Tower of Blood

Tony Ballantyne

The ceiling was dripping blood.

It dripped on the bald head of Goedendag Morningstar, Adeptus Astartes of the Iron Knights Chapter, and the Space Marine made no move to wipe it away.

‘How many floors lie above us?’ he asked.

Though the Imperial Guard trooper was a big woman, she would still have been dwarfed by Goedendag even had he not been wearing his power armour.

‘One hundred and forty-three floors,’ she managed to say, awestruck by this post-human demigod. She straightened up, despite her exhaustion. ‘Eight hundred and sixty-five lie below us. We met the horde in battle at the nine hundredth floor. They pushed us back to here. Many lives were lost in action, many more civilians were evacuated.’

‘But not all,’ said Ortrud. The Iron Knights had completed their survey of the eight hundred and fifty-sixth floor; now they clustered around their commander.

‘Not all,’ agreed the Guard, looking around the seven men now towering over her in their gunmetal and black armour, streaked red with dripping blood. Their unhelmed heads seemed so small, lost in the heart of the powerful machinery of their suits. ‘By no means all. There are thousands still trapped above us, all at the mercy of the warp fiends.’

‘The warp fiends do not understand the meaning of mercy,’ said Fastlinger. ‘Commander, may we now don our helmets?’ He drew his hand across his face.

‘No,’ said Goedendag. ‘We fight unhelmed. We do not want to lead civilians into areas where we are safe and they are not. What if we led them into a vacuum?’ He noticed the way the Imperial Guardswoman was looking at him. ‘Do you have a question?’ he asked.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was just wondering, why do you wear two morning stars on your back?’

Goedendag smiled.

‘For weapons.’

‘You seem different to other Space Marines.’

‘Have you met many?’ asked Fastlinger.

Goedendag flashed him a warning look. The Imperial Guard were an honoured force; they did not deserve to be ridiculed.

‘The Iron Knights are siege specialists,’ said Goedendag. ‘The warp fiends have sealed off the top floors and surrounded this tower with a warp instability that is spreading across the sky, threatening the neighbouring hives. This siege needs to be broken now.’

The Guardswoman was torn between exhaustion and awe. Still, something caused her to speak.

‘Are you going to wait for the Ordo Malleus?’

‘The inquisition’s daemonhunters are not here,’ interrupted Telramund. ‘Goedendag, I grow weary. Let us join the fight!’

‘Peace, Telramund! This soldier stands alone in a room with seven Iron Knights in full armour–’

‘Save for their helms,’ muttered Fastlinger.

‘If things had been otherwise, we would have found nought here but corpses. She is brave indeed.’ Goedendag looked down at her.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Kelra.’

‘Then listen to me, Kelra. You and your troops have done well to hold back the daemons, but now it is our turn.’

He waved a hand around the floor. It was empty save for the four lift shafts that ran to the top of the hive building. All the internal walls, all the possessions of those who had once lived here were vaporised, smashed, shattered, destroyed by the weapons of the Imperial Guard as they had fought to hold their ground. The wide, low space was filled with darkness, the stench of battle, the drip of blood. Even the stairs had broken away. The stairs; the last route of escape for those lucky civilians who had not taken the lifts. The shafts still creaked with the agony of those caught within.

‘Kelra, before we leave, you mentioned something about the origin of the warp rift?’

Kelra nodded, pleased to help.

‘I have heard something. Escaping civilians have spoken about a Gutor Invareln who lived on the nine hundred and ninety-second floor. He was a bitter man, an outcast. He claimed he was a latent psyker, that he had been ignored by the Imperium. His neighbours laughed, they thought he was seeking attention. The children mocked him, asked him why he had not been taken to Terra, but Invareln would scowl in answer that he was deliberately forgotten.’

‘He was a psyker,’ said Franosch, concentrating. ‘His mind is now possessed by a daemon. A greater daemon. He is the portal by which the lesser daemons are entering this world.’

Kelra’s eyes widened as she looked to Franosch.

‘He’s a psyker too?’ she asked.

‘Gamma level at best,’ answered Franosch. He turned to Goedendag. ‘Commander, there are daemonettes above us. Many, many daemonettes.’

‘Enough talk,’ said Telramund. ‘The instability is spreading.’

Goedendag looked up at the ceiling, watched the clotting drops forming stalactites.

‘So much blood,’ he said. ‘Telramund is right. We move out. Draw your chainswords.’

Telramund was already holding his meltagun. ‘This weapon will suit me fine, commander.’

‘And what of the civilians who stand above us? No meltaguns, no flamers, no frag grenades…’

‘How about missile launchers?’ said Fastlinger, innocently.

‘How about you take point, Fastlinger?’ replied Goedendag. He noted the look of disappointment on Telramund’s face. ‘Telramund, you accompany him.’

Telramund smiled as he holstered his meltagun and drew his chainsword. An angry buzzing noise sounded as he set it in motion, a buzz that was immediately answered by Fastlinger’s weapon.

The Iron Knights began to move apart, assuming combat positions.

‘Gottfried. The battle cry.’

Gottfried looked down at the floor and clasped his hands together. In a low voice, he intoned the words: ‘Strike, death, as silent as the swan.’

The rest of the group repeated the words.

Now the other chainswords powered up, the angry screeching made all the louder as it echoed from the low ceiling. Low ceilings, the better to cram in more humans, ready to work on this manufactory world.

The time for joking had passed, and Fastlinger looked to his comrades and saw they were all ready. He looked to Goedendag last. The commander nodded and Fastlinger raised his sword to the ceiling, the angry buzz rising to a scream as it cut through the thin metal. Immediately, there was a convulsive eruption of blood, dark blood rupturing through the widening crack. It spilled down over Fastlinger’s cutting arm and shoulder, running down the blue gunmetal and black of his powered armour. He shifted his position and his feet slipped on the pools that congealed around his feet. Retractable spikes sprang forth from the soles of his power armour, holding him in place.

Kelra, the Imperial Guard trooper, backed away, dodging a second burst of blood as Telramund too began to cut into the ceiling. The tide of blood widened with the hole, and now smooth yellow shapes slipped through amongst the liquid. Rounded and polished, they splashed and knocked on the floor.

‘That’s a skull,’ said Kelra. Still, she stood her ground, noted Goedendag. Not for nothing had the Imperial Guard gained the respect of humanity.

Goedendag gestured Franosch forward, and the psyker stood at the edge of the widening waterfall of blood.

‘They know we’re here,’ he said. ‘They are eager to meet us.’

‘Who? The daemonettes?’

‘Oh yes. They are filled with the bitter joy of battle, and yet… something is holding them back.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Something at the top of the tower.’

‘Will this tide never end?’ called Telramund impatiently. He was itching to fight.

‘Surely this is more blood than all the humans of the hive would hold?’ said Kelra.

‘Some of it spills from the portal,’ said Franosch.

‘Enough of this,’ said Goedendag. ‘The gap is wide enough! Through it! Go!’

Fastlinger crouched and then jumped upwards on leg muscles massively expanded by the biscopea implanted in his chest. He soared through the gap above him in a spray of ruby, followed closely by Telramund.

Now Goedendag stepped forward. Despite the fact that he heard the buzzing of chainswords above him, the innate courtesy of the Iron Knights caused him to pause for a moment and turn to Kelra.

‘Thank you for your help,’ he said.

‘I’ll be waiting here for your return.’

Drips of blood bouncing from his bald head and matting his long white beard, Goedendag Morningstar jumped up into the space above.

He landed on the eight hundred and fifty-seventh floor, his balance thrown by the tide of blood swirling into the hole. Something white came flashing in at his side; something sharp was pricking towards his eye. He swung his chainsword, shearing through the crab claw of the daemonette who bore down upon him. The white skinned woman hissed at him, her rusty hair plastered by blood to her bare shoulders.

‘Goolvar h’nurrgh!’ she spat, and made to draw something from behind her back. It was a feint! As Goedendag brought his chainsword up to parry the attack, she kicked out at him, a three-toed foot tipped in razor-sharp claws scratching across the armour on his sword arm. Goedendag made to chop at her leg, but she gripped him with her foot and held on, twisting the chainsword upwards.

Now the daemonette smiled at him, her sweet, seductive body undulating as she brought the snake-fiend from behind her back. She hissed, and lashed the fiend forwards like a whip. Its eyes blazed, its mouth, surrounded by a ring of venom pierced needles, snapping towards Goedendag’s face. His chainsword-wielding hand was trapped by the daemonette’s foot.

The betcher’s glands in Goedendag’s mouth had been working overtime, and he spat corrosive acid into the eyes of the lashing snake-fiend. The creature screamed and drew back in pain. Goedendag flicked the chainsword to his left hand, then brought the weapon up as if to parry quinte, slicing through the snake-fiend’s body. He carried on with the movement, circling down to cut through the daemonette’s leg. She screamed and jumped forward, needle teeth moving within her mouth, but Goedendag’s right hand now reached to his shoulder and took hold of one of the morning stars there. He brought the weapon forward in a circle, cracking it down on the daemonette’s skull as, simultaneously, his sword thrust into her body.

She thrashed as she died, her bitter scream rippling the pools of blood gathered on the floor.

‘You took your time on that one,’ said Fastlinger, standing coolly nearby over the bodies of two more dead daemonettes. ‘And we saved her especially for you, too.’

‘You talk too much,’ said Telramund, three daemonettes to his credit.

The other members of the squad were now entering the room, jumping up from below.

‘One hundred and forty-two floors to go,’ announced Ortrud, looking at the dead daemonettes.

‘There are many more above us,’ said Franosch, looking to the dripping ceiling, ‘yet still they hold back.’ He looked at Goedendag. ‘Do you think they know it is us? Are they waiting for us?’

‘Who cares?’ said Telramund. ‘We shall meet them soon enough.’

The daemonettes had been fought to a standstill here as they descended the tower from the warp portal. As they had fought, they had ripped apart the thin walls that partitioned the human apartments crowded into the hive block. The ceiling above had been punctured in many places, and Goedendag and the other Iron Knights could now look up through several floors.

Ortrud waded through ankle-deep blood, kicking aside yellow skulls, the flesh recently ripped from the bone.

‘They sealed this floor to keep the blood in,’ he said.

‘There is blood still dripping down upon us,’ said Telramund, ever impatient.

Franosch was frowning, straining to understand.

‘They carry some of the living through the warp portal,’ he says. ‘I hear their screams. But the daemonettes grow bored. They torture and kill those who remain.’

‘Then let us make speed to meet them,’ said Telramund.

‘Telramund speaks well,’ said Goedendag. ‘Franosch, I see the stairs resume undamaged on the next floor. Is it meet that we should take them?’

‘For the moment.’

They advanced in turns, running in pairs up flights of stairs whilst those behind covered them. As they climbed through the floors, the damage inflicted by the holding action lessened. The internal walls of the hive tower reasserted themselves, and Goedendag and the rest began to make out the tiny apartment spaces in which the civilians had lived.

‘What do they make here?’ asked Gottfried.

‘On Minea? Phosgene gas, mainly. They also export Banedox ore.’

‘Look,’ said Gottfried.

Goedendag looked to the floor. A child’s toy lay there, a model Space Marine.

‘There were children here,’ said Fastlinger. He looked sick. Sometimes the jokes were not quite enough to shut out reality. ‘What did they do with them?’

‘Next floor up,’ said Ortrud. ‘You’ll see.’

They climbed the stairs to the next level.

‘Nine hundredth floor,’ said Gottfried.

‘They sealed the stairwell above,’ said Telramund, looking up.

‘Then we cut through with chainswords,’ said Goedendag.

‘We won’t need chainswords,’ replied Telramund bitterly.

Goedendag moved forward to get a better look. A patchwork had been stitched over the stairwell. Shapes of brown, pink and yellow. Blood seeped through the stitches.

‘That’s children’s skin,’ said Goedendag.

‘That’s daemonettes amusing themselves, killing time,’ said Telramund.

‘It’s a warning line,’ said Franosch. ‘It will summon trouble.’

‘Then I will invite trouble to join me,’ said Goedendag, cutting through the patchwork of flesh with a knife. Blood spurted through, and amongst the curling currents and eddies slipped the writhing bodies of snake-fiends, pouring through the gaps, wriggling as they sought out their human prey. Chainswords buzzed into life once more, and the warriors began to swing at the prickling creatures.

‘They cannot penetrate our armour!’ shouted Fastlinger, cutting a snake-fiend in two in a spray of green ichor that steamed and sizzled on contact with the clotting blood.

‘They’re not trying to penetrate,’ called Ortrud. ‘They seek to entangle us.’

As he spoke, a bundle of snake-fiends whipped their way out of the bloody stream and corkscrewed their way towards Goedendag’s sword arm, seeking to wrap it to his body. Goedendag feinted to the side and then brought his chainsword down on the mass of bodies, their scales dark and shining. The scream of the sword joined the splashing of blood and the hiss of ichor. Through the mass of moist movement he saw the white bodies of the daemonettes of Slaanesh dropping down to join the melee.

‘Too much blood,’ gasped Franosch, launching a coulé attack on a snake-fiend, grazing the chainsword down the side of its body before neatly flicking back to sever the head.

‘Less technique, Franosch,’ called Ortrud, ‘More slashing!’

‘There is too much blood,’ repeated Franosch, stamping down on a bundle of snake-fiends with his spiked boots. ‘Still it pours from the warp.’

‘‘Ware the daemonettes!’ called Gottfried, launching a fleche attack at the closest enemy. A white female staggered towards him, seemingly drunk on blood. Goedendag brought his chainsword up beneath Gottfried’s strike, parrying it.

‘Hold,’ called Goedendag, seeing the look of betrayal in his comrade’s eyes. ‘She’s human.’

The Space Marines halted as one, the mocking laughter of daemonettes filling their ears. They took a moment to discern the situation: the followers of Slaanesh stood at the far side of the wide room, bending, taunting, snapping their crab-like claws at the Space Marines. Now Goedendag’s men realised just what the daemonettes had pushed towards them: human women, stripped naked and daubed with white paint, their hair tied up and stained with blood. Prisoners, sent forward to die on the Space Marine’s blades, for was it not a fact that the followers of Slaanesh delighted in killing their opponents in the most vile and tormenting ways?

‘More snake-fiends!’ called Goedendag, as the writhing creatures rose out of the rising tide of blood, circlets of needle teeth glistening with poison, redoubling their attack, this time on the human women as well as the Space Marines themselves.

It was left to Gottfried and Hellstedt to dispatch the snake-fiends. Ortrud and Fastlinger launched themselves at the daemonettes screaming with insane laughter at the other side of the room. They waited a moment as the Space Marines advanced and then retreated at a sedate pace back up the stairs to the next level, wriggling their bodies in an alluring fashion as they did so, taunting their pursuers.

‘Leave them,’ called Goedendag. ‘Look to the women first.’ Reluctantly, Ortrud and Fastlinger returned to his side.

The unceasing flow of blood continued from above, though the tide was diminishing. It swirled in whirlpools around the stairwells leading further down the tower. Seven human women stood weakly, buffeted by the dying tide. And now Goedendag saw why they had remained silent throughout their torment: their mouths had been sewn shut with thick, red thread. He took a knife from his combat armour and cut through the thread sealing the first woman’s mouth.

‘There are more of them above,’ she shouted, red thread piercing her lips in a grotesque moustache. ‘Hundreds, thousands. They’re waiting for you.’

‘Peace,’ said Goedendag Morningstar. ‘We have the advantage.’

The woman’s eyes widened.

‘No! There are only seven of you. You have no advantage. They make ambushes, deadfalls.’

‘Yes,’ said Goedendag. ‘But they must fight us one floor at a time.’

The other women now had their mouths cut free. Goedendag was impressed to see how they held themselves. Frightened, hurt, it was true, but they had not broken down. He remembered Kelra, the Imperial Guardswoman, and he realised that they bred them tough on Minea.

Franosch stepped forward.

‘There is a warp portal near the top floor,’ he said. ‘Have you seen it?’

‘No,’ said the women in unison, but one of them stepped forward. She was rubbing white ichor from her body as she did so, exposing the dark skin underneath.

‘I have not seen the warp portal, but I have heard from one who has. One who fled down the stairs while the lift shafts filled with fire. He told me there is a daemon up there, a greater daemon.’

‘I knew it!’ exclaimed Franosch.

‘Yet why does it not attack?’ said Ortrud. ‘Why does its horde remain at the top of the tower?’

‘They’re waiting for something. It’s part of the deal.’

‘What deal?’

‘Gutor Invareln,’ said the woman. ‘There was a phosgene leak, his body was badly scarred. He was a bitter enough man before his injuries, afterwards he blamed the world for his troubles. He turned upon all his fellow humans; he claimed he was a latent psyker and that he would have his revenge on us all.’

‘Surely this would have brought the Inquisition down upon him,’ called Franosch. ‘Most latents try to avoid their attention.’

‘None of us thought anything of his words. Gutor had always sought any attention to make himself seem more important. To him, even the inquisition would have been welcome.’

‘You believe that Gutor made a deal with a daemon?’ said Goedendag.

‘Yes. He wanted to live to see the destruction of all those who lived around him. Only after that would he surrender to death and allow the portal to fully open! And after that…’

‘After the portal is fully open there will be daemons enough for all of Minea,’ said Franosch.

‘Then we must hurry to make the greater daemon’s acquaintance,’ said Goedendag.

‘Meltaguns?’ said Fastlinger.

‘What about the humans?’ said Ortrud.

‘Use them,’ said one of the women. ‘Better a quick death than what they plan.’

‘Chainswords,’ said Goedendag. ‘Telramund. Less than one hundred floors to go. Move out!’

They splashed up the stairs of the tower. Globs of blood gathered in clumps on their boot spikes. They had to pause to shake them free.

The corridors they passed through were empty; they looked into empty rooms where humans had once lived and saw signs of fighting – overturned chairs, broken tables, even food scattered across the pooled blood on the floor – but of bodies, living or dead, there was no sign.

‘Carried away,’ said Franosch. ‘Sport for now or later.’

They passed floor nine hundred and ten, then nine hundred and twenty.

‘What’s that?’ asked Ortrud. The noise came again, a shrieking sound as of many voices crying in agony.

‘It’s coming from the elevator shaft,’ said Goedendag.

The black metal wall of the elevator shafts was their only constant as they climbed, that and the never ending flow of blood. Each set of doors had buckled and melted shut. Once more, the metal of the shafts seemed to hum with an unearthly music.

‘Like a trumpet call, blown from the warp,’ said Ortrud, darkly.

‘The bodies of those who fled,’ said Franosch. ‘Trapped, still living, in the shafts. Boiled in blood and feasted on by snake-fiends.’

On they climbed. On the nine hundred and twenty-seventh floor, the rooms were filled with human feet. On floor nine hundred and twenty-nine, glistening hearts lay in pools, still beating. They pumped blood from pool to pool, from room to room.

‘This is sick even by Slaaneshi standards,’ said Fastlinger. Goedendag said nothing.

Still they climbed.

Franosch concentrated.

‘Next floor,’ he said. ‘Daemonettes. Hundreds of them. The humans lie beyond them. And then…’

He paused, pushing his meagre psychic ability to its limit.

‘…and then nothing again. Nothing until the top of the building, and whatever awaits us there.’

‘It’s an invitation,’ said Goedendag, calmly. ‘Whatever is at the top is waiting for us. Waiting for me.’

The Space Marines looked at each other. Each felt the guilt of their Chapter, each felt the determination to atone for the sins of their fellow Iron Knights.

‘Tell us what to do, Goedendag.’

Goedendag looked at his chainsword. His lyman’s ear was attuned to the noises from above now, the pitiful cries of the tortured.

‘We’ve climbed nine hundred and forty floors in search of a fight,’ said Goedendag. ‘Now we’ll have one. I have a plan.’ He smiled slowly. ‘And Fastlinger, it’s time for you to sheathe your chainsword for a while…’

They fixed melta bombs to the ceiling, retreated to the floor below and waited for the explosion.

Ortrud was an expert at demolition. The bombs broke the ceiling and nothing more. Or rather, he broke more than the ceiling, for the ceiling was a floor as well, and as the ground beneath their birdlike feet gave way, the daemonettes of Slaanesh found themselves falling, falling down in a rain of blood, of thrashing limbs, of dust and screams and noise, falling towards floor nine hundred and forty, falling in a tangled mass. And erupting from the centre of this confusion came Goedendag and his Iron Knights.

Chainswords buzzed as they chopped at limbs and clove heads in two.

The daemonettes recovered quickly, righting themselves and lunging towards the Space Marines, slashing their crab-like claws and kicking with taloned feet. The Iron Knights formed a circle; seven chainswords thrust, cut and parried with elegant precision. More daemonettes dropped down from the floors above and Goedendag withdrew to the centre of the circle, the better to take on this new attack. One daemonette dropped headfirst towards him, one clawed arm stretched out, pointing at his face. He sidestepped, took her arm and rammed the claw straight down into the floor, piercing the metal there. He pushed her forward, breaking her arm, but at that moment a second daemonette fell on his back and he felt the eldritch power of her claw pierce the shell of his armour, the shrieking pain transmitted to his body through his black carapace. He reached for one of the two morning stars strapped to his back and pulled it free, the spiked head of the ball scraping across the face of the daemonette. Now he swung the ball around, as if to hit his own back. He heard the sickening crunch as her body was crushed between the ball of the morning star and the ceramite of his suit.

Still more daemonettes dropped into the room. The space was filled with white flesh, the slash of claws and the buzz and shriek of chainswords. Above him, Goedendag saw a space leading to the nine hundred and forty-second floor, two floors up.

‘Telramund, you’re in charge,’ he called. Summoning all of his enhanced strength, he leapt upwards, catching hold of the bottom-most step.

A claw slashed down and he caught it, pulling the daemonette down to join her sisters below. Quickly, he scrambled up to the next floor.

Daemonettes crowded towards him. Goedendag took a last look at his fellows fighting below, and then he raised his chainsword and charged forward, cutting his way through to the stairs.

He fought his way upwards against the tide of daemonettes, against the tide of blood. All the while, he had the impression that they were playing with him, that they were allowing him to pass, allowing him to climb higher. The waves of daemonettes diminished, though one or two of them still launched themselves at his chainsword.

Now he passed through the floors where the humans lay prisoner. Some were bound, some crawled on their knees, lacking feet, some lay half eviscerated, their shouts of pain weak in their throats, their tormentors called away to fight the Iron Knights.

The humans called out to him for succour. Goedendag ignored them. He could better aid them by confronting whatever lay at the top of this tower.

He pounded on up the flights of stairs, his anger acting as a buffer, pushing away all those that came before him. Now the daemonettes hung back as he passed; now they stood and watched as he climbed, or they turned and headed downwards to the fray with the remaining Iron Knights.

Now he was certain something was waiting for him at the top of the tower. As he climbed higher, a feeling of anxiety prickled at his heels, and he began to understand the nature of what lay ahead.

The sound of fighting faded to leave an eerie emptiness, a weariness that weighed down on his very soul.

He reached the nine hundred and ninetieth floor, and glimpsed an open space above him.

On floor nine hundred and ninety-two, he stepped out into a vast cavern. The last eight floors had been removed to leave a huge space at the very top of the hive tower. A nascent warp portal hung in the middle of the space, silver and black roiling in a halo on the boundary between this reality and the dreadful void of the otherworld. Blood flowed through the warp portal in a thin stream, splashing onto the mound of dead bodies below that lay folded up to look like pebbles. A mound of pink and brown and yellow pebbles, bound in red cord. And there, standing at the summit, surrounded by the dark halo of the nascent warp, bathed in the blood that ran from it, a shape within a shape.

Goedendag climbed the pile of the dead, and finally he came face to face with Gutor Invareln, latent psyker, the cause of all the horror.

Around the human, Goedendag could see the outline of the creature that had possessed him. Huge and powerful, with a bovine face, one female breast and four arms. Two of them ended in human-like hands, two of them in crab-like claws.

A greater daemon of Slaanesh. A Keeper of Secrets.

The daemon had not achieved full corporeality; it seemed to be still existing in some halfway state as it entered this universe. The psyker was completely possessed, looking out from the translucent form of the demon that surrounded him, eyes vacant, an idiot grin on his face.

The daemon giggled at the sight of Goedendag.

‘How appropriate,’ said the daemon. ‘For the Iron Knights have their secrets, do they not?’

‘And you are a Keeper of Secrets,’ replied Goedendag.

‘What is your name?’

‘Goedendag Morningstar.’

There was silence, broken only by the ever present dripping of blood.

‘Don’t you wish to know my name?’ asked the daemon.

‘No.’

A look of petulance crossed the daemon’s face, like that of a small child denied a toy. It quickly passed.

‘And yet I believe I do hold a secret you wish to know. Do you wish to know the location of your brethren?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The daemon laughed.

‘I know that you are lying. Everyone knows of the penitence of the Iron Knights. Few outside the order know the reason. I am one of them. I am a Keeper of Secrets, and I know the location of your traitor brethren. It lies beyond the portal, Goedendag Morningstar, but I think you know that already. Why else would you have come here?’

‘To kill you, of course.’

The daemon looked beyond Goedendag’s shoulder. Goedendag did not turn. He could hear the skittering, giggling sound made by the daemonettes who filed into the room behind him.

‘My daughters are here. It would appear the comrades you left behind on the floor below have fallen, Goedendag Morningstar.’

‘It is no disgrace to die in battle.’

‘The traitors you seek thought otherwise, Goedendag Morningstar. They chose Chaos, Goedendag Morningstar. And you nearly chose the same!’

Goedendag said nothing, for to speak with a daemon was to be drawn into an argument with a daemon.

‘I will take your silence as agreement.’ The half seen features of the daemon looked down. Within its form, the psyker beamed with happy idiocy. ‘There is no need for you to lie, Goedendag Morningstar. I can sense the shame within you. It is the only thing that you have that outshines the temptation you feel, for you are full of lust for the pleasures of life. The pleasures denied to a Space Marine.’

Still Goedendag was silent.

‘And I should know. Isn’t that what I am about? The Keeper of Secrets? What secrets could be greater than those we do not want to know about ourselves?’

‘What secrets, indeed?’ said Goedendag tightly.

‘See? You speak! You should not be ashamed, Goedendag Morningstar. Your behaviour does not surprise me. Who is more zealous in following a path than one who has almost fallen from it? A man who was never tempted would not have half your ferocity. Look, it brought you to the top of this tower!’

‘I came to destroy you.’

‘So you say. Come, Goedendag Morningstar. Soon the portal will open fully. Why not pass beyond it? Join your dark brethren. Join the Iron Knights that you call traitors.’

‘Enough talk, daemon. It is time to fight.’

The daemon laughed.

‘Fight? It is all that you can do to stand, Goedendag Morningstar. Look at you. My very presence induces anguish and ecstasy within you.’

Goedendag looked down at the floor, focused on the corporeal feet of the psyker that stood within the outline of the daemon, and he tried to concentrate on the reality of the situation. In truth, he felt a savage joy within him that he usually knew best from battle, but this time it was mixed with something more innocent, something that rang with the purity of childhood, but a tainted purity, something polluted by blood and perverted in daemonic fashion. He felt the excitement that he had known when, as an aspirant, he had first begun the transition to Space Marine, when the gene-seed had been implanted and he had begun the long process of modification. Except now he felt something that he hadn’t known at the time. A deep anguish, a total certainty that the procedure would fail, that his body would reject the process and he would be branded a failure, that he would let down those who had come to depend upon him.

‘You’re strong, daemon’ admitted Goedendag. ‘You are affecting even me.’

‘This human is strong,’ said the daemon, indicating the psyker within himself. ‘Strong enough to offer himself in sacrifice in order to open the portal.’

‘He was a weak man!’ shouted Goedendag.

‘He was a bitter man. Bitter that his powers were overlooked by the Imperium.’

‘He should have been executed as a danger to all.’ Goedendag felt his willpower draining away.

‘Lucky for us that he was not. You know what price he asked in order to sacrifice himself to the portal? Only that he lived long enough to see us succeed. That was one bargain that we were happy to keep.’

Goedendag felt the chainsword getting heavier in his hands.

‘You’re getting weaker,’ said the daemon, as the chainsword slipped though Goedendag’s fingers and clattered to the floor.

‘I can still fight.’

‘I don’t think so. And so, Goedendag, before you die, I have one final question to ask you. Goedendag means Morningstar, does it not?’

‘It does. This is the last question you wish to ask me?’

‘No, you interrupt me. Your name, therefore, is Morningstar Morningstar. Why is that?’

‘Because of this,’ said Goedendag. And he crossed his hands over his chest and, gripping the two morning star handles that were fastened on his back, he swung them up and around, through the translucent outline of the daemon and brought them together, crushing the psyker’s head. There was a crunch of bone, grey matter exploding in a disk between the spikes of the two balls.

The daemon shrieked, and immediately Goedendag felt the sense of anguish and ecstasy decrease.

‘The portal is closing,’ said the daemon. ‘But I will make my mark in this world first!’

Goedendag stooped and scooped the chainsword from the floor. The daemon saw what he was doing and laughed.

‘That will not harm me in this form!’

‘I am not aiming for you,’ replied Goedendag coolly as he triggered the chainsword and used it to cut through the dead psyker’s neck. ‘Removing the head will speed the closing of the rift.’ He straightened up and moved around so that his back was to the shrinking portal.

‘And now,’ he said. ‘What will your daemonettes do? Will they attempt to pass me as they flee for the closing warp?’

The daemon laughed.

‘One man against the force of the daemonettes? I only wish I could sustain corporeality enough to watch you die under their onslaught! As it is, I will take comfort in the fact the location of your Iron Brethren will remain my secret!’

‘Daemon, when I have disposed of your daughters, I will come looking for you. You have my word on that.’

The daemon laughed louder.

‘You say that when you fight only with a chainsword? And listen! My sisters approach now!’

It was true. Goedendag heard the skittering of claws on blood and iron.

‘Only a chainsword, you say,’ said Goedendag, smiling grimly. ‘You forget my morning stars.’

‘And will that be enough?’ laughed the daemon.

‘Let us see,’ said Goedendag, and he triggered the chainsword. The angry buzzing was an invitation to the approaching daemons. He stepped forward and raised his sword.

Simultaneously, eight white-bodied daemons leapt at him, screaming in unison. They raised their crab-like claws and plunged towards Goedendag, teeth bared. Eight more leapt up behind them.

‘Goodbye,’ said the daemon, and Goedendag stepped forward to meet the lithe attackers. The first lunged forward with one snapping claw. Goedendag swung his chainsword in a tight circle that sliced through the claw and into the side of the daemonette that followed. A clawed foot lashed out and took hold of his armoured boot. Goedendag ignored it and slashed at another attacker.

‘Come on!’ he called. ‘Come on, all of you!’

White bodies advanced on all sides. Claws, screaming, blood, ichor. Goedendag stood at the top of a mound of naked, bound bodies, bathed in blood, and he fought like a daemon himself. But there were too many of them. The sheer weight of numbers began to overwhelm him.

And then he heard a shout. There, in the distance, he saw Telramund, armour half broken, bathed in blood and ichor. And behind him, Fastlinger, and then Franosch.

The shout came again.

‘The humans are clear.’

Tired though he was, Goedendag smiled.

‘Now,’ he said, holstering his chainsword. ‘Now it is time for meltaguns!’

The Iron Knights looked at the bodies of the fallen. Goedendag and Franosch watched the shrinking remnants of the closing portal.

‘Anything?’ asked Goedendag.

Franosch shook his head.

‘Sorry. Nothing.’ He wiped his forehead, removing a splash of blood. ‘Did it occur to you that the daemon could be lying?’

Goedendag looked thoughtful.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘It knew too much.’

‘Then the Iron Brethren exist somewhere in the warp. The story is true.’

‘Perhaps…’ He place a warning hand on Franosch’s arm. Kelra, the Imperial Guardswoman, had entered the room.

‘So, Goedendag,’ she said, ‘you succeeded. The tower is secure. The civilians are safe. Thank you.’

‘We don’t do this for gratitude,’ said Goedendag. ‘Don your helmets, brothers. It’s time to leave.’

‘But–’ called Kelra.

‘Thank you, sister,’ said Goedendag. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

About the Author

Manchester-based author Tony Ballantyne has written a number of SF novels and short stories, and has been nominated for the BSFA and Philip K Dick awards. For Black Library, he has penned the 40K short story Tower of Blood.

The Black Dragons battle treachery and daemons, and two Chapters unite to cleanse a space hulk of alien horrors in an all-action Space Marines omnibus.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Hammer and Bolter Issue 6 (2011).
This eBook edition published in 2015 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

Tower of Blood © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2015. Tower of Blood, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78572-298-1

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

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