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 powered
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.

Im 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 inquisitions 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.

Whats 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.

Kelras eyes widened as she looked to Franosch.

Hes 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 Telramunds 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 Fastlingers 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 Fastlingers 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.

Thats 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 were 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 dont 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.

Ill 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 hnurrgh! 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 Goedendags face. His
chainsword-wielding hand was trapped by the daemonettes foot.

The betchers glands in Goedendags 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-fiends body. He carried on with the movement, circling down to cut
through the daemonettes leg. She screamed and jumped forward, needle teeth
moving within her mouth, but Goedendags 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 daemonettes 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 childs 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. Youll 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 wont 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.

Thats childrens skin, said Goedendag.

Thats daemonettes amusing themselves, killing time, said Telramund.

Its 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.

Theyre 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 Goedendags 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 coule 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 Gottfrieds strike,
parrying it.

Hold, called Goedendag, seeing the look of betrayal in his comrades eyes.
Shes 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 Goedendags 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 Marines 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
womans mouth.

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

Peace, said Goedendag Morningstar. We have the advantage.

The womans 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?

Theyre waiting for something. Its part of the deal.

 What deal?

Gutor Invareln, said the woman. There was 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 daemons 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.

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

Its coming from the elevator shaft, said Goedendag.

The black metal wall of the elevator shafts wa 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.

Its 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 lymans ear was attuned to the
noises from above now, the pitiful cries of the tortured.

Weve climbed nine hundred and forty floors in search of a fight, said
Goedendag. Now well have one. I have a plan. He smiled slowly. And
Fastlinger, its 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
clawed 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 clawsand 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, youre 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 chaos.

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.

Dont you wish to know my name? asked the daemon.

 No.

A look of petulance crossed the daemons 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 dont know what youre 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 Goedendags 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. Isnt that what I am about? The Keeper of Secrets?
What secrets could be greater than those we do not want to knowabout
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, focussed 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 hadnt 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.

Youre 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.

Youre getting weaker, said the daemon, as the chainsword slipped though
Goedendags fingers and clattered to the floor.

I can still fight.

I dont 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 psykers 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 psykers 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 dont 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 Franoschs 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 dont do this for gratitude, said Goedendag. Don your helmets, brothers.
Its time to leave.

But called Kelra.

Thank you, sister, said Goedendag. Well see ourselves out.