapt fascination at the mirror’s surface.
‘Ho, stuntling,’ shouted Hathrek angrily. ‘You led us into Sigmaron. Sigmaron! You’ve most likely gotten me killed. What have you to say before I lop your head from your shoulders?’
Still the duardin did not speak.
‘It is as though he hears us not,’ whispered Eithweil. ‘Strange.’
‘All of this is strange,’ replied Avanius as they drew close to Sornsson. ‘This place should be teeming with people. And the sky should be visible through every window, every pane… Sigmaron lies amidst the Heavens themselves. It swims between the stars, and celebrates that view of the firmament in every way. This vague, directionless sunlight – it’s all wrong. I don’t believe that…’
Just at that moment they drew close enough to see what Sornsson was staring at, and Avanius’ words died on his tongue. There, swimming in the mirror’s dark depths, sat a resplendent golden figure. His majesty was a physical force that almost drove them to their knees. The intensity of his gaze drew them in then scattered their thoughts like birds flying from a gunshot. There could be no denying the figure who manifested himself before them.
‘Sigmar,’ breathed Avanius, falling to one knee before the mirror. Hathrek’s blade dangled, forgotten, in one hand as he stared at the God-King in awe. Some part of Hathrek’s mind knew that he should have felt absolute dread, but only wonder filled his thoughts. Even the Mistweaver manifested herself fully, her blank mask turned quizzically towards the mirror’s surface.
‘Champions!’ Sigmar’s voice was a boom of thunder that shook Hathrek to his core. ‘Companions!’
The Darkoath knelt alongside Avanius, his eyes desperately averted, while Sornsson stood and shook before the mirror.
‘You walk the halls of Sigmaron when it is the tower you should seek!’ The God-King’s voice was dour, his brows drawn down. ‘Knight-Questor Avanius, is your duty done? Have you defeated the master of the tower?’
Avanius shook his head. ‘No, my God-King. We stepped through a portal…’
‘And it brought you here!’ finished Sigmar’s booming voice, while lightning leapt and crackled in the darkness behind him. ‘And with such strange company. Oathbreaker! Thrall of Chaos! Saih! By what right do you walk the halls of my realm?’ Hathrek had no answer but to stare in mute fear at the golden figure before him. It seemed to grow by the moment, filling the surface of the mirror while the force of his presence bore down upon the chieftain like the weight of the moons and stars.
‘Lord, they walk at my side,’ said Avanius, voice firm despite the effort of enduring his God-King’s wrath. ‘They share my perils. They seek the end of the quest, just as I do.’ For a moment, the apparition of Sigmar remained silent. Suddenly, it gave a booming laugh.
‘Well spoken, Knight-Questor. You do not stray from your path, but perhaps it has strayed from you! A gift then, to align your fates once more. But know there will be bloodshed, before all is called to account.’
Sigmar raised one mighty hand, and within his grip they all saw a fragment of the amulet they sought. The apparition seemed almost to reach through the surface of the mirror. Upon a crackling cushion of energy, the amulet left Sigmar’s grip and floated free, landing in Avanius’ outstretched palm. Hathrek watched the Knight-Questor marvel at the artefact he now held. Then Avanius’ pose stiffened, and he stared deep into the mirror.
‘Lord,’ he began, his voice heavy as he fought against the glamour that washed over him. ‘What is wrong with this place? Where is everybody? Is this truly Sigmaron?’
At this, Sigmar was silent for a long moment. Then his eyes creased, and he boomed out a hearty laugh. The God-King’s mouth opened wide, and mirth poured from him like water from a breaking dam. For a moment Hathrek felt moved to laugh as well, borne up by the force of deific amusement. But still the God-King laughed, and still his mouth yawned wider. Mirth became ferocity, and savage convulsions. The apparition warped out of focus for a moment, and when it resolved again its eyes had turned a terrible, jaundiced yellow. They multiplied across its forehead, popping open like blisters with black slit pupils. The Sigmar-thing’s skin was webbed with squirming blue veins, and its lordly beard was transforming into something else. Something that resembled tentacles, or feathers. Needle fangs gleamed in its cruel grin, and the unmistakable aspect of the Gaunt Summoner appeared.
