Текст книги "Deliverance Lost"

Автор книги: Гэв Торп

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Omegon left the consequences of such a view unsaid, but he could hear Eloqi’s heart beat a little faster as he filled in the blanks left by the primarch. A vague reference to punishment was worth a dozen specific threats in the minds of the weak. Whatever the guildmaster imagined would happen to him was far more worrying and personal than anything Omegon could devise.

‘The Warmaster will respect the power of the guilds? He will allow us to reinstate the old laws?’

Omegon could hear the calculation in Eloqi’s tone; the greed and desire to rule. The primarch knew what the guildmaster wanted to really hear but was too afraid to voice.

‘Deliverance will be overthrown and the colony of Lycaeus returned to the guilds,’ said Omegon. ‘Horus will give you autonomy, from Terra and Mars. He does not even demand your fealty, only your friendship. He asked for you by name, guildmaster.’

‘My name? Known to the Warmaster?’

A slight wheezing outside the shack came to Omegon, almost unheard amongst the clatter of a passing freight car.

‘My other guest will be arriving in moments,’ he told Eloqi. The guildmaster was nervous enough without having another arrive without some kind of warning. ‘Do not be alarmed.’

The door opened a few seconds later. A robed figure entered, swathed in folds of black and red. A gold mask glinted beneath a heavy cowl, cables and pipes protruding from the faceplate, linked to an ornate brass machine on the newcomer’s chest.

‘What is this?’ hissed Eloqi, backing away from the new arrival. Omegon silently side-stepped into the other corner, to avoid the guildmaster stumbling into him. ‘You have betrayed us.’

‘I said not to be alarmed,’ said Omegon. ‘Do not judge by appearances.’

‘I am Magos Unithrax, guildmaster,’ said the newcomer, his voice ringing from behind the mask. ‘I am here to help you overthrow the tyranny of Mars.’

‘You… You are one of them! One of the Mechanicum!’

‘Yes, and no,’ Unithrax said calmly. ‘I come from the Order of the Dragon, and answer to a different power from Terra. With the aid of my associates, I will see the guilds restored to power on Kiavahr.’

Eloqi was speechless, his terror still gripping him.

‘Unithrax will ensure the grip of the Mechanicum is broken from within,’ Omegon explained, speaking slowly to ensure the guildmaster heard him. ‘With the magi in disarray, the guilds will be able to overthrow the usurpers. You need his help, Armand. Believe me, you need his help.’

‘What if I choose not to ally myself with this thing?’ said Eloqi. ‘Maybe we do not want any more of your conspiracy.’

‘It is too late,’ said Unithrax. ‘Already wheels are in motion. You can either be elevated to power or be crushed by the forces we will unleash. The guilds will control Kiavahr and Lycaeus again. Whether you choose to number yourself amongst those guildmasters or not is irrelevant to our plans.’

Seeing that he had no choice, Eloqi nodded firmly, affecting an air of bravado.

‘Well, it seems that I was right to trust you, councillor,’ he said. ‘I knew there was more to you than a simple alliance of the guilds. The Warmaster can expect my full support.’

‘Good, I am glad that we are in agreement, Armand,’ said Omegon, suppressing a laugh at the hollow arrogance of the man. He could imagine the guildmaster’s ambitions growing, seeing himself in audience with Horus, perhaps a master of a dozen worlds or more. It was pitiful, really. ‘It would be wise of you to leave now. You will be contacted again in due course.’

‘Yes, very well,’ said Eloqi, circling around Unithrax to reach the door.

‘One other thing, guildmaster,’ said the magos as Unithrax was about to leave.

‘Yes?’

Unithrax held out a hand sheathed in a silvery gauntlet.

‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said the magos.

Eloqi grunted and took the proffered hand in his grip. A moment later he squealed and ripped away his hand as if stung.

‘A guarantee of your cooperation, guildmaster,’ said Unithrax, holding up a fingertip that glinted with a needlepoint in the low light.

‘What have you done?’ demanded Eloqi, looking at his wrist.

‘A neurotoxin, guildmaster. It is inactive at the moment, of no threat. However, should you disclose my presence or betray our cause in any way, you can be assured that the catalysing agent will be introduced into your system: air, food, water, all can be used.’

Aghast, Eloqi stared at the puncture mark on his wrist and then glared at the magos before stumbling from the cabin.

‘Was that really necessary?’ Omegon asked, cautioning himself not to get too close to the renegade magos. It was possible that the Order of the Dragon had a poison that would work on primarchs too. ‘You can be so unsubtle at times.’

‘Let us hope it is a needless precaution, but it is not without benefit,’ replied Unithrax. ‘When the Order of the Dragon takes control, the guilds will be of no further use. Better to lay the groundwork now and ease their disposal later. Before I leave, I have messages for you, from the Fabricator-General, concerning developments on Mars.’

‘I am sure you do,’ said Omegon. ‘I am sure you do.’

THE WALLS OF the passageway were lined with large panels of a dark grey material. Alpharius ran a hand over it, the sensors in his gauntlets conveying its smooth texture to his fingertips. Tiny temperature detectors told him it was cold to the touch. Slamming his fist into one of the panels, Alpharius noted hairline cracks appearing, radiating out from the impact.

‘Ceramite,’ he said. ‘Like our armour.’

‘Don’t touch anything,’ snapped Sergeant Dor. ‘Not without the primarch’s say-so. If something shoots at you, shoot back, but don’t do anything else without orders.’

‘Yes, sergeant,’ said Alpharius, regretting his action immediately. Curiosity was not a trait that would be rewarded in his current situation. He stepped back into the group of legionaries, realising he had drawn attention to himself.

Dor and his squad were the lead element, split into two five-man groups. Alongside Dor were Alpharius, Lukar, Velps, and Marko with the multi-melta. They had covered perhaps seventy metres of the passageway, which was lit by strips inserted into the angle between ceiling and walls, bathing the legionaries in an unwavering yellow glow.

‘Look at that,’ said Lukar, pointing to one of the ceramite slabs ahead. ‘Switch to thermal.’

Alpharius did so, a film of red falling over his vision as his armour’s auto-senses tracked through the frequencies to the infra-red end of the spectrum. Behind the panel Lukar had pointed at he could see a tracery of brighter lines.

‘Power cables,’ said Alpharius. ‘Sergeant?’

‘I see it,’ replied Dor, holding up his hand to signal the halt. ‘Commander, we have some kind of power conduit ahead.’

‘Understood.’ Agapito’s reply was immediate, his voice tense. ‘Await orders.’

‘Proceed thirty metres, Sergeant Dor.’ The primarch’s deep voice cut across the vox. ‘You will see a sealed door ahead of you. Wait by the door for further instructions.’

‘Affirmative, lord,’ replied Dor, waving his hand to set the squad moving again. ‘Keep an eye out for weapons systems.’

They had advanced only another five metres when a panel in the ceiling hinged open and a multi-barrelled gun dropped into view. Lukar was the first to react, unleashing a salvo from his bolter into the opening, the explosive shells tearing through a nest of cables. Sparks showered down and the weapon wilted on its mechanical arm, twitching fitfully.

‘If that’s the worst this place has to offer, this shouldn’t be too hard,’ said Lukar.

As if in response to his bravado, there was a shout of alarm from behind the squad, followed immediately by the crack of a laser bolt.

‘Eyes front!’ snapped Dor. ‘Not our problem. Keep advancing.’

The chatter of bolter fire and the distinctive crackle of a plasma gun echoed along the passageway as the squad continued on. As Corax had told them, they came upon a chamber a few metres wider than the corridor, bare except for a door in the opposite wall. The portal was slightly recessed into the ceramite, made of the same material. Alpharius could see no sign of a handle or lock, though his thermal vision showed several power cables leading into the sill around the door.

‘We just wait here?’ asked Velps. He pulled a melta-bomb from his belt and held it up. ‘This’ll burn through that door in no time.’

‘Don’t you do anything,’ said Dor, warning Velps back with a raised hand as the legionary took a step across the room.

Alpharius looked around the square chamber. Other than its dimensions there was nothing to mark it out from the passage that had led to it. The featurelessness of the corridor, the perfect uniformity of it, unsettled him. He was an Alpha Legionnaire and intimately knew the disorientating power of anonymity. It would be very easy to get lost in such a place, and Alpharius had no intention of ending his life in this bland but deadly warren of passages and rooms.

‘Perhaps we should mark our progress somehow, in case we get turned around,’ he suggested.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Dor.

Alpharius drew out his combat blade and etched a cross into the ceramite wall to his left.

‘If we see that again, we know we’ve come in a circle,’ he said.

They waited for several minutes. Alpharius looked back down the corridor and saw the other half of the squad a dozen metres behind, still in the corridor. The heat from the power packs of the following legionaries was building up, distorting the air with a haze. To Alpharius’s thermal vision the vents on the backpacks of the other legionaries were bright white.

‘Commander, we are giving off a high heat signature,’ said Alpharius. ‘The primarch said that the defence systems had thermal registers.’

‘Good point,’ replied Agapito. ‘All squads, set cooling systems to minimum. Reduce heat signatures.’

‘Negative, do not adjust heat signatures.’ Corax’s tone was quiet but terse. Alpharius realised the primarch had to be monitoring every squad communication, a considerable mental feat. ‘I need you to trigger the thermal sensors if necessary. Team two will shortly be in position. Their progress will trigger the first transformation. The door ahead of you will open in two minutes. Stand ready.’

IN THE ENTRY chamber, Corax had his eyes closed, the totality of his mind focused on picturing the mechanism of the Labyrinth and the positions of his squads. He had blocked out all input save for the constant narration that streamed across the command network into the communications bead in his ear.

Like a burglar examining the most complicated lock ever devised, the primarch imagined the interplay of revolving rooms, rising bridges, closing doorways and collapsing arches. The three forces had already begun to divide, combat squads directed through new openings to trigger the next transformation of the maze. With each random change, Corax’s plan evolved and solidified, as possible avenues of approach opened or were shut. He could not predict every movement of the Labyrinth, but he could respond swiftly to each development. The timing of each move had to be precise, and he snapped out orders in a clipped voice, redirecting the combat squads to where they were needed.

He blotted out the sound of gunfire and the rumble of mighty engines and immense pistons. He ignored the curses and warnings of his warriors. His sole purpose was the unpicking of the lock.

Twenty-three minutes and one hundred and seventeen metres after first entering the Labyrinth, the Raven Guard suffered a casualty. A legionary under Agapito’s command was struck in the chest by a laser bolt from an automated turret that had risen from the floor.

‘We have no Apothecary,’ the sergeant reported. ‘Mathan looks in a bad way.’

‘You must leave him behind, Sergeant Cannor,’ Corax replied quickly. ‘We will return for him later. Move the rest of the squad up to the second archway on your left. The doorway ahead of you will be closing in seven seconds.’

‘Mathan is still alive, barely. He needs treatment.’

‘You have your orders,’ Corax said coldly. The gene-tech – the rebirth of the Raven Guard – was a prize greater than any individual life. There could be no delays. The Labyrinth would already be moving towards its next configuration. To falter would be to fail, and that would make every life lost a vain sacrifice. ‘Move your squad now.’

‘Confirmed, Lord Corax.’

Distracted by the event, the primarch had almost missed an opportunity to get Agapito’s lead squad across a bridge that might ascend into the heights when Arcatus’s men entered the chamber ahead of them. Corax made a swift calculation and judged there still to be time enough for the crossing.

THE RAMP AHEAD seemed innocuous enough to Arhuld Dain, special weapons bearer of Squad Seven, though Lord Corax had warned the squad to approach with caution. The ferrocrete causeway rose ten metres above the floor of the chamber, leading to a circular door that looked like a ship’s airlock. Dain looked up and saw a similar opening directly above, and what appeared to be the rungs of a ladder leading from one of the walls across the ceiling.

‘How would anybody get up there?’ he asked, adjusting his grip on his flamer as the five-man combat squad advanced towards the causeway.

‘I have no idea,’ replied Sergeant Caban. ‘Stay focused.’

With a loud hiss, the double doors through which the squad had entered slid shut behind them. Dain detected vibrations pulsing through the floor at the same time as a distinctive crackling came to his ears.

‘Wait!’ the legionary snapped, stopping in mid-stride. Sergeant Caban took another step onto the causeway before turning back.

‘What is…’ The sergeant’s voice trailed away as the whole chamber lurched, spinning quickly on its axis, spilling the squad into the air.

Dain felt himself go light, drifting away from the floor. The ceramite underfoot provided no purchase for the magnogrips of his boots and he floated away, the rest of the squad lifting up around him. Sergeant Caban slipped past him, propelled through the air by his last step, gently inverting as he slowly glided towards the wall behind Dain.

The Raven Guard found themselves suspended about three metres above the floor, which had become a wall. Dain tried to twist towards the rungs of the ladder, whose purpose became clear. Angling his flamer, he fired a short burst, using it as a crude propellant to send him flying towards the ladder.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Caban. The sergeant came to halt against the far wall, one hand outstretched to stop himself.

Dain reached out with his left hand, flailing for the closest rung. His fingers closed around the metal.

The crackling noise increased in pitch, becoming a pulsing whine. Dain looked around, trying to find the source. The ladder was thrumming with energy between his fingers. Realising his error he let go and tried to push himself away with his legs.

Lightning arced from the ladder, coruscating across Dain’s armour, earthing through exposed cabling around his midriff. The muscles in his abdomen tightened as electricity surged through the legionary, his spasm causing him to kick out, hurling himself across the room as spark erupted from his armour and flames burst from melting seals and blown circuits. He could feel his flesh charring and cracking, the pain muted by a sudden rush of anaesthetic compounds produced by his body. Dain’s jaw felt as if it had been welded shut while agony flared through his head.

Spinning madly, he blacked out, his last vision that of the room turning again, his companions plummeting towards the new floor.

‘INCOMING ORDERS,’ SAID Dor, motioning with his bolter for Marko and Alpharius to move through the doorway ahead. ‘Distributing on squad channel.’

Alpharius and Marko edged through the opening with their weapons ready. They found themselves on the edge of a large, vaulted chamber. Ten metres from them, the floor dropped away into a dark chasm, a natural fault in the strata of the mountain. With the thermal sight of his suit, Alpharius could see the telltale glint of power cables and weapons positions on the ceiling above, not yet activated.

‘In thirty-two seconds, a bridge will descend to your position,’ came Corax’s voice, relayed through Sergeant Dor’s vox-unit. ‘You will have forty-three seconds to cross that bridge.’

‘There are seven weapons turrets,’ Marko reported. ‘Irregularly spaced. We only have clear lines of sight to three of them from this side. We will have to get onto the bridge before we can see the others.’

‘No cover,’ added Alpharius. ‘We’ll be targets on a shooting range.’

‘Blind grenades,’ replied Corax. ‘They will disable the units for twenty seconds.’

‘Still not enough time, lord,’ said Dor. ‘The gorge must be at least two hundred and fifty metres wide.’

‘Sprint, sergeant,’ came the primarch’s clipped response.

Alpharius was about to protest but held his tongue, as if the order had been given by his own primarch. The others seemed willing to trust in Corax’s judgement and he could not afford to show any dissent.

‘I’ll go first,’ he said. ‘Marko, can you target that second turret on the right?’

‘From the edge of the chasm, yes,’ said Marko.

‘Wait!’ snapped Dor, as Alpharius readied a blind grenade from his belt. The Alpha Legionnaire froze in place.

The sergeant took a few steps past the pair, looking around.

‘Save it for when we reach the bridge,’ said Dor, lifting his bolter towards the darkness that hid the far side of the chamber. ‘We can take out these turrets before we cross.’

A deep rumbling reverberated around the cathedral-like hall, sending dust shaking down from jagged stalactites that had grown up around the heavily riveted girders that held back the weight of the ceiling. From a recess far above, a metal structure descended into view, swaying on dozens of chains each as wide as a legionary’s shoulders.

‘You have forty-three seconds.’ Corax’s voice was calm, almost emotionless.

Dor spat out a string of orders and the squad burst into action. Alpharius headed towards the metal pillars that marked where the bridge would fall. The clumpof his boots activated a sensor and a turret directly above his head extruded from the metal of the ceiling. Lukar fired his bolter, shredding the gun’s casing in a storm of sparks.

Alpharius carried on, trusting to his squad to protect him as he primed the blind grenade in his fist. The whine of the multi-melta filled his ears for a split second before another turret disintegrated into a mist of molten metal that rained down on the Alpha Legionnaire’s armour.

With a thunderous clang, the bridge hit the braking pillars and rocked to a halt. Alpharius was already bounding along its length as it settled, his boots sending up flakes of rusting metal from the mesh of its floor.

‘Thirty-five seconds,’ Dor warned them, his words almost lost in another blaze of bolter fire, this time from Velps. Another turret burst into flames.

Alpharius ran across the bridge, blind grenade held ready, arms and legs pumping, his armour-assisted run covering three metres with every stride. He heard the clamour of the others following behind, and tensed, waiting for the distinctive snap of a las-bolt.

‘On the right, quadrant three!’ barked Dor. Alpharius did not look, but heard the sound of Velps behind him sliding to a halt. A red flash blazed from the gloom, melting through the bridge just a metre behind him. Velps’s bolter roared and the defence turret was silenced.

‘Grenade away!’ Alpharius bellowed, hurling the blind field detonator far ahead of him. The orb arced through the darkness, glinting ruddily as another turret opened fire, its blast scorching a line across Alpharius’s vision as it bit into the bridge decking just in front of him. The machines controlling the turret had adapted and anticipated his run; only the momentary pause to throw the grenade had saved Alpharius from a direct hit.

He bent forwards into a full sprint as the blind grenade erupted into life at the far end of the bridge, forming a whirling cloud of silvery particles and swirling forks of electromagnetic energy.

Again the system controlling the defences had evolved. The turrets were blinded, but whereas before they had ceased their fusillades, now they opened fire with a storm of bolts, flashing randomly around the chamber with a criss-cross of ruby beams. As a beam seared past his right shoulder, Alpharius almost cursed in his native tongue, the words stopped by his gritted teeth as he plunged into the storm of the blind field.

Clanking gears and hissing pistons sprang into life. The bridge lurched under Alpharius’s feet, almost sending him toppling over the low rail. The blind cloud raged around him, blotting out all of the data being fed through his armour’s auto-senses. In silence and blackness, Alpharius leapt, powering himself into the air.

It seemed to take an age for the legionary to land, swallowed up by the blind field, oblivious to the crackling las-bolts that were undoubtedly flaring all around him.

He landed with a heavy thud and almost lost his footing, coming down hard on one knee, the impact sending alarm signals through his suit. He surged to both feet and pressed on, trusting that the others were following him, trusting also that Corax was correct and there was an archway or open door ahead to provide sanctuary. The blind cloud was already collapsing, the chaff and distortive energies fluttering into the darkness.

Freed from the effects of the blind grenade, Alpharius’s comms and auto-senses sprang into life again. Las-fire blazed around him, sending up wisps of molten rock from the floor. There was no point trying to dodge the haphazard fusillade and he pressed on up the slightly sloping floor while his auto-senses shuddered. Patches of light swam across his eyes and a dull ringing sounded in his ears as the suit’s systems recovered from the blind field.

‘–igh and left,’ Dor was shouting as he emerged from the spreading miasma of disruptive energy. ‘High and left!’

Alpharius swung his bolter up to a firing position and saw through the infrared haze a flicker of the turret’s artificial eye blinking in the darkness. He fired three rounds, puncturing the casing of the gun position, sending shards of metal through the air.

‘Keep moving,’ Lukar said, slapping a hand to Alpharius’s shoulder as he ran past. Alpharius looked ahead and saw a blast door descending over a yellow-lit opening.

The legionaries ducked under the closing portal in quick succession, armour clattering. Marko was the last in line, slightly slower due to the weight of his heavy weapon. A red beam of laser energy spat down from the ceiling and shattered the armour of his right leg. Twisting, Marko tried to fall under the closing door but fell short.

‘Leave him,’ Dor snapped.

Alpharius ignored the command and acted out of instinct, dropping his bolter to grab Marko’s backpack with both hands. He hauled with all of his strength, dragging the stricken legionary under the door moments before it slammed closed with a resounding crunch.

They were in a corridor much like those they had first encountered in the maze, with drab grey walls without markings. It curved away sharply to the right, the route ahead hidden after ten metres.

‘Sergeant Dor, report status.’ Corax’s voice was assured, confident that his warriors had succeeded.

Dor looked at the squad, the lenses of his helm glinting in the bright light that came from a single strip in the roof.

‘We’re through, Lord Corax,’ he reported. ‘Marko is hurt, though.’

‘Can he move?’ The question hung in the air while Marko pulled himself to his feet with Lukar’s aid. He hefted his multi-melta, checking the power cabling that linked it to his backpack.

‘I’m not staying here,’ Marko said, voice strained. ‘But don’t expect me to do any more running.’

‘He can move,’ Dor passed on the legionary’s assessment. ‘What are our orders?’

‘Continue along the passageway for thirty metres.’

‘Understood. We are advancing,’ Dor replied.

At that moment, something came around the bend in the passage, clanking and hissing. It was a strange mix of bipedal machine and small tank, with tracked feet of metal links, its main body shaped like a turret with two multi-barrelled cannons protruding menacingly from the front. Sensor discs and artificial eye lenses dotted a small module atop the machine.

Alpharius watched as the barrels spun up to speed, momentarily taken aback by the machine’s sudden appearance; Corax had warned of such a thing but until now they had only encountered the fixed defences. Even as he lifted his bolter to fire, he realised he had reacted too slowly.

A weight smashed into the side of Alpharius, sending him reeling to his left just as the guard-machine opened fire. Lukar was firing his bolter as he took the brunt of the cannonade, fist-sized shells hammering into his armour in a welter of ceramite shrapnel and ripped metal.

Lukar was hurled backwards by the impact, his shattered armour slamming to the floor, cratered and cracked. Alpharius fired his bolter, targeting the sensor array, smashing lenses and aerials.

The side of the machine exploded into a shower of molten drops from the blast of Marko’s multi-melta, exposing steaming circuitry and wires. Dor’s bolts slammed into the rent a second later as the turret spun towards Marko. Velps leapt forwards with a melta-charge in his fist. He ducked beneath the blaze of bullets as the guardian opened fire again, smashing Dor from his feet. With a snarled oath, Velps slapped the charge on the casing beneath the guns and dived away.

The machine detonated, its destruction filling the tunnel with incandescent fury that caused heat warnings to flare across Alpharius’s helm display, an explosion far greater than that caused by the melta-bomb alone. Shrapnel carved into Alpharius’s chest and shoulder, but his armour held. The ceramite walls were similarly crackled and pitted with debris.

‘Self-destruct,’ said Velps, the paint of his armour blistered away by the fiery blast. He fired several rounds into the smoking, twitching mechanical remains, snarling curses.

Alpharius turned to where Lukar lay awkwardly on the grey floor. The face of his helm was a mess, the Raven Guard symbol embossed on his breastplate mangled beyond recognition, blood seeping from a dozen gouges in his armour.

‘The sergeant looks alive,’ reported Marko, kneeling beside Dor’s supine form. The sergeant weakly held up his hand to confirm the fact.

‘Lukar’s dead,’ Alpharius said quietly. The Raven Guard had taken the full brunt of the attack, saving Alpharius’s life. As he looked down at the blood-spattered, broken armour of Lukar, Alpharius shook his head with disbelief. ‘Why did he push me out of the way?’

‘Why did you drag me to safety?’ Marko replied, pulling Dor to his feet.

Alpharius had no answer. These warriors were Raven Guard, his enemies. His sole purpose was to ensure their destruction, but the mission required that they succeed in retrieving whatever it was that Corax sought in the vaults. That meant they had to stay alive to breach the inner sanctum of the mountain.

Yet there was more to it than that. Their eventual deaths would be a necessity, but as individuals Alpharius had respect, perhaps even friendship, for his fellow squad members. Whether this was some remnant of memory from the warrior-material in his omophagea, or something altogether more vexing and problematic, he did not like to guess.

‘We are brothers-in-battle,’ Dor said quietly, crouching to place a hand on the shattered remnants of Lukar’s chest.

‘Aye,’ said Velps, pressing his fist to his chest in salute. ‘Battle-brothers.’

‘Battle-brothers,’ Alpharius whispered, pulling his gaze from the dead legionary, unable to deal with his confused thoughts.

ARCATUS EYED THE channel ahead with suspicion. The passageway was long and narrow, no more than two metres wide and at least three hundred metres long, turning abruptly to the right to continue out of sight. About fifty metres away, a small gutter-like trench emerged from the wall, cutting diagonally across their line of advance. He called his Custodians to a halt and waited for instruction from Corax. In the three and a half hours since he had entered the Labyrinth, Arcatus had found a new respect for the primarch, and perhaps even a little trust. Four times, Corax’s last-minute warnings or orders had saved the him and his group of Custodians and Raven Guard from deadly traps and mechanical attack. Only a few minutes earlier, Arcatus had drawn back just in time to avoid a vaporous acid spray that would have melted through his armour in seconds.

A rivulet of liquid ran along the channel, a dark green, viscous fluid that flowed sluggishly, its level growing higher.

‘I think this passage is going to be flooded, Corax,’ Arcatus reported.

‘It is just lubricating fluid,’ the primarch replied. ‘It is no threat. Proceed to the end of the passageway. There will be three doors. Take the door on the left. Beyond is some kind of energy grid, a laser trap perhaps. Be wary.’

This last comment seemed unnecessary – Arcatus had been wary from the moment he had first stepped into the deadly maze. He followed Corax’s instructions, taking the squad to the bend in the corridor. A shouted warning caused him to turn as a previously invisible hatch opened in the ceiling. Three silver orbs, each no bigger than his fist, dropped into view.

The first exploded into molten shards as Custodian Ganius swept the blade of his guardian spear through it. The other two detonated of their own accord, showering Ganius and the Raven Guard next to him with jagged, smoking shrapnel. Wisps of vapour rose from their armour as the acidic compound melted swiftly through to flesh.

Ganius cried out – the first time Arcatus had ever heard a Custodian react to pain – and struggled to disconnect his breastplate. The Raven Guard legionary toppled to the floor with a crash, a hole melted through his helm, a slush of liquefied skull and brain matter dribbling onto the bare floor.