On the Shoulder of Martyrs (Black Templars 40K Quest)

+THOUGHT FOR THE DAY+
An open mind is like an open wound. Prone to infection.
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"I accept."

The crowd looked on, the air heavy with expectation. The sands of the arena stirred gently, the low thrum of the voidship the only noise that existed. Reynauld smiled a bloody smile once more.

"Kneel, then."

You did so with great effort, and it wasn't because of the acid burn in your muscles. You looked up at Reynauld, eyes aflame with rage.

"I swear to take you as my own, that together we shall crusade eternally, until not a single foe remains in this galaxy."

"I swear," you spat, "to uphold your honor, to serve you, and do all that you ask of me."

"Rise, Sigismund. Today, together, the enemies of Man will have a new reason to fear us." He took your arm, raised it to a cheering crowd.
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"Still no offers?" you asked Emmerich. You narrowly avoided a punch.

"No," he said sullenly, ducking as you retaliated. "Lucky you, you got one on the first day."

"Lucky?" you scoffed. You landed a solid blow to his gut for that. "Reynauld has me in a vice. Whatever my choice, I'm not getting the black carapace."

"There's no way he can keep it from you forever. There has to be some point where everyone in the chapter will see that you deserve the carapace."

"And when's that, Emmerich? A decade from now? Two?" You felt a kick land square in your chest. "By then perhaps my body won't accept the carapace anymore."

"Oh, quit moping." It was Bayard, practicing various chainsword stances. "Worst case, we'll go to the Marshal himself and demand you get the carapace."

The three of you laughed at that. You all stopped practicing as you heard a shout and saw something fly. A neophyte landed after flying almost five meters, skidding along the arena's floor.

"Sorry," Gottfried said, paradoxically deep and childish.

"Gottfried," Emmerich called. "Bayard here just challenged you to a duel!"

Bayard looked at Emmerich angrily. "No, Gottfried, he's just messing with you aga-"

You and Emmerich laughed as Bayard landed next to the previous neophyte. You turned to your brother. "Has anyone seen Nimrod?"

Emmerich jerked a thumb to where Nimrod was practicing with a combat servitor. Very few neophytes sparred with your strange brother, and only when goaded by the senior Astartes. You approached him.

"Do you want to practice?" you asked.

Nimrod's combat knife stuck itself deep in the servitor's sternum, bypassing its guard completely. He turned to you with a vacant stare. "Not really."

"Then I challenge you to a duel." A formal challenge was not so easily dismissed; even Nimrod followed that social norm.

He sighed, but you saw what looked like a ghost of a smile on his face.
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To his credit, Reynauld did take his responsibility towards you somewhat seriously. At least, in the sparring aspects. Almost every day you sparred with him at least twice, and each one was a grueling, hour-long endeavor.

Where other initiates explained their techniques, their tactics, and their analyses to their neophytes, all Reynauld did was spar. He would wordlessly pull you into the arena and give you a combat knife. When the duel was over, win or lose, Reynauld would simply leave.

Today was different, however. As usual, your 'master' had dragged you into the arena to train. This time, though, the arena was empty save for one figure. He was a fully-armored Astartes, his warplate decorated in the livery of the Sword Brethren. One arm rested on the hilt of his power sword, the other held his ornate helmet.

"This is Brother Theobald," Reynauld explained. "He will be evaluating you today, to see if you are worthy to join his crusader squad."

You nodded respectfully at the grizzled Astartes, who offered no recognition in turn.

"All that you've learned, Sigismund, you will show. Your understanding of the stances, the grips, the footwork. All that I've taught you," he said with a wry smile. "Perhaps a little history on the chainsword?"

Your education on the chainsword, prior to apprenticeship, was regrettably basic. The true education began under an initiate's wing - too bad yours had the wings of a flightless bird.

"Well?" demanded Sword Brother Theobald.

You began reciting everything that came to mind. Admittedly, it was incredibly basic knowledge that all neophytes learned in their first years. Despite Theobald's stoic demeanor, his disappointment was apparent.

"Forgive me, Brother Theobald," Reynauld said. "Like I warned, Sigismund is a poor pupil, but I promise to rectify that."

Theobald glanced at Reynauld, then at you, and left without a word. With the arena emptied, Reynauld allowed himself a laugh.

"Something funny?" you asked.

"Hilarious," he corrected.
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The combat-servitor swung with half its arm missing. Only moments later did it register that you had disarmed it, literally, with your combat knife. You sighed. You had had the serfs program this one with three different fighting styles, each one radically different so as to keep you on your toes with each strike.

Astartes strength and speed rendered said fighting styles useless.

"Stupid mortals," you muttered, surprising yourself. You regarded others as mortals now?

There had to be someone on board Sigismund's Fury that could teach you the theories and treatises of war, of the technicalities of combat, of everything that Reynauld was meant to be teaching you.

But who could you turn to?

[ ] Your brothers.

Emmerich, Bayard, Gottfried and Nimrod were all neophytes, none of them having initiates yet. What they could teach you, you probably already knew - but at least they'd be the most willing and the least judgemental.

[ ] Other initiates.

Many would outright refuse in fear of offending their brother, Reynauld. Perhaps, Emperor willing, you could find a soul who saw through Reynauld's schemes?

[ ] Combat-servitors.

The first attempt went poorly. Next time, you'll have them encode even more fighting styles on a servitor with even more muscles.

[ ] Chapter serfs.

On a voidship the size of Sigismund's Fury, there was bound to be a handful of those steeped in war. Many serfs were neophytes themselves, once, their bodies incapable of being Astartes but their minds might still retain the knowledge.

[ ] Yourself.

This was a delicate situation. Things cannot remain as they are, but you can't just go crying for help. There's a wealth of knowledge aboard the ship - you just need to find it.

[ ] Write-in a teacher.

Someone who'd reasonably be on board an Astartes battle-barge, preferably with a reasoning as to why and how they'd help.
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