The time was now upon him. There was no turning back, not that he would have ever wanted to decline the honour that was to be bestowed upon him. After a full night spent in deep prayer within the chapel, he had prepared his soul and his mind for this moment. Zymran knew he was as ready as any could be.
He was kneeling in front of the altar in the alcove of the small chapel. He was wearing his suit of deep red power armour, covered with litanies of faith and seals of dedication. His helmet and weapons rested by his side on the flagstones of the chapel. He had not eaten for several days in preparation the ritual. Not that starvation would weaken a true Space Marine such as Zymran. It only made him forget the necessities of the body while he sharpened and strengthened his mind and his faith.
For the final time, he recalled why it had come to this. Why he was about to be bestowed with the honour of becoming a Chaplain, a spiritual leader but also a war commander. His battle brothers would come soon to take him to the great High Cathedral, enthroned upon the hull of the battle barge. Within the High Cathedral, he would take the ultimate trial of his faith.
He remembered the assault on Ferneas VII. The unbelievers had entrenched themselves in deep fortifications and were resisting fiercely. All seemed lost when a stray shot from one of the enemy’s lascannons bored through Graephon, the Chaplain leading the assault. Zymran had gathered his brothers around him with words that he never thought he had the power to voice. As he had spoken, he could feel the righteous fury of his brothers boiling flowing within their veins, their zeal and anger growing in potency.
On that day, as he led his brothers through the breach in the fortifications, as enemies fell before him, Zymran had known he was destined for this, to lead his brother in their crusade of True Faith. Master Chaplain, Guardian of Faith, Phaeron had recognised Zymran’s zeal and his abilities. He had sensed Zymran’s potential and trained him himself in the ways of faith.
At this moment, Zymran heard the doors of the chapel open. Without even looking, he knew who was had entered the chapel. The first was Sorgheras, the closest thing Zymran had to a friend amongst his brothers. The other was Draeor, a younger brother in arms. Zymran knew all of the Marines that he would soon lead, their names, their strengths and their weaknesses. He knew who to use and when to further the cause of the True Faith.
“It is time, Zymran. The Chaplain awaits you,” proclaimed Sorgheras in a solemn voice.
“Indeed, it is time. The moment of my trial has come.”
“May our Primarch watch over you.”
Without further words, Sorgheras picked up Zymran’s weapons, a chainsword and a bolt pistol, while Draeor took Zymran’s helmet.
At a head sign from Sorgheras, they started walking in perfect harmony towards the door. Zymran paused and thanked his Primarch and the True Lord of Mankind one last time, before leaving the chapel solemnly, followed closely by Sorgheras and Draeor.
The High Cathedral was filled with the red armoured Space Marines, all knelt in prayer and chanting praises to their Primarch and the True Lord of Mankind. Incense filled the huge dome. And at the centre of the Cathedral stood a huge altar dedicated to their Blessed Primarch by which stood Phaeron, the Master Chaplain.
Zymran saw all of this, as a group of serfs opened the huge brass doors of the chamber. Zymran entered and was followed by his attendants. He marched through the massed ranks of his brothers, listening to their litanies of faith as he approached Phaeron.
When Zymran reached the base of the steps leading to the altar, he turned to face the assembled congregation and was awed by their dedication and their devotion. Seeing his brothers in such great numbers made Zymran realise that faith truly was the greatest force within the galaxy. There was nothing that could challenge an army that was ready to die at a moment’s notice for its beliefs, like all of those present in the Cathedral, including himself.
Phaeron asked for silence. His deep and authoritative voice was carried easily to the far corners of the Cathedral. His words were filled of the dignity and importance of the moment.
“Brothers! We are gathered here to witness one of our own as he attempts the Trial of Faith. Before you, his devotion shall be tested and if he survives, he will become one of the most holy warriors there is, blessed by the Great Primarch and the Lord of Mankind!”
The assembled Battle Brothers chanted their approval.
“Let the Trial of Faith begin!”
Phaeron looked towards Zymran and addressed him.
“You may still decline if you wish Zymran.”
The question was as much a part of the ritual as what was to follow, and Zymran knew the answer that was expected of him.
“My devotion to the True Faith is strong and I do not fear to test it.”
“Let the trial begin,” chanted the congregation.
Zymran ascended each step until he reached the altar and stood by Phaeron. Behind him, his Battle Brothers were still chanting the Litany to the Bearer of the True Word in low voices. Zymran saw that on the altar rested the Crozius Arcanum of the late Graephon, the Chaplain who had died leading him and his Brethren on Ferneas VII.
The Trial of Faith was not complex. Zymran had only to pick up the Crozius and brandish it above his head in front of his assembled brothers and he would be immediately be recognised as a true Chaplain.
The test seemed too easy.
He remembered that on Ferneas, it seemed that the weapon had called to him, called him to pick it up. Out of respect for Graephon, they had left his weapon of office where it had fallen.
Zymran turned to face the Phaeron, and spoke silently to himself.
“This is more than just a symbol of office.”
Phaeron motioned toward the Crozius, signifying that Zymran should pick it up.
As his gloved hand closed upon the finely crafted weapon, Zymran felt a cold chill engulf his back.
What was happening to him? He had never known fear. Even in the face of overwhelming odds, he had laughed in the face of danger. His faith had sustained him through all of the difficulties he had faced. But now, facing that Crozius, he was not so sure even his faith could support him fully.
He steeled himself. His devotion was his armour and his zeal his weapon.
His glove closed on the handle of the Crozius…
…And suddenly it was completely dark around him.
Gone was the Cathedral with his assembled brothers, the smell of incense, the Chaplain and the altar. All that remained was the Crozius in his hand.
Time seemed to have frozen around him.
“Welcome Zymran, I have waited for you since Ferneas,” said a voice that was close to him.
“Who are you? Where are you?” asked Zymran to the darkness.
“Do not pretend to be more stupid than you really are,” said the voice. “Who could I be?”
“The Crozius?”
“More precisely, I am inside the Crozius. If you would but free me, I would be glad to assist you.”
“Free you from the Crozius?” pondered Zymran. “So this weapon is your prison. I understand now why Graephon kept you close to him at all times. You must have been very precious to him.”
“So you will not free me?” The voice had become oily with an undertone of threat.
“Do not threaten me! I am Zymran of the Word Bearers, Space Marine, and a follower of the True Faith!”
“Please, mighty Zymran, do not harm me…” The voice seemed to plead while it was in fact menacing. “Do you know what I am? I am known by the name N’Dachorn, one among the mightiest Lords that serve the Architect of Change. I offer you power beyond your understanding and a glorious future if you serve the Changer of Ways and me. ”
“Do not presume too much, Daemon.”
But suddenly Zymran saw himself as a powerful sorcerer that had brought the Imperium to its knees. His legions of Daemons were disgorged from the Warp; multicolour flames burned all in their path. Word Bearers destroyed the symbols of the False Emperor.
The vision was tempting. Sorcery was the easiest way to power and there was no better sorcerer than Tzeentch. Before the thought of succumbing crossed his mind, Zymran remembered that this vision was an illusion made only to lure him into the claws of Tzeentch.
The true faith of Chaos recognised no god as superior to any other. All were equal. All were aspects of the unnameable entity that was Chaos Undivided. To succumb to one aspect of Chaos was to deny oneself the true glory of Chaos. That was the first teaching of Lorgar, Bearer of the True Word.
Strengthened by this, Zymran rejected the temptation.
“I shall not serve the Changer of Ways. The True Faith of the Word Bearers is strong in me. Chaos is more powerful when it is united than when it is divided,” announced Zymran.
“That may be so but Tzeentch remains the most powerful of the gods and the only one capable of bringing the Four Powers together. But even then, that alliance could only be temporary and you know that. You could never maintain such an alliance forever. The Great Powers would return to the destruction of each other before long.”
“That is why the Nameless Entity of Chaos Undivided is superior to each of its aspects.”
“There is no such thing as an all-encompassing Chaos God, mortal. Nothing exists above the Four,” snarled the voice.
“That is what you pretend.”
“I grow tired of our discussion. If you will not free me voluntarily, then I shall have to force you to do it. Again, I warn you, friend. Join with me willingly. I offer powers beyond your understanding,” whispered the voice once again.
“No. You shall remain where you are now, you will submit to my will.”
The Daemon attacked without warning.
The first mental blow from the Lord of Change was devastating. The Daemon was not a master of sorcery for nothing.
Zymran sensed himself scream and kneel before the altar, but his hand never left the Crozius. He tried to resist the psychic onslaught as best as he could, but there seemed to be no end to the power of the Daemon.
Zymran gathered his strength. His devotion was his armour and his zeal his weapon.
Slowly he repelled the power of the Lord of Change from his mind, back into the weapon.
“You cannot defeat me, Daemon. My faith makes me strong!”
“For now you win, mortal. But never forget, I shall remain here, waiting for you to make a false step, and then…”
…The world returned as suddenly as it had disappeared.
Kor Phaeron, Master of Faith, Dark Acolyte of the Word Bearers, looked down on him. Zymran could feel his gaze piercing his mind.
He stood up and turned to face the assembled Chaos Space Marines. He brandished high the Accursed Crozius above his head and declared to them.
“Bow before me! I am Zymran, Dark Apostle of Chaos! Bearer of the True Word! All shall fall before us!”
The Word Bearers cheered and chanted wildly.
There would be many sacrifices and prayers to thank the Gods of Chaos and to sanctify the new Host. The Word Bearers would begin a new crusade for their dark gods.
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