‘Preferably,’ said Corax, making quick calculations. ‘Fifteen may be sufficient.’
It was some time again before Arcatus spoke next.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We will all venture into this labyrinth. What do you require of us?’
‘Thank you, Arcatus. Adjust your communications to the Raven Guard frequencies, Commander Agapito will furnish you with the details. Please divide your Custodians equally between the three expeditions. Agapito, you will lead team one. Arcatus, I will give you command of team two. Senior sergeant in the force is Nestil, correct?’
‘Yes, lord, Nestil has seniority,’ replied Agapito.
‘He shall be commander of the third team. Teams are to advance in combat squads, five men each, with ten metre dispersal in each squad and a twenty metre gap between squads. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, lord,’ said Agapito. ‘I shall start the briefing.’
‘This seems too dangerous work for uncertain reward,’ said Arcatus. ‘I hope it is worth it.’
Considering Arcatus’s words, the primarch took a moment to evaluate his course of action. From the moment the Raven Guard entered the Labyrinth, Corax and his warriors would be committed. The deadly series of traps and defences would be set in motion and there would be no chance of withdrawal. They would either reach the vault or die in the attempt. The leader of the Raven Guard was sure that the gene-tech held the key to resisting Horus, no matter the sacrifice required to acquire it.
‘It will be worth it, Custodian,’ replied Corax. ‘The Emperor would not go to all of this effort to protect something of no value. This gene-tech contains the secrets of our creation, and with those secrets the forces of the Emperor will multiply a hundredfold. When the Raven Guard strike back at Horus, you will be thankful of the choice you have made.’
‘If we survive that long,’ said Arcatus.
‘That will depend on your discipline and swift reactions,’ said Corax, ‘and I am in no doubt the Custodians have both in ample supply.’
With a nod, Arcatus returned to his men. The large hall rang with the thunder of boots as the Custodians and Raven Guard moved to their designated positions. Corax blocked out the chatter over the vox. He closed his eyes, creating a picture of the Labyrinth in his mind. No one had set foot within its walls since its completion, and so the primarch knew the starting layout from the schematics gifted to him by the Emperor.
The Emperor had designed the maze to outwit any foe, but had given Corax just enough insight to tip the balance. It was up to the primarch now to make the correct decisions. Corax had learnt to pick locks from Olda Geb back on Lycaeus, but he was about to pick the most complicated lock in all of the Imperium, devised by the Emperor himself.
He took a deep breath, focusing on the first fifty metres of the Labyrinth. He would know within that distance whether he could crack the secret of the maze. If not…
Corax chided himself for the moment of doubt. There would be no failure. He could not allow it. He had not said as much to Agapito, but in his calculations he had allowed for a ten per cent attrition rate. If that proved to be true, those Custodians and Raven Guard who gave their lives to the Labyrinth could not be allowed to die in vain.
He let out the breath.
It was time to start.
THE DRONE OF the air barges powering through Kiavahr’s polluted skies thrummed constantly through the cracked tiles on the roof, the vibrations sending a tiny but constant stream of dust across the glimmer of light that crept through a crack between the ill-fitting metal plates of the wall. The workers’ shack was dark except for that single glimmer, which created a dim pool of light in the centre of the hut and touched upon half-seen machines and tools piled along the walls. The air was thick with the smell of rust, moisture seeping through a small culvert beneath a broken sink on the wall opposite the door.
Omegon heard footsteps on the metal gantry outside. He stayed immobile, hidden by the shadows, his bolter held ready.
The plate of the door creaked open, shedding flakes of oxidised iron into the light that trickled through the opening. The doorway was lit from behind by the glow of a strobing searchlight, flickering through a red haze of rust-polluted air. A man with a loose tunic and baggy trousers appeared in silhouette. He darted a glance over his shoulder before stepping inside and closed the door behind him, blocking out the glow of the air barge navigation lights.
‘Councillor Effrit?’ he asked, stepping into the thin shaft of light. His pupils were wide, ineffectively trying to pierce the gloom. Omegon could see that his clothes were well-tailored, fashioned in the style favoured by the guilds before the coming of the Mechanicum. Layers of ornate cloth obscured the man’s figure, but from his pinched face and vein-heavy hands, Omegon could see that he was frail, his skin worn thin from decades of anti-agapics. His voice shared a reedy quality with his body. ‘It is Armand Eloqi.’
‘I can see who you are,’ said Omegon. The voice modulator trembled at his throat, adding two octaves to the pitch of his words. ‘Welcome.’
‘I cannot see you,’ said Eloqi.
‘That is for the best, for the moment,’ Omegon told him. ‘There is a seat to your left. Make yourself comfortable.’
‘It is a risk, meeting like this.’ Eloqi’s eyes continued to dart nervously from side to side, unable to locate Omegon. He did not sit down.
‘You were not followed,’ said Omegon. ‘You will be returned to the guild hall by the same means you arrived, with no suspicions aroused.’
‘Still, it seems to be an awful risk for no reason.’
‘Please, sit down, guildmaster,’ said Omegon. ‘We have a little while longer to wait.’
‘Wait?’ There was an edge of panic in Eloqi’s voice. Omegon smiled in the darkness. It was good that the guildmaster, and his allies, were on edge. In truth, there was no cause for them to be suspicious. The Mechanicum were totally unaware of any plot in their midst, but it suited Omegon’s need for secrecy for his pawns to be ever vigilant. Their nervousness also made their negotiating position weaker.
‘Sit down.’ Omegon did not bark or snarl the words, but he added just a little of the authority he could muster; authority that had sent warriors into battle without fear and equally despatched operatives to their necessary deaths.
Eloqi hesitantly sat on the rickety remnants of an old armchair, the fabric worn thin by generations of foremen who had slunk off their shifts to this hidey-hole to enjoy a moment’s peace from the docking yard below. It had not been used in years, not since the coming of the Mechanicum.
‘Your fortunes have failed of late,’ Omegon said quietly, his words delivered in a sympathetic tone. ‘Once you and your guild claimed rulership of Kiavahr, now you are reduced to underlings of the Mechanicum. A whole continent used to labour for your benefit, guildmaster, and the populace of an entire moon worked to death to bring ore and aggregate to the guilds’ workings. You grew powerful and your lives were filled with luxury. Do you miss that time, guildmaster?’
‘Of course,’ the old man snapped. ‘The dogs of Mars have swept away everything with their stupid hierarchies and cults. Not a die stamps nor a bolt is tightened without their artificial eyes watching, their mechanical brains counting. Scraps from their table, that’s what we must survive on now. They have not the courage to do away with us entirely, instead they inflict this wasting disease upon the guilds, bleeding us dry so that we will eventually wither and die, leaving them with the riches of Kiavahr.’
‘And you want to take that power back,’ Omegon prompted. ‘That is understandable. Why should you slave for the distant, uncaring Emperor or the Magi of Mars when your halls stand half-empty, your tables sparse and your treasuries looted.’
‘Exactly,’ said Eloqi. ‘Exactly my point, councillor. We were cowed, broken by the threat of annihilation, but the Mechanicum made a mistake in letting us live. We will take back Kiavahr. It took a hundred generations to build this world, and if it takes a hundred more to reclaim it, we will.’