Trust in Sigmar . . .
All else is heresy. . .
The smell of burned flesh filled the cramped chamber, deep inside the temple of Sigmar, Acolytes were undertaking their final test—initiation and identification as Priests of Sigmar.
They were burning his name and sigil into their flesh as a symbol and test of their devotion. Brandeis, as he was now known in the Order of the Hammer, could not tear his eyes away from the wrought iron brands being used by the Acolytes on themselves. Gobbets of flesh clung and crisped on the edges and absurdly lent the smell of burnt pork to the air. Brandeis had fasted for the last three days, and the smell was almost making his mouth water.
The Fist of Acolytes he had been a part of for the last four years—the group of five young men that had studied, trained and fasted together—was about to be sundered apart. Agelmar, he would not miss. That zealot had taken his first steps with the proper deference, knelt and grabbed the largest brand in the glowing brazier, and slammed it into his forehead with a stifled grunt. He had worked it around to make sure that the name of SIGMAR would be forever emblazoned on his countenance. The freakish sycophant stood and threw off his Acolyte's robe to display total nudity. He was wrapped in his cassock by the Senior Priests, and handed his blessed Hammer, which was obviously a gift from his not-severed-enough familial ties—familial ties which ran to the Emperor's court in Altdorf—then Agelmar turned, spread his robe, took another smoking brand, and scorched his chest with the Holy Hammer of Sigmar. Brandeis saw a small blemish on the man's left thigh, high and on the inside. It seemed to writhe in the smoke and he felt repulsed by it. What was the lesson of symbols he had seen it in . . .?
His eyes flared and he tried to think, but his thoughts skittered away . . .
Brandeis suddenly doubted his faith was as strong as Agelmar's. His stomach was churning in a bed of its own acid, and he felt his cheeks flush.
Two more Acolytes and it was his turn. Gunther, the next in line, had been reciting the prayer of waking in a low whisper since he had awoken. As an Acolyte, the only words to be spoken aloud in the presence of Priests were prayers or direct questions. All else was punished with birch, with the cat-o-nines, or a day at the block of prayer. 'The Block', as it was known to the Acolytes, was a square-shaped block of granite with bloodstains and manacles attached to it, usually only reserved for pederasts and deviants, but sometimes the occasional blasphemer earned it.
Brandeis' wandering mind snapped back into focus as Gunther plunged a smoking brand into his chest on his right pectoral and screamed "SIGMAR GUIDE MY HAND!!!!" With shaking hands, he dropped the brand and discarded his robe—the symbolic act of death and resurrection as one of Sigmars' chosen. One of the Senior Priests frowned at the dropping of the wrought iron. Gunther would be going to the frontlines, Brandeis thought, Senior Priests did not forgive, forget, nor approve of disgracing the ceremony. Gunther was then robed and chose a much smaller sigil of Sigmar to brand the back of his right arm. He was handed a crude war hammer, but it seemed serviceable.
'The Unclean must be made to suffer, the Righteous willingly endure," intoned the Priests in unison. Brandeis tried to bring his thoughts back to the strange mark on Agelmar's thigh, but his head felt thick and unwieldy on his shoulders.
Now Emmory, Brandeis' closest friend, stood in front of the smoking brands under the statue of Sigmar the Holy, head bowed and fists clenched at his sides. Emmory and Brandeis were of the same large, athletic build, with an unruly mop of black hair, yet where Emmory had bright blue eyes, Brandeis' were an unusual hazel. Both of them had caught their fair share of looks from the girls in the nunnery next door, and even caught a few of the girls as well . . .
The rasping slide of one of the brands across the edge of the coal brazier brought Brandeis back to the present. His friend had selected the next largest name of Sigmar and swiftly brought it down on the back of his left forearm. A muffled grunt was all that escaped him. Brandeis hoped he had that resolve, and unshakable will to not cry out at the pain. Emmory stood, disrobed and then selected one of the smallest sigils of Sigmar, much to the Senior Priest's apparent dismay. Then he placed it over his left eye, almost carefully so he did not lose the eye. The swelling would probably keep it shut for days though if infection didn't set in. The Blessed Hammer he was handed seemed shabby in comparison to Agelmars', but Emmory gripped it so tightly that the leather handle creaked.
The handles of the wrought iron instruments of self mutilation, they were all that Brandeis could think of them as now, loomed large out of the brazier at him. The smoke and heat were stifling and he clamped down his chest to resist the rising cough within him. Brandeis looked up to see that mocking smile on Agelmars' face that he had seen so often during recitation when he'd stumbled in scripture reading.
Where did these heretical thoughts come from? He felt a cold slide of fear coat his insides.
The smug look of Agelmar and the disapproving eyes of the Priests brought out the anger in Brandeis. It flared in his stomach like a blast furnace and turned the edges of his vision red. He grasped the handle of the nearest red-hot iron, its heat beginning to blister his palm as he held it smoking in front of his face. The pain focused his mind, the symbol etched itself clear and he screamed "TZEENTCH RIDES!" remembering the name of the twisted symbol he had seen on Aglemars' thigh. Brandeis lunged with his makeshift weapon, slamming it into Agelmars' face and destroying the Zealot's eyes. With a clutching grasp he tore the robe from Agelmar as he was borne to the ground by the other Acolytes and a Priest or two. They were not gentle, but as the Heretic should be made to suffer, they subdued him quickly.
"Stop." A barely spoken word from a Senior Priest stopped the cuffs and blows in an instant.
Agelmar was writhing on his back, the tattoo of Tzeentch clearly visible and the true fury of the Sigmarites made itself known. A listener at the door would have heard the sound of sticks being broken, screams, and the sound of a melon being split.
"Now Acolyte, resume your journey," one of the faceless Senior Priests said quietly as he helped Brandeis to his feet.
With two broken fingers on the hand Brandeis used to grasp the second largest brand, a Hammer of Sigmar, he branded himself on the chest.
"Fury is RIGHTEOUS FOR IT BRINGS JUSTICE TO . . ." he grasped the next brand without looking and continued ". . . THE WICKED AND GLORY TO SIGMARRRRR!!!!" He plunged the very iron he had used to strike down the Unclean with across his face. Forever would he wear the last, little-known symbol of Sigmar . . . The Twin Tailed Comet, under both eyes. The scarring would draw his lips into a scowl permanently. Brandeis was satisfied now. The Unclean were destroyed, the Wicked purged, and his face would become feared by all who opposed the Order of the Hammer. The cassock he was given was threadbare, as was his station, but the Blessed Hammer was well-made, and he knew he was going to need it.
