Warhammer Mantle of the Champion

The catacombs of Titan were typically quiet, candlelit vaults of memoriam and reflection. Here the Grey Knights interred their dead, monuments to a secret war unknown by the greater whole of mankind. This day however the carved stone walls echoed with the treads of a funeral procession, carrying a brother to his final rest. Two Grey Knights in Terminator armor led a procession of six other similarly garbed Knights. The six carried a bier upon which lay the shrouded body of Dunamis, Champion of the Seventh Brotherhood. The two were among the leaders of the chapter: Grand Master Leisan Xin and Brother-Captain Nathaniel of the Seventh Brotherhood. Carrying one of the bier corners, Abishai marched in step with the other pall bearers behind the Brotherhood leaders.

They'd been travelling through the catacombs for nearly an hour now. The carved statues of countless generations of the honored dead watched over them as they made their way deeper through the labyrinthine tunnels. Finally they came to one of the corridors that housed the remains of the Seventh Brotherhood Champions. Some of the statues were so worn with age that the details of their faces were indiscernible. Others still looked freshly carved; they were so clean and crisp they were practically glowing in the gloom. Abishai recognized some of the representations of legends from the Chapter's annals. There was Morius, who had so influenced how recruits and neophytes were instructed in the art of the blade. He saw Aronthor, renowned for twice overcoming the fiend known as Karanak. There stood Thadrian, whose skill with the blade was such that he had shattered the chosen elite of a Word Bearers warlord. There were still so many Abishai didn't know.

"In the halls of Fidelity's gilded palaces did Dunamis strike down the traitor governor, who through his weakness of will and spirit was possessed by the hated Archenemy," recited Brother-Captain Nathaniel. Grey Knight funerals were a curious mix of sorrow and pride, Abishai reflected. The closest brothers of the fallen lamented their passing even as they ritually spoke of the notable deeds performed by the dead. The roll of triumphs for Dunamis was long indeed.

"Upon the fields of Samarith he slew the herald of the dark prince, though sorely pressed and wounded by its loathsome handmaidens. More than two score daemons fell to Dunamis' blade on that day, yet he boasted not of his victories."

They were approaching the sarcophagus where they would lay Dunamis to rest. His statue already stood over the sarcophagus, psychically carved by the chapter serfs who tended to such duties in the Dead Fields. Abishai gazed at the patrician features of Dunamis engraved into granite. They were unmarred by the deep wounds in his real body. The statue's head was inclined forward as if in meditation or prayer with a serene expression on his face. A casual observer might have thought the expression meant unawareness or placidity, but Abishai had seen that expression all too often on Dunamis' face right before he launched a devastating assault with his blade. The likeness was remarkable, and Abishai silently commended the skill of the artisans responsible.

"Saint Miriel's Rest was delivered by Dunamis' valor when he rent asunder the vile flesh-portal of the Enslavers and halted their incursion before it overran the world," said Nathaniel. The pall bearers approached and lowered the bier into the sarcophagus. Abishai read the inscription at the base of the statue representing Dunamis:

_Dunamis_

_Champion of the Seventh Brotherhood_

_Aegis of the Masters, Blade of the Emperor_

_His legacy endures in his instruction_

Abishai thought back to the long hours as a novice when Dunamis had drilled the Seventh in blade routines, correcting minute flaws in their stances, grips, and a myriad host of other details. He remembered the duels where Dunamis effortlessly defeated initiate after initiate, a particular highlight one tutelary bout where he'd instructed them in facing multiple opponents by taking on six of them at once. Abishai thought back as well to the many battles they'd fought together as brothers. He would dearly miss not only Dunamis' humble devotion to duty but also the easy camaraderie they'd shared.

"Aboard the space hulk _Song of Calamity_ Dunamis held the line against the growing hordes of the Neverborn and bought time for his brothers to crush the ritual of the Devouring Storm." Abishai remembered the twisting, mashed tunnels of the space hulk; the desperate close-quarters combat as daemons boiled out of seemingly every shadow. He recalled Dunamis holding firm in a ruined airlock, crackling sword lashing out against the claws and tentacles as the tide of foes hurled themselves at him.

Bending down together with the other pall bearers, Abishai lifted his end of the sarcophagus cover, a solid slab of carved granite. As one, they lifted it up and slid it into place over Dunamis. Abishai looked at the Chapter icon carved upon the surface of the sarcophagus lid: the open book and vertical sword. This was the fate of all Grey Knights - to give completely of themselves to their duty and Chapter.

"At the last Dunamis fell in the depths of Hive Jethamel to a daemon prince of the blood god. Yet even in death he was triumphant, for he struck down his foe as he breathed his last. With the felling of the beast, our brotherhood purged the hive with holy flame and bolt."

Abishai closed his eyes and relived those moments. The battle had already been raging as the strike team clashed with dozens of Bloodletters in the cramped undercity. He remembered the flash and the feeling of _wrongness _as the fiend tore into reality from the Warp. He saw again the daemon prince, a grotesquely warped humanoid that towered over even Astartes in Terminator armor, itself clad in bronze plate that resembled some archaic form of power armor. Cracked red flesh wept flaming blood. Jutting horns protruded above an oversized maw that was somehow canine in nature. It swept aside Theodus and Enkidron, hurling their bodies through rockcrete walls. The monstrous axe it gripped in one claw screamed through the fanged maws adorning the side of the blade. Abishai hurled himself at the beast, managing a desperate parry with his sword that redirected the axe enough to keep it from bisecting him. He plunged his blade into the daemon's left side, the power field sundering its armor with ease. The wound only seemed to anger the daemon prince, and it contemptuously backhanded Abishai, knocking him a dozen meters away. Abishai landed in a heap. His armor HUD was a blinking craze of icons and warnings as even the vaunted Terminator suit's machine spirit struggled to compensate for the sudden damage. He could feel the broken bones grinding throughout his body; his gene enhanced physiology was already straining to knit them back together. He felt the chemical surge of stimulants and painkillers his armor systems were injecting to keep him conscious.

He saw Dunamis, conspicuous in his suit of artificer armor, hurl himself at the daemon prince. It brayed in challenge, which turned into a howl of pain and fury as Dunamis delivered a vicious chop to its knee. It stumbled, and then lashed out with its axe. The blow battered through the Champion's guard and rent a deep wound in his chest. Dunamis responded in kind, and their duel began in earnest. Abishai saw the two trade dozens of blows in the span of moments, a whirlwind of deadly motion even a Space Marine could barely keep track of. What was clear was that Dunamis was losing. He was bleeding from at least four deep wounds, faster than his Larraman's Organ could clot them. Abishai pushed himself up and fired a burst from his storm bolter. The explosive rounds blew divots out of the daemon prince's flesh, but it didn't even seem to notice.

The end came suddenly. The daemon axe flashed down, cleaving down through Dunamis' neck and torso. The Champion sagged down onto one knee, and then Abishai felt the desperate pulse of psychic energy from Dunamis. In defiance of his mortal wounds, Dunamis surged up and plunged his sword into the daemon's chest. There was one last glimmer of psychic will that burned up through the blade. The daemon prince roared, making a sound of agony that sounded like some unholy combination of braying cattle and brass gongs. It crumbled in on itself, body folding up as it clawed futilely at the air in an attempt to maintain its presence in reality. Finally, it dissipated into a cloud of impossibly colored smoke. Dunamis remained standing for one long moment, then collapsed facedown and lay still. Abishai reached out psychically and felt only a void. Dunamis was gone.

Abishai opened his eyes and returned to the moment. The assembled Grey Knights stood clustered around the sarcophagus. Grand Master Xin stepped to the head of the sarcophagus and laid a gauntleted hand on its surface. Compared to Nathaniel, Xin was known as a man of few words and he'd been silent throughout the funeral.

"Dunamis will be missed," Xin said. "Few could match his skill with the blade or the quality of his instruction. Yet this I will always remember about him: that he showed me with his deeds his devotion to duty. Who among you recalls the purging of Hive Euphoris?"

Abishai nodded with the assembled Knights.

"I remember the spires collapsing in flame," continued Xin. "I remember Dunamis charging towards the Herald of the changeling god in the temple court even as the debris rained down around him. I asked him after the battle why he did not retreat, to pick another time and place than under a collapsing city. He answered me simply: 'It was my duty.' This is the essence of what it means to be one of our order: to stand against the daemon even as the galaxy collapses into fire around us. For the Emperor!"

"For the Emperor," intoned the Knights.

A day after the funeral, Abishai was in his living cell working on his armor. The worst of the damaged pieces had to go to the Techmarines for more thorough repairs, but there was a comforting ritual in tending to the things he could. He'd just finished realigning some of the knuckle pieces in his left gauntlet when he sensed the presences: two keen minds that radiated will and purpose. Xin and Nathaniel were coming.

He pulled open the cell door as they arrived. "Grand Master, Brother-Captain," he greeted them as he saluted. "How may I be of service?"

"Let us speak inside," said Xin. The three stepped into Abishai's cell. It was crowded, especially with his armor pieces laid out. Fortunately Xin and Nathaniel were wearing plain robes and not their own immense suits of armor. Abishai stood at attention before the leaders of the Seventh until Xin motioned for him to stand at ease.

"Brother Abishai, we would like you to take up the duties of Brotherhood Champion," said Nathaniel. Abishai stood in silence for a moment. Neither of the two before him was known for making jests.

"You are in earnest?" he asked anyways.

"Yes."

"Why me?" said Abishai. "I am not the most skilled with a sword amongst our Brotherhood. Jerome can best me in four out of five bouts. Why offer me this honor?"

He felt the brief flicker of a psychic conversation between Nathaniel and Xin, and the shadow of a smile crossed Nathaniel's face. Abishai had the feeling that he had just passed a test of some sort. Xin's scarred face held a look of approval.

"Your honesty reaffirms that you are well-suited for the role."

"You thought of skill with the blade immediately when offered the position," added Nathaniel. "True, this is the most obvious expression of a Brotherhood Champion's role, but it is not all."

"What is Novitiate Borasin's greatest weakness with the sword?" asked Xin suddenly. Abishai frowned quizzically for a moment, wondering about the sudden change in topic.

"He opens his guard too much when he makes storm bolter shots at close ranges," said Abishai.

"What would be a suitable weapon for Novitiate Isaac when he completes his training?"

"The Daemon Hammer."

"Why?"

"His techniques are blunt: functional and powerful. He strikes when the blow will make the biggest difference in the fight."

"And Novitiate Hassen?"

"The Falchions. His mind bears a natural affinity to the circuits, and he could become one of their foremost experts in time. With respect, Grand Master, why are you asking me this?" Abishai asked.

"To open your eyes," smiled Xin. "Look how readily you could respond to these questions. Why do you think that is?"

"I…." Abishai faltered. Why did he know these things? He'd always spent time with Dunamis, aiding in the instruction of the Novitiates. "I have always seen it as part of my duties, to the Brotherhood and the Chapter."

"This is an equally important role of the Champion: to invest in the future through the instruction and training of the Novitiates," said Nathaniel. "Not every Grey Knight possesses this temperament or awareness. On the battlefield, a Champion may decide the course of a single battle. In the training halls, a Champion may decide the course of an entire Brotherhood. You already walk the beginnings of this path."

"Dunamis thought so as well," Xin added. "Did you know that he recommended you to be the next Champion upon his death?"

"No, Grand Master. I am honored."

"Do not be too swift to assume that the role of the Champion is such a glorious honor," said Nathaniel. "Recall the catacombs filled with Brotherhood Champions. We will all fall in battle eventually; this is the lot of our lives. Yet Champions will face the direst foes again and again, far more frequently than most battle-brothers. To become Brotherhood Champion is to accept a death sentence: to lay down your life to hold back the darkness for one more day."

"That is the duty of all Grey Knights," nodded Abishai.

"And magnified in the Champion," said Xin. "Do you understand that in all likelihood, we are asking you to accept an early death?"

"Yes," said Abishai. "I am still honored that you ask this of me."

"We do not require an immediate answer. Take some time to think and meditate," said Xin. He sighed, and for a moment Abishai could see the strain that the Grand Master must be under. "The Seventh has a great deal of rebuilding to do after Jethamel as it is."

With that, Xin and Nathaniel left Abishai's cell. They closed the door behind them with a resounding _thud_, and Abishai was left alone with his thoughts. He'd never expected this. The position of Brotherhood Champion was not one that he'd ever thought about attaining to - he wasn't the premier swordsman in his Brotherhood, and he'd never looked at instructing novitiates as anything more than duty. What did Xin and Nathaniel see in him that he didn't? What had Dunamis seen in him that he didn't?

Abishai stood still in his chamber for a long time contemplating the offer. He thought back to that long corridor of the buried Champions. There were generations of the honored dead who had given their lives in the Endless War, oftentimes their sole consolation in death that they dragged their killers to the grave with them. Was he worthy to stand in such exalted company? He looked inwards, examining his soul. He didn't fear death - no Astartes did. From his time as a Novitiate, through his service as a battle-brother in the Seventh Brotherhood, his life had been driven by duty. He realized that for him, this was the deciding factor. His Brotherhood, his Chapter, had asked him to take on one more set of duties in a lifetime of duties. He would not be found wanting now.

A week later, he found himself standing in the freshly repaired armor of the Seventh Brotherhood's Champion. It was an ancient suit of artificer armor that offered protection comparable to the Terminator armor he was more accustomed to yet possessed the same build and mobility of lighter power armor. Chapter records showed that this suit had been worn by Champions of the Seventh going back nearly six thousand years. It was meticulously maintained and repaired, passed down from one Champion to the next. Gold filigreed script contrasted the metallic sheen of polished ceramite across his breastplate, knees, and shoulder pads. He could feel the wards crafted into the inner layers of his armor like a soothing chorus in the back of his mind. His helmet rested in the crook of his arm, its blue eye lenses dormant.

He gazed at the tall double doors before him that led to the Seventh Brotherhood's meeting hall. The ancient wooden surfaces were bound with polished iron bands. He could sense the thirty-two Grey Knights assembled in the hall beyond, all the members of the Seventh present on Titan at this time. As usual many of their members were scattered across the length and breadth of the Imperium, endlessly responding to daemonic incursions. Many of those present were survivors of the recent Jethamel battle. He sensed two battle-brothers approaching the door. They pulled the ponderous doors open and he stepped into the hall for the ceremony.

The hall was lit by multitudes of candles and suspended braziers. The assembled Grey Knights stood in rows on either side of the center aisle leading to the front of the hall where Xin and Nathaniel were standing in front of a roughly hewn table. A pair of Paladins stood on either side of the two steps leading to the stage where they stood.

"We welcome Brother Abishai and bid him come before us," called Xin in the traditional greeting of the ceremony. Abishai marched down the aisle, feeling the gazes and subtle mental probes of the Grey Knights. He stepped up before Xin and Nathaniel and bowed once.

"Brother Abishai stands nominated as the next Champion of the Seventh Brotherhood," said Xin. "Is there a battle-brother present who speaks on his behalf?"

"I will," said Jerome as he stepped out of the ranks. In truth, Abishai was a little surprised. He'd expected Jerome to contest his nomination. "I have seen Brother Abishai's dedication to the Chapter and to battling the daemon. I testify to his skill with the blade as well as his rapport with the Novitiates."

"Is there a battle-brother present who opposes Abishai's nomination?" asked Xin in accordance with tradition. None came forward, though that wasn't unexpected. Abishai had only heard of a single contested nomination in his lifetime. Xin waited several more moments, and then nodded. He turned to Abishai.

"The offer has been extended. Abishai, will you stand as Champion of the Seventh Brotherhood?"

"I will," said Abishai.

"Do you swear to uphold the honor of the Seventh and the Chapter, facing all enemies of mankind in battle?"

"I swear."

"Do you swear to defend the lives of your brothers at the cost of your own?"

"I swear."

"Do you swear to instruct and train the Novitiate and Battle-Brother alike to the fullest extent of your ability?"

"I swear."

"The Brotherhood acknowledges your oaths," said Xin. He drew his Nemesis Force Sword, its deactivated blade a length of iron flecked with tiny silver runes. "Kneel."

Abishai went down on one knee before the Grand Master, his head bowed. He felt Xin touch his right and then his left pauldrons with the flat of the blade, an echo of warrior rituals from the ancient days of Old Earth. He heard the rasp as Xin re-sheathed his sword.

"Rise, Abishai, Champion of the Seventh Brotherhood."

The assembled Knights pounded clenched fists against their chests in salute as Abishai stood up. He looked up to see Xin step to one side as Nathaniel came forward. The Brother-Captain bore a folded piece of cloth in his hands. He unfolded it as he approached Abishai. It was a scarlet cape, trimmed in gleaming white and interwoven with runes of warding and purity. Abishai recognized the ceremonial cape worn by the Seventh's Champions. It was still in pristine condition despite its thousands of years of service in part because few Champions ever actually wore it into battle. Nathaniel stepped around behind Abishai and attached the cloak to his back with its electromagnetic clamps.

"Wear it proudly, Champion," said Nathaniel. He returned to the table and picked up another item. It was nearly two meters long, and Abishai recognized it as the anointed sword traditionally carried by the Champions. It was in a worn leather scabbard the color of oak. He saw its forged black hilt and the rounded pommel inlaid with gold. The golden crossguard was shaped like a pair of swept back wings. He'd last seen the sword in Dunamis' hands. Nathaniel came before Abishai and presented it to him with both hands.

"This blade has served the Chapter for over five thousand years," he said. "Dunamis would have been proud that you are the one to wield it after him." Abishai took the sword with a solemn bow and fastened the scabbard to his side. He kept his hand on the hilt for a moment, extending his will and probing the psy-reactive circuitry embedded in the blade. The sword responded to him like a melody in his head, as if it were already a part of him. He was surprised at the strength of the connection, but it was an encouraging sign. For the first time since accepting the position of Brotherhood Champion, Abishai felt genuine peace, as if his brief link with the sword was an answer to a question he hadn't known he'd asked.

He saw the look of approval in Xin and Nathaniel's eyes, and knew that they'd sensed his connection with the sword as well. Xin nodded to the assembled Grey Knights behind Abishai and he turned to face them. They looked at him with various degrees of approval and expectation.

"Brothers," Abishai said. "I stand here in the place of our previous Champion. Dunamis was mentor to many of us until he fell in battle, and one of you will likely stand in my place after I do the same. Since the founding of our Chapter, our duty to the Emperor has never changed. We stand as the hidden bulwark against the predations of the Warp. We will spend our lives to hurl the daemon back to whence it came. We are the hammer!"

"We are the hammer!"

Abishai lifted his helm to his head and slipped it on. He heard the hiss of the seal it formed and breathed in the filtered air. The eye displays powered up slowly, as if the suit's machine spirit was still acclimating to a new wearer. Abishai knew that he would die in this suit of armor, and that he would go to his death battling the foes of humanity. He looked at his brothers through the cold blue lenses of the helmet and nodded once. In unison, the Seventh Brotherhood saluted its new Champion.


End file.
