The Castellan and the Champion

Navarre stalked up the length of the bridge of the massive battle barge Shield of Terra, a small escort of Initiates, each clad in bulky power armour—painted black and emblazoned with the insignia of the Black Templars Space Marine Chapter—and cradling a Holy Bolter flanking him to either side. Directly ahead of him stood a man dressed in standard Black Templar non-combat dress, hands clasped at the small of his back as he stared out the forward view port of the warship.

“Castellan Navarre,” the man's voice was a crisp baritone, carrying clearly throughout the bridge. He broke his gaze from the view of the planet below—Vendoland, the most heavily populated planet in the Cyris Sector, seconded only by planet Cyris itself. Turning toward Navarre, the stern scowl of his scarred visage bored into the Castellan.

“Marshal Baltar,” Navarre responded, undaunted by Baltar's glare. “You requested my presence? I have preparations for the coming Crusade to see to.” He met the Marshal's gaze with his own steel-blue eye—his left eye having been replaced by a bionic lens after it was torn out of its socket by an ork shot during the Third War for Armageddon (the ork having fared far worse). Navarre's features, despite the optic replacement, were not harsh. His face was weathered and scarred from centuries of battle during the Unending Crusade of the Black Templars, topped with a short crop of black hair cresting his head. Spidering out from his implant was a thick mass of scar tissue, trailing across that side of his face.

“We have received a distress call from the planet Vendoland,” he gestured to the view port and the planet below. “I am tasking you with responding to that call. I imagine, with their already formidable standing military, they will not require much aid—though the message certainly leads me to think the cowards truly believe they are pitted against the Dark Gods themselves.” With a snort and a sneer of contempt, Baltar turned back toward the view port. “That is all, Navarre.”

“Yes, Marshal,” the Castellan bowed stiffly, his jaw tightening. Certainly, a simple radio transmission would have been too easy. Standing to his full height, Navarre spun on his heel, briskly marching back along the bridge's walk. His preparations would have to be hastened. Baltar may have no faith in either the courage nor the military prowess of the Imperial Guard, but Navarre's instincts told him that such an urgent distress call should not be taken lightly.

* * *

“Reclusiarch Matellus,” the voice intoned from the threshold of the Chaplain's quarters. Looking up from the tome on his neatly-kept desk, Matellus nodded to the Initiate addressing him. He recognized Brother Gaius, a skilled and courageous Space Marine having served under Navarre for more than five decades. 

 

Without hesitation, the Initiate delivered his message: “I have received the Vision.” Closing the book before him and sitting up in his chair, Matellus gestured Gaius to enter and close the hatch behind him.

“Tell me,” the Chaplain demanded. As the Initiate began the recollection of his vision, Matellus softly chanted a prayer to the Emperor under his breath, his attention hanging on Gaius' every word.

I am at the gates of the Imperial Palace—Primarch Rogal Dorn has chosen me to be the Champion of the Emperor, to challenge the leaders of the traitorous forces besieging the Palace to single combat. I know that I am sharing the the feelings, the thoughts, the fury of First Captain Sigismund as he faces his enemies and vanquishes them one by one. In this moment, I am Sigismund.

I am surrounded by the dead—heretic, Space Marine, and guardsman alike—and I am alone. A thick veil hangs over the field of battle, and from the lingering dust and smoke I see a shadow approach. It bears great wings, a horned visage, and wields great claws on either hand, crackling with unholy energy.

I brandish my sword—runed and black and shining with the Light of the Emperor—and, as Sigismund did those ten millenia ago, I charge my enemy, invoking the Emperor's Name as our weapons clash.

Matellus could feel the power of his Faith flowing through his body, connecting him to this blessed Initiate, and he knew that what the man said was true. He had received the Vision from the Emperor. Gaius was to be His Champion in the coming campaign.