elevator throw

‘Then we have no time to lose.’ He made for the third drop-cage, hanging precariously over the shaft on taut cables. The unit could carry six, and there were twelve more of the steel carcasses open and ready for the descent. Most of the remaining Exemplars did likewise, leaving only a few dozen to strap incendiaries to their waists and take up position at the chamber’s various entrance portals.
Bordamo hit the cable-release, and the cage lurched from its shackles. As always, everyone inside staggered, waiting for the swinging deck to level out and the lowering chains to kick into their pay-out.
This time, though, something caught, and the cage dropped only a few metres before snagging on something and slamming into the shaft’s inner wall. The lumens flickered, briefly illuminating the oil-soaked metal innards of the pit-edge. Bordamo looked up, towards the rectangle of uncertain light overhead, trying to gauge what had halted them.
It took a moment for his mind to register what his eyes told him.
‘Bring it down,’ he ordered, and every Exemplar in the cage shouldered their lasrifles, aiming upwards.
Hard white las-beams fizzed up the shaft, one after the other, sending bright light shooting up the inner walls. Volley after volley hit home, flashing and spinning as the concentrated spears impacted and refracted from their one massive target. Amid all that dazzling display, it became hard to pick out just what they were aiming at – a jumping, shifting mess of reflections and distortions – but they had already seen enough to know what was reeling them in.
A single soul, a lone warrior, clad in that hateful gold and pulling on the main support chain, hand over hand, hauling up the tonnes of steel cage with its six occupants like a fisherman spooling in a line. The las-fire barely made it falter – the beams scorched and bounced from that impenetrable hide, leaving long black lines but little else. Steadily, agonisingly, the golden helm drew closer, until the Exemplars were firing at point-blank range, their lasrifles locked in terror.
They were thrown to one side then the other, slammed violently against the cage’s innards and yanked upwards. Bordamo’s stomach lurched, and he suddenly felt weightless, his feet leaving the cage-floor and his lasrifle loosening in his hands. As his head smacked hard into one of the big iron bars, he saw a blur of gold close to his face, swiftly replaced by a whistling sound and the rip of hot air across his body.
The golden devil had thrown – thrown – the cage across the muster-hall, slinging it one-handed and sending it careening into a heavy buttress-pillar. The impact was sickening. Bordamo was cracked against the skidding bars, his armour doused in a hail of sparks.
The sliding cage spun to a halt, and he felt the hot slick of blood against his armour. His left arm was shot through with pain, his vision was cloudy, but he pushed himself around and tried to aim at what he knew was coming for him.
The cage was a mess, a ruined tangle of dented iron, draped with the heavy bodies of stunned and broken Exemplars. Bordamo had the slurred impression of the golden monster coming for him, loping across the ground between them like some vast machine-wolf. He opened fire again, more out of reflex than hope, but the next thing he knew a cold gauntlet had closed around his neck, crushing him back to the ground.
He looked up to see a mask of auramite, barely an arm’s length from his own helm. He saw twin lenses, flaring red in the dark, and a web of astrological engravings amid the scorchlines of the las-fire. He had never been so close to one before. At this range, the artistry was almost unbearably beautiful, and the stink of incense was overpowering.
‘Amar Astarte,’ came the voice of the mask – a deep, refined tone that gave away its owner’s lack of exertion. ‘Where is she?’
Out of the corner of his eye, Bordamo could see other Custodians, maybe two of them, slaughtering their way across the chamber, churning through the remainder of his troops with a cool, casual expertise. They moved astonishingly fast, dancing effortlessly around the panicked las-fire before crunching their blades into bone and flesh. Already one had launched himself down the drop-shaft – others would no doubt follow.

Valdor: Birth of the Imperium