The Darkest Knight

[Captain Juan Juarez]

Sigismund.

 

That was his name!

 

He remembered now.

 

Sigismund: Sword Brethren of the Black Templars and noble scion of mighty Rogal Dorn.

 

Born upon the feudal world of Bavaria, raised amid the constant warfare of the noble Houses, he had been taken by the mighty Adeptus Astartes for a life amid the stars. He had been only six years old when taken, already versed in the arts of the sword and shield even at such an age.

 

With agony coursing through his body he had undergone the tests and examinations; through force of will and anger he had held on where others had failed so easily, triumphant in the end and becoming a Neophyte assigned to the Vikrath Crusade under the command of Marshal Siegfried.

 

Slowly his career had begun, under the aegis of Brother Ziegmund, learning all the myriad arts of war from a man with a hundred times his years. Thirty years, and many more campaigns, he served at the side of Brother Zeigmund and then Brother Zarr when Ziegmund fell to the blade of an Eldar.

 

Bolt pistol, chainsword and shotgun.

 

These were his tools in service to Dorn and Him on Terra, the instruments of his zeal and the source of righteous damnation for heretic, Xenos and daemon alike.

 

It was on Ravaarsh that he was finally accepted as an Initiate, a full and blooded brother of the Black Templars. Awarded the armour of a brother fallen upon the field, cherishing this slice of history, this hardened ceremite that fit his form like a glove.

 

Half a hundred years and more he warred across the cosmos, mastering the chainsword and bolt pistol and reaping a fearsome tally.

 

His honours were many; for marksmanship as he killed a Lord of the Alpha Legion, shooting him dead even as he slew Dreadnought-Brother Heinz. And for leadership as he took control of his leaderless squad, routing a force of three hundred Traitor guardsmen and turning the tide at the Battle of Twilight Hive.

It was at the Battle of Deacons Rift that he was awarded his prized powersword, the blade in the fashion of a two-handed greatsword until he had the Artificers restyle it.

 

He called the blade Geddon, meaning death in one of the old languages of Terra. This ancient blade that was broken and reformed so that instead of tapering to a point it became fanged, like some ancient serpent.

 

It was that blade he carried as a Crusade was ambushed seventy years later at Twilight Hive, this time their attackers the foul Eldar Xenos; a veritable host, by Eldar standards, from the Craftworld of Biel-Tan.

 

It was with Geddon that he saved the life of the same Marshal Siegfried he had begun his career under so many years before. The blade of a Howling Banshee Exarch had pierced his left shoulder, his hallowed bolt pistol dropping into the mire as he had thrown himself between the Marshal and the deadly blow.

 

He had taken the blow to his pauldron, feeling the keen-edged blade slice his skin even as his return blow had taken the head from the Exarch.

 

It was then and there that Marshal Siegfried had honoured him by bestowing upon him the title of Sword Brethren, then and there that he had taken the fight to the enemies of Man with a zeal reinforced.

 

And legion was his kill-tally; during the Cressida Crusade alone he added near four hundred Tau deaths. Whilst during ship-to-ship action in the Verder Drift he accounted for thirty-three confirmed Traitor Marine kills.

 

Hundreds of worlds saw the tread of his armoured feet, hundreds of worlds that he gazed upon through the autosenses of his helmet. For three-hundred and fifty years more he had hunted the foes of Mankind with his brethren, like thousands of Black Templars and tens of thousands of Astartes.

 

Drenaith, the Burning World, was where it all began. Rebel Guardsmen of the 956th Mordian Iron Guard turned their lasguns against the populace, millions dying before the Templars answered the call to arms.

 

He had hewn them as a lumberjack does a tree; precisely and with a rhythmic tempo, lacking all the artistry his blade work was known for but still there was no end and with reluctance burning inside the Templars fell back to the fleet.

 

As he watched the Exterminatus order given from the bridge of the Righteous Man he had felt as if he could feel the cries of the millions still living, for however short a time.

 

But that was soon replaced by a thrill of apprehension as Chaplain Matthias gazed at him from behind the silver-skulled helmet he wore, as if he could sense some taint or failing.

 

Thirty years later he stayed his hand against a band of rebel Guardsmen as they sought forgiveness, that forgiveness lasting long enough for a rebel Leman Russ to annihilate seventeen of his Brothers.

 

He had slaked his anger in their blood, those of his squad who survived looking upon him as though he were some crazed Blood Angel or a mangy Space Wolf.

 

The doubts had begun to grown then, blossoming into tiny heresies in his mind. What right had man to demand protection when they would not themselves? Why should his Brothers perish for no reward, what honour did these humans bestow upon them for their sacrifice?

 

It was upon Tarsk that he made his final choice, running Geddon through the other four men of the honour detail before making his escape in a Thunderhawk.

It was then he became a renegade, choosing to fight only those battles he chose and not those his masters had decreed.

 

When he could he crossed blades with the heretic and the traitor, never seeing in their eyes a look so closely mirrored by his own. And even as he slew those of the Black Templars who came for him he could not but cleave to his ideal; that he knew the better way, as Geddon ran red with blood sworn to duty, as only he could.

 

As the years had passed he became the scourge of a dozen systems, his ire now turned to the corrupt and idle Imperium. They named him many brands of traitor and renegade, after the Issilyan Massacres, where once he had been a paragon of virtue and honour.

 

But he remembered now.

 

His brothers, new and old, called him something else now: renegade or traitor. And he had not been Sigismund in so very long.

 

Now, where once stood Sigismund, was only the Dreadknight.

[Marshal Rohr]

Question:

Is it supposed to be the real Sigismund?

 

Observations:

The descriptions are vivid and well done. I like the idea of a vengeful angel who lives long enough to see himself become the villain.

[raptor1199]

howling banshee autarch?

you mean exarch?

[Captain Juan Juarez]

Question:

Is it supposed to be the real Sigismund?

 

Observations:

The descriptions are vivid and well done. I like the idea of a vengeful angel who lives long enough to see himself become the villain.

 

No, just another Brother with that name.. I like the - in my own mind at least - the added force when you counterpoint the fall of a Brother sharing the name of the Templars founder.

 

howling banshee autarch?

you mean exarch?

 

Probably :P

[Dosjetka]

Very well written. I like it :devil:

 

Ludovic

[Nacho Wolf]

Very good, you planning on adding anything to it?

[Captain Juan Juarez]

Very well written. I like it :)

 

Ludovic

 

 

Very good, you planning on adding anything to it?

 

 

Thank you gentlemen.

 

Nacho Wolf, I don't intend to add anything further to this particular piece, however at some point I plan to pen a further piece in the Tale of the Dreadknight.

[Nacho Wolf]

Oh, bit of a shame, well, I look forward to a surprise when I see that 'Tale of the Dreadknight'

[Brother Augustine]

Ah, the gradual fall of a Marine. Sad to see, but overall very well written. Well done.