Defeats Astartes

Anaxsus came first. Anaxsus the Grey, oldest of the Temple Brothers, raised to the sword in the Northern Hives of Terra, a warrior of mark before the VII Legion even had a name to carry to the stars, and now he was the first to come at Sigismund. A blow with his mace from above, two-handed, strength flowing into stone and steel. Sigismund met the blow, let it slam his sword down, let the blade pivot with the momentum of the impact, and slashed the edge into Anaxsus' face plate. Ceramite cracked, and Sigismund was already striking again, twice more, low and high, and Anaxsus was pivoting to drag his mace up to attack. Sigismund's kick cracked the ceramite at the back of Anaxus' knee, and his sword swept up around as the warrior stumbled.
"I yield!" growled Anaxsus. The edge of Sigismund's sword was touching his neck. Sigismund moved the sword away.

Behind him, Ecturo was already in the circle, shortsword and dagger drawn, unhelmed, face grim as he lunged. Sigismund met the lunge and cut at Ecturo's neck. the blow did not land. Ecturo ducked under the cut, blocked Sigismund's sword with his own, and stabbed up into Sigismund's ribs.
The strike was fast and fluid, almost beautiful.
...
Sigismund let the knife point almost touch him and then slammed his weight forwards, sword pressing and tangling Ecturo's legs. The young warrior tried to move back, but he was half falling, his advantage stolen in an eye blink. Sigismund caught Ecturo's left arm, pivoted and threw him with a snap of force. Ecturo hit the floor, began to rise, but Sigismund's sword touched the back of his neck.

"I yield!"

But the next warrior was already in the circle, already cutting, and the dance of blades and killing strokes flowed on without cease. Two hundred blades wielded by the finest of the Legion, two hundred blades turned on him one after another until he failed, or until he reached the end. There could be no other way, not for the Templars, not for the Legion. TO be fir First of Templars, leader of the Champions of Oaths, he had to face them all, one after another. On the battlefield, they stood together; they were brothers, made one by blood and oaths, but here he had to stand alone.

His sword met another blow and the clamor of steel echoed beneath the oath-marked walls.
...
Blood. There was blood on Sigismund's face and in his mouth. A blow had shattered his jaw on the left-hand side. His vision was a smeared blur. Tatters of broken ceramite shook from his frame as he lunged forwards. The servos on his right leg had gone so he was dragging the dead weight of his armour with muscle alone. Clotting blood ran from the joins in his armour where blade edges had found an opening.

Sigismund's lunge slid past Calivar's stave and struck him in the chest. The force of the blowe cannoned the banner bearer off his feet. With its power field lit, the sword would have passed clean through Calivar's torso. Sigismund was alreadyt above the other warrior, spinning his sword and ramming the point down, stopping so that the killing blow hovered about Cavilar's face.

"I yield," gasped Calivar.
...
Sigismund straightened, turning to meet the first blow of the next opponent. The blow did not come. His eyes flicked over the circle of armoured figures, familiar eyes watching him from bloodied faces and broken helms. Was it over? Had he faced them all?
His hearts slowed, his thoughts cleared. The blurs of combat defined themselves, settling in his mind.
No, he had not faced the mall. It was not yet over.
"Are you ready, lad?" The voice was low, and crackled with static. He closed his eyes for a second as he heard the clatter and hiss of gear-driven steps.
He turned.
A mountain of black iron and yellow armour plates stood across the circle from him. It was not a Space Marine, not truly. just as genecraft had pushed Sigismund and his brothers into being something beyond human, so the craft of the forge masters had pushed the warrior facing him beyond post-human.
...
But this was not any dreadnought. This was a warrior who had received the laurels of victory from the Emperor's hand at Mesora while Terra was still divided, who had fought at the Siege of Luna and fought at the side of great Horus when he alone stood as the Emperor's son. Appius, the first to refuse the gates of death and take the iron sleep - father of Dreadnoughts.
...
"Begin," boomed the Dreadnought, and exploded forwards in a thunder roll of iron and steel.

The Dreadnought's blow was a blur. Pistons snapped out. Sigismund spun aside as the hammer's head crashed into the temple floor. Stone splinters showered up. He sliced his blade out one-handed, the edge aimed at the cable on Appius' weapon arm, but even halfway to death, the old warrior was fast and a master of his craft. The pistons snapped the hammer back and the Dreadnought twisted, torso pivoting fully around with machine=driven speed.

Sigismund's blow struck the metal of Appius' shield. Force juddered up his arm. Pistons behind the shield rammed it forwards. Sigismund turned to deflect the impact, but a fraction too late. He cannoned backward , falling, and the Dreadnoughts hammer was descending. All of it so fast. He struck the floor, and pushed himself aside an instant before the hammer splintered the place he had been. He was up, but the shield pistoned into him, and he was staggering backwards.

He saw an opening then, two armour plates parting for an instant to expose wires and tubes beneath. He cut, knowing that the blow would not land, knowing that Appius had shown him the possibility. The Dreadnought twisted as the point of Sigismund's sword sliced into the exposed cables. Piston fluid and oil gushed out. The arm holding the Dreadnought's shield froze and locked. But even as the thrust drove him, the pivoting force of Appius' turn snapped the armour plates back together on Sigismund's sword. The blade broke.

Sigismund jerked back just in time as the Dreadnought's hammer drove into the space he had been occupying. Appius came forwards, striking again and again, and Sigismund was going backwards, the haft of his broken sword in his hand. He was going to -

The hammer caught him on the left shoulder. Armour cracked. Bones broke. He was falling. Now, at the end of the path, he would fail. He would not become the Master of the Templars. That honor would go to another. And down in the slow unfolding slices of his thought, he realized that it did not matter. Honour and rank were not prizes that had pulled him on. It was just a consequence of standing, of fighting, of facing fate. It was not a matter of pride. If he was not strong enough to stand, to lead, to be a champion of his brother's oaths, then he should fail.

But who if not you? The thought sounded in the slowed time of his fall, and its voice might have been his own, or Appius' or There's. Who will stand if you will not? Who will you let die in your place?

He hit the floor. The Dreadnought was above him, hammer poised to stroke down, and Sigismund could feel the haft of the broken sword in his hand. He came to his feet, broken armour grinding, his muscles driving him forwards in a blur. Within was stillness, the beats of his hearts caught between rising and falling. He struck, slicing the broken blade between armour places, cutting and cutting, oil scattering as joints froze.

He stopped, before standing before Appius, the shattered tip of his sword almost touching the glowing slot in the Dreadnought's sarcophagus. Appius' machine body creaked but did not move, its bulk now a statue of armour.


"I yield," came Appius' voice from the Dreadnought's speaker grilles.

Champion of Oaths