Текст книги "Deliverance Lost"

Автор книги: Гэв Торп

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

SEVEN

Servant of Terra

To the Mountain

Hold Fire

MARCUS VALERIUS BLINKED hard, his thoughts clouded with a vision of a golden panorama and the echoes of a resonant voice whose words he could not quite understand. His temples throbbed painfully and his eyes ached for some reason he could not fathom. The voice in the praefector’s head changed, becoming more mundane and insistent, close at hand.

‘Are you all right, praefector?’

Blinking again, Valerius focused on the man in front of him. It was Pelon. After-images of golden eyes faded from memory, replaced by the manservant’s plain features.

‘Yes, I am fine,’ said Marcus, rubbing his brow with his knuckles. He turned and looked out of the metres-thick plasglass at the ship tethered alongside the viewing gallery.

His strange daydream becoming more unreal with each passing second, Marcus felt a moment of pride as he looked at the Servant of Terra III, lit by the dock lights against the shadowed orb of Terra. His new command, it was nothing more than a messenger cutter, smaller than a destroyer, but still large enough to boast a warp-capable engine. His requisition had been fast-tracked through the station’s official channels, countersigned by Corax himself, and the refitted cutter had been found to take him back to Therion.

‘The shuttle will be here in five minutes, praefector,’ said Pelon.

Valerius turned his head and saw his manservant being followed by a motorised trolley, steered by the half-form of a servitor. Several chests and bags were piled on the bed of the trolley.

‘Is all of that mine?’ said Valerius, startled by the amount of luggage. ‘We have a cutter, not a bulk hauler!’

‘Most of it is supplies I have managed to acquire whilst on the station, praefector,’ confessed Pelon. The trolley whined to a stop beside Valerius. ‘I spoke with one of the crew of the Namedian Star, which arrived this morning. The warp storms have been continuing. I thought it better to prepare for a long journey. Even before the storms, it would have taken us forty days or more to reach Therion.’

‘Very good,’ said Marcus. His sigh made a lie of the words.

‘What is wrong, praefector?’ Pelon shot an accusing glance at the baggage. ‘Have I forgotten something?’

‘Not at all, Pelon. Your attention to your duties, as ever, is nothing less than absolute.’ Valerius glanced up and down the gallery and saw they were alone. He felt an odd sensation of anti-climax. His visit to Terra had been short and uneventful, his time taken up with administrative work concerning the loss of his regiment. ‘I must admit to mixed feelings about our return to Therion. My command has been destroyed and I return in ignominy.’

‘Far from it, praefector,’ replied Pelon. He rummaged through the bags and produced a small silver flask and cup. The manservant poured a measure of dark red liquid from the flask and handed it to Valerius. ‘If not for you, the Raven Guard would have been wiped out.’

‘But nobody can know that, or at least my part it in,’ said Valerius, keeping his voice hushed. ‘Branne was right, the dreams that led to our rescue attempt will be viewed with suspicion.’

‘Then it is with admirable humility that you must bear the secret, praefector,’ said Pelon. ‘It was not to further your own fame that you went to Isstvan.’

‘They’ll strip me of my praefecture, Pelon,’ said Valerius, with another deep sigh. ‘I would not blame them. I have proven myself a less than competent commander.’

‘Again, I think your modesty does you injustice, praefector. The sacrifice of your command was a terrible but necessary thing to do. Had Commander Branne not insisted on your staying on the Avenger, I am sure you would have proudly led the diversionary attack in person. To preserve life when its sacrifice is required is worthy, praefector, but wrong. You showed your merits in making that difficult decision.’

‘That is true.’ Valerius was heartened a little by his servant’s assurance, though doubts lingered still. Past his reflection in the window, he saw a glimmer of light from a shuttle’s engines emerging from the hull of his new ship. He turned to Pelon. ‘You have the air of a philosopher about you, Pelon. Where did you learn such a thing?’

‘A life below and between the decks of a warship, praefector,’ Pelon said with a sly smile. ‘There’s enough personalities and merchantry going on there to give any man a sound understanding of politics and trade. Though I wouldn’t be expecting an Imperial governorship any time soon.’

‘Where is this shuttle picking us up?’

‘Bay fourteen, praefector,’ said Pelon. He said something to the driver-servitor and the trolley wheeled around on its thickly tyred wheels. ‘Follow me.’

Valerius took another look at the starship, and wondered if it would be the last thing he ever commanded. He took a deep breath, straightened the blood-red sash across his body and stepped out after his servant, determined to make a good first impression on his new crew. It might be his last command, but that was no excuse to make it a bad one.

IN A SECLUDED valley a few kilometres from the mountain keep where Corax had met with Malcador and Dorn, three ornithopters and two bulk-lifters waited on the main apron of the terminus. Sleeting rain drenched their metal hulls and formed small lakes on the wide circle of black asphalt. Distant thunder rumbled, adding to the noise of idling engines and the tramp and splash of booted feet.

The wind whipped Corax’s hair across his face and drove the icy rain hard against his skin, but he did not flinch from the elements. Being raised in the claustrophobic confines of Lycaeus, he relished the outdoors, whether sun or snow, night or day. To breathe air under an open sky – even air as tainted as that of Terra –was a luxury the primarch had only dreamed of during his early years.

His Raven Guard filed quickly onto the transports, accompanied by long lines of servitors carrying weapons and equipment for the expedition. The Emperor had not been more forthcoming about the defences that protected the ancient gene-tech and so Corax had prepared for all eventualities.

Alongside the black armour of his legionaries strode twenty figures of gold: Legio Custodes led by Arcatus. Malcador had said they were assigned by the Emperor, but Corax wondered if they were not present to keep an eye on the legionaries rather than aid them. Corax had detected a degree of animosity between his Raven Guard and the Custodians, brought about by his legionaries’ forced internment for the last few days. It mattered little to Corax, he was glad of any extra aid that could be offered, and if the Custodian Guard turned out to be a hindrance he could demand that Malcador recall them from the expedition, though whether that demand would be met was less certain.

A splash of red came into sight: Nexin Orlandriaz. He wore the robes of the Mechanicum, and with him came an entourage of half-machine orderlies and brain-scrubbed servitors. Malcador had assured Corax that the genetor majoris was loyal to Terra, and considered the foremost expert in genetics currently able to assist. The primarch could not process all of the information and memories implanted by the Emperor – it came to him in flashes and starts, nightmarish and fragmented – and was sure the knowledge of Nexin would prove a useful guide in unravelling the secrets of the gene-tech.

A hydraulic hiss followed by the whine of armour caused Corax to turn towards the door leading from the control tower’s interior. Dorn stepped up to the parapet, now fully armoured in gold and yellow inlaid with obsidian and malachite, his gauntlets ornamented with rubies and black gemstones. Lines of concern furrowed Dorn’s heavy brow.

‘You have everything you need?’ asked the Imperial Fists primarch.

‘If not, it is too late to worry about it,’ replied Corax. ‘We will adapt.’

Dorn did not meet Corax’s gaze, but stared out into the distance to where sheets of rain fell on the steel-girdered gantries and black-tiled roof of a half-built gun tower.

‘I know that the Emperor has given his permission for this venture, but I cannot allow you to leave without asking you one more time,’ he said. ‘Will you not bring the Legion to Terra?’

‘My mind is set,’ said Corax. ‘The Emperor has shown me a way to bring the Raven Guard back into the war, in a way that suits us all.’

‘I don’t know what it is you are after and, unlike you, I know better than to ask,’ said Dorn. ‘I trust the Emperor to know best.’

‘That implies that you do not necessarily trust that I do.’

‘If the Emperor wills it, I am agreed. I do not have doubts about you, brother. We must forever hold the Emperor’s judgement as the highest there is, or we must wonder if we are nothing more than creations of vanity. He is the Master of Mankind, and he will steer us to Enlightenment.’

‘He made us what we are, but I cannot divine his purpose any more,’ said Corax. ‘Do you think we have failed?’

‘We conquered the galaxy in his name, brother. We brought humanity into the light from the darkness of Old Night. He created us for that purpose and no other.’

‘The Emperor also created Horus and made him Warmaster,’ countered Corax, unsettled by Dorn’s words. ‘He brought the likes of the Night Haunter into his plans.’

‘What else could he have done?’ said Dorn. ‘Curze is one of us, though perhaps a victim of circumstances none of us can even imagine. I know better than anyone exactly what he is capable of.’

Corax nodded grimly. ‘The likes of Curze and Angron were broken from the start. You know the ultimate sanction open to the Emperor. He could have–’

Dorn raised a hand before he could finish. ‘I find your doubts disturbing, brother.’ The wrinkles on his forehead deepened further in annoyance as he gazed across the shuttle port, his fists clenched by his sides. ‘It is still the Emperor’s will that mankind become the masters of the galaxy.’

‘And we shall ensure it,’ said Corax. He took hold of Dorn’s arm and guided the Imperial Fist to look at him. ‘I will do nothing to endanger the Imperium, brother. I just have to do this. You have not seen your Legion crushed, not heard the dying cries of thousands of your sons in a few minutes. Understand, brother, that I will do anything to destroy Horus.’

‘I can tell that the Emperor showed you something of what I have also glimpsed. This war is greater than Horus. There are eternal powers out in the universe that crave dominion over mankind, that lust to turn humanity into their servants and playthings. Horus is just a figurehead. He must be destroyed, but not at a cost of losing the wider war. There can be no room for pity.’

‘I have no pity for the traitors,’ snapped Corax.

‘No, it is self-pity that I warn you against,’ Dorn replied calmly. ‘Whether yourself or for others, your pity will be turned against you, and become a weapon of the enemy. You are a primarch, harden yourself to loss and woe. We were born to greatness, but we must endure tragedy.’

Corax stayed silent. He saw nothing but earnest concern in the face of Dorn, and he nodded, accepting his brother’s wisdom.

‘Whatever it is you are looking for, it is not worth risking your life,’ said the Imperial Fist.

‘Is that concern I detect?’ said Corax with half a smile. ‘You are becoming sentimental, Rogal.’

‘Not at all,’ came the other primarch’s gruff reply. ‘I have few enough allies as it is. To lose another would be inconvenient. You intend to leave as soon as you have retrieved your prize?’

‘Yes, I must return to Deliverance as soon as possible. I will not see you again before I depart.’

‘Travel well and fight hard, Corvus,’ said Dorn.

‘Protect the Emperor, Rogal,’ replied Corax.

They clasped wrist-to-wrist, as they had greeted, and parted with a respectful nod to one another.

THE SNOW CAME in flurries, whirled about the rocky ledge by winds gusting over the shoulder of the mountain. It had taken Corax several days to find this place, guided only by snatches of the Emperor’s memories. To find one mountain amongst the many had proven a difficult task, made all the harder for the decades that had changed the appearance of the peak since the Emperor had been here. Aerial survey had been all but impossible in the harsh weather, so the Raven Guard had searched on foot, a difficult mission for heavily armoured warriors forced to forge across metres-deep snow drifts that hid sheer-sided ravines and treacherous cliffs.

As the Raven Guard unloaded their equipment, the edges of the ornithopter’s blades were already beginning to sparkle with accumulating ice. Agapito coordinated the disembarkation, the air thick with vapour from the mouth grilles and backpack vents of the Raven Guard as they pounded up and down the ramps, helping the servitors to speed the disembarkation and allow the shuttles to depart before their engines froze.

Alpharius did as he was asked, heaving up a crate of bolter ammunition and jogging back down the bulk hauler’s gangplank. He felt no slight at performing work normally carried out by serfs and servitors, sharing with his adopted brothers some excitement at finally reaching their goal. The snow had been packed almost to ice by the comings and goings of the legionaries and their half-human servitors, but the grip of his boots was secure underfoot.

He placed the crate in the designated space and stepped aside for a moment. He caught sight of Corax standing beneath the great overhang that protected the shelf from the deluge of snow from above. The primarch appeared to be staring at a bare wall of rock.

There had been little explanation as to the purpose of the mission. Agapito had simply told the Raven Guard that they were venturing into the depths of an old storage facility to retrieve a weapon for the Legion. Alpharius had felt a thrill of achievement from this announcement. It was obvious to assume that this was the reason he had been sent to the Raven Guard. Whatever was being held in that facility – a well-protected facility judging by the amount of materiel being unloaded – was sure to be of some value to the Alpha Legion. Though he would have to confirm his conclusions with Omegon once he had reached Deliverance, Alpharius was sure that his real mission was just starting.

‘It can’t be that much of a big deal,’ Lukar said from behind Alpharius, startling him from his thoughts.

‘What?’ replied Alpharius, unsure if he had missed the start of the conversation.

‘Whatever is hidden here, it can’t be that important,’ Lukar explained.

‘How so?’ Sergeant Dor joined the pair of them beside the pile of crates. ‘It is important enough to keep us on Terra.’

‘No towers, no defence turrets, nothing to protect it at all,’ said Lukar. ‘If it was a big deal, this place would be more heavily guarded than Ravenspire.’

As Alpharius considered this, slightly deflated by Lukar’s theory, he heard the crunch of snow underfoot and turned to see Corax looming over the group. Evidently he had overheard the exchange.

‘A simplistic approach to defence,’ said the primarch, looking displeased. ‘Have you forgotten the doctrines of the Raven Guard?’

Lukar said nothing, glancing at Sergeant Dor in his confusion.

‘The most powerful defence is to never present yourself as a target,’ the sergeant said, banging a fist against the side of Lukar’s helm.

‘There is nothing that says “attack me” like ten kilometres of curtain wall and a hundred gun towers,’ said Corax, glancing back at the bare cliff. ‘On the other hand, a nondescript stretch of mountain pass would be the ideal place to conceal a powerful weapon.’

‘Forgive my stupidity,’ said Lukar, bowing his head to the primarch. ‘I was not thinking clearly.’

Alpharius’s eyes narrowed in suspicion behind the lenses of his helm. As yet he had not made contact with any other member of the Alpha Legion. He had no means to do so until instructed by Omegon. Lukar’s mistake hinted that he did not think in the same way as a Raven Guard. Alpharius decided to keep an eye on his squad-brother to see if there was any other cause for concern. If one of the Alpha Legion betrayed the presence of infiltrators, it would go ill for all of them.

‘How do we get in?’ asked Alpharius, seeking to change the subject and divert attention away from Lukas.

Corax looked down at the legionary.

‘We knock,’ the primarch said with a thin smile.

WHEN ALL HAD been unloaded and his warriors assembled, Corax called the expedition to order. His troops lined up in their squads, while the Custodian Guard and agents of the Mechanicum gathered in their own groups to one side.

‘Though we stand on the rock of Terra, we are about to put our lives in peril,’ the primarch announced. ‘Ancient defence systems protect the prize we seek beneath this peak. Know that this mission we are about to perform is not only necessary for the future of our Legion, it will allow us to strike back at those who sought to destroy us. This day will live long in the annals of the Raven Guard and you will all be remembered for your role in it. The past is history. It matters not what went before. All that should concern you is how we act from now on. The future lies beyond this wall.’

Corax turned and strode towards the seemingly impenetrable cliff face. His first sight of it had triggered one of the memory-shards implanted by the Emperor. The primarch had not been joking when he had told the legionary that they would knock to enter.

The vault beyond was barred by a harmonic lock, attuned to an extremely narrow frequency of sound wave. There were certain parts of the rock that were linked to amplifiers within the structure, and the location of these had been revealed to Corax by the Emperor’s memories. He raised his fist to the first area and ran through the position and timing of each blow required to generate the correct harmonic key.

He banged his gauntlet against the rock face, the blows resounding deep within the hollow beyond the cliff but muffled by the howling wind and snow.

Knock. Knock-knock knock-knock. Knock-knock.

The dull echoes faded away and Corax wondered if he had mis-timed the blows or directed them at the wrong spots. His doubt disappeared as the grinding of gears and wheeze of pneumatics shuddered across the cliff face.

The primarch stepped back as a massive portal swung inwards, two doors of solid rock several metres thick effortlessly parting, revealing a mosaic floor. The wind blew flurries of snow over the small black and red geometric designs and howled madly as it entered the cavernous space beyond.

‘Wait for my command,’ Corax told his warriors as he took a stride across the threshold. The Emperor’s memories contained nothing that suggested the outer gate was lethally defended, but that was no guarantee of safety. He felt the faintest of tremors and, from the knowledge passed to him by the Emperor, knew that many kilometres below, ancient power plants had been stirred into life by the opening of the doors. Plasma was flaring within containment fields, electricity searing along cables and wires throughout the mountain’s depths.

Lights flickered into life, ruddy strips that ran the length of the arched ceiling, bathing the interior with a hellish glow. The walls and ceiling ran straight ahead, covered with slabs several metres across and engraved with a simple lightning bolt design. At the far end, a little less than two hundred metres into the mountain, the hall-like chamber ended abruptly, several of the wall-slabs replaced with gilded portals. Square pillars lined the corridor every ten metres, decorated with sparse geometric carvings.

Looking along the broad corridor, Corax saw that the floor tile designs were not simply ornamentation. He could recognise the pattern, discerning its message in a complex numerical code; whether from the Emperor’s memory or his own knowledge he was not sure. The tiles contained a message, a quote in an ancient Terran tongue; probably intended only for the Emperor himself, a small conceit by the Master of Mankind. Though it was in a long-dead language, Corax understood it.

In Egypt’s sandy silence, all alone,

Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws

The only shadow that the Desert knows:

‘I am great OZYMANDIAS,’ saith the stone,

‘The King of Kings; this mighty City shows

‘The wonders of my hand.’ The City’s gone,

Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose

The site of this forgotten Babylon.

We wonder, and some Hunter may express

Wonder like ours, when thro’ the wilderness

Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chase,

He meets some fragments huge, and stops to guess

What powerful but unrecorded race

Once dwelt in that annihilated place.

The primarch considered the words, but could not divine their meaning. His mentors on Lycaeus had taught him of poetry, of rhyme and metre and cadence, but he had never quite been able to see the appeal. Poems reminded him too much of the work-songs the prisoners had invented to keep up their spirits while they had hewn with pick and laser drill at the unforgiving stone of the penal colony. The last three lines left Corax feeling disquieted, though, as if the Emperor had suspected that his Imperium could not endure any more than the great empires of mankind’s long history.

Questions gnawed at Corax as he signalled for his expedition to prepare to enter the vault. If the contents of this trove were so dangerous, why had the Emperor kept them? He had abandoned the primarch project after the strange scattering of his progeny by the warp-bound entities called the Primordial Chaos. This much the Emperor had explained to Corax on their first meeting. Had the Emperor conceived of a time when this technology would be needed again? Had he, in truth, foreseen that one day one of his sons would require its secrets? Was it simply pragmatic not to destroy that which had taken so much labour to build? Or was this simply an extension of the Hall of Victories, in spirit if not location, a secret museum standing testament to the Emperor’s greatest achievement?

The noise of armoured boots echoed around Corax as the Raven Guard and Custodians entered, oblivious to the concealed warning beneath their feet. The clank of servitors and the drone of wheeled equipment transports filled the hall with raucous echoes, dispelling the reverent atmosphere of silence.

Searching the fragments of the memories lodged in his mind, Corax knew that the bulk of the facility lay beneath them, deep within the rock of the mountain. The doors ahead were elevators that would take them down to the hidden levels. He could not recall any traps or alarms in this place, but warned the expedition to proceed with caution nonetheless – the Emperor’s recollections were hazy in places and a slight delay for caution would do no harm.

‘Squads seven, eight and nine, secure rearguard,’ said Corax as the last of the Raven Guard passed through the portal. He moved to a slab about twenty metres from the entrance. It angled up at his touch, revealing a bank of controls. Corax punched in a sequence dredged up from his borrowed memories and the outer doors began to swing shut. ‘Transports to leave. Monitor secure channel epsilon-six for our transponder signals.’

The doors came together with a surprisingly delicate thud, leaving the Raven Guard in the red glow of the lights. Corax took the lead, quickly striding to the front of the column, where he found Agapito and the Mechanicum agent, Nexin Orlandriaz. The two of them were having an argument.

‘But it is imperative that we preserve any technology we find,’ the genetor was saying, the words coming as a clipped whisper from a mechanical grille set beneath the left side of the man’s jaw. His mouth was sealed with a pipe that looped over his shoulder into some form of rebreathing unit that hissed and whirred with metronomic precision.

The genetor was swathed in a voluminous red robe, the sleeves and hem threaded with gold designs in the shape of a cog’s teeth. A heavy chain bearing the gear-rune of Mars hung across his chest, and the device was repeated on several small ceramic studs above Nexin’s right eye. Other than the lung unit, he showed little outward signs of the heavy mechanical augmentation seen on many of the Mechanicum’s agents, but there was a strange lustre to his skin, a sheen of silvery quality. His eyes were also bizarre, seeming too large for his face, with no visible iris and dark red pupils. Given Nexin’s particular expertise – a genetor of the Magos Biologis – Corax concluded the Mechanicum operative had experimented on himself with other, less obvious, artificial enhancements.

‘The lives of my warriors are more important than any piece of equipment,’ Agapito replied. ‘We have lost enough legionaries already, I will not see any more fall without good cause.’

‘You do not seem to understand the weights being brought to the balance,’ argued Nexin. ‘A single warrior is limited. He can achieve only so much and then his light is extinguished. A weapon, a piece of technology, a fragment of our past glories, can live on for eternity, transforming the lives of billions.’

‘Life is just a commodity, right?’ Agapito snarled. He towered over the slight form of the magos, causing Nexin to flinch. ‘I remember well that attitude. That was the Kiavahran creed.’

‘Commander, what is the problem?’ Corax said briskly.

Agapito kept his gaze firmly on the genetor when he replied.

‘This half-man says we cannot fire our weapons in this place,’ said the commander.

‘Live rounds and explosive contain the potential to inflict irreparable damage to the contents of this vault,’ the Mechanicum agent added, turning his unnatural eyes to Corax. ‘Our quest will be in vain if we destroy that which we seek.’

‘And what do you know of our objective?’ said Corax. ‘What do you think might be endangered by weapons fire?’

‘The Sigillite did not furnish me with much data,’ said Nexin, stepping away from the brooding presence of Agapito. ‘However, given my proclivities and technical disposition, I have compiled my own theory on the issue.’

‘And your conclusion?’ asked Corax, gesturing for Agapito to stand down.

‘I am a genetor, therefore it is logical that we seek an object that is genetic in nature. I do not speculate, but it is reasonable to deduce that this would relate in some way to one of three prior endeavours by the Emperor: the Thunder Warriors, the primarchs and the Legiones Astartes. I do not know which.’

‘Is that right?’ asked Agapito, turning his helmeted face to the primarch. ‘Gene-tech?’

‘A means to rebuild the Legion,’ replied Corax. His gaze moved between the two of them when he next spoke, his displeasure clearly visible. ‘We are the Legiones Astartes and we do not relinquish our weapons. If at all possible, we will act to preserve the contents of this vault. If any life is put in immediate danger, we shall respond without hesitation. With that understood, there is to be no weapons fire in any other situation unless authorised by me.’

‘Yes, lord,’ said Agapito, with a nod.

‘My entourage and I will comply with your policy,’ said Nexin.

‘Agapito, if you have any cause for dispute, bring it to me,’ Corax told the commander, before turning the full force of his glare on the genetor. ‘Understand that I and many of my warriors have no fondness for those who pursue industrial strength or mechanical domination at the expense of lives or liberty. Your presence here is by no means essential, magos.’

‘I wish merely to participate and elucidate where possible,’ said Nexin. ‘Please also understand that I know something of your Legion’s history. Your oppressors were not part of the Mechanicum and it is inappropriate to conflate the misguided tech-guilds of your home system with the great endeavours of Mars. However, I recognise that we all share the same goal and at this time I will ensure that my acolytes are sensitive to any issues your past misfortunes may bring about.’

Not sure whether this amounted to an apology or not, Corax simply turned from the genetor and looked further down the hall. The end could be dimly seen in the ruddy glare: three immense doorways.

The expedition reached the far end of the corridor to find that the three doors each had a keypad set into the wall next to them, with only two buttons on each.

‘Perhaps some kind of binary code is required?’ suggested Nexin, examining the central doorway.

‘Or a finger,’ said Agapito, pushing an armoured digit into the upper button. ‘It’s an elevator.’

The door rumbled up into the ceiling to reveal an enclosed conveyor large enough for thirty or forty men, or ten legionaries with all of their equipment.

‘We will have to descend by squad,’ said Corax. ‘Agapito, I’ll leave it up to you to organise the details. I will, of course, be going down first.’

The order was not as simple to execute as first seemed. Agapito wanted to send down the Raven Guard with the primarch to act as a vanguard in case of danger. Arcatus was adamant that he and several of his warriors were in the first shift. Though the Custodian did not say as much, Agapito believed he did not trust Corax out of his sight. On top of this, Nexin was also insistent that he be included in the first party, but would not be separated from his two hulking gun-servitors.

After some further negotiation, it was agreed that Corax would descend with the Custodians while Nexin and his armoured servitors would accompany one of the Raven Guard squads. Several of the legionaries had to suffer the indignity of riding on the backs of the tracked servitors as there was not enough room for all of them to fit into the elevator.

Corax paid only vague attention to these arrangements, confident that Agapito would find a solution. The primarch searched his memories, trying to work out what awaited the expedition at the bottom of the shafts. Try as he might, he had no recollection of this place, just as he had had no memory of the main door until he had laid eyes upon it. Whatever gifts the Emperor had given him, they were highly contextual. Corax wondered if this was intentional or simply a side-effect of the psychic implantation process.