Gutdancer howled, but another stepped in his way, blocking him. It was a wolf-man with golden fur, and his red eyes shone with intelligence that rivaled Redclaw’s. His name was Warfang, and above all others, Cyric had been warned that he would be the one to fear most.
“No,” said Warfang, hurling Gutdancer back toward his pack. The wolf-man spun to face Redclaw, even though his eyes remained on Cyric. “What you say is blasphemy. You speak against our mother in the sky. You speak against the shamans. Now you want us to kneel, and worship a human? We will not, Redclaw. You know this. Why have you come to the Gathering with lies on your tongue?”
Redclaw and Cyric stood in the center of the Gathering, on a small mound of bones brought by the various packs. Some were old, some were fresh, and piled together they formed a place of religious importance. Should any pack leader step onto the bones, they’d battle, most likely to the death. Whoever remained standing on the bones afterward would be declared the stronger. Cyric knew he could best any of them, but Redclaw was his champion, and Redclaw was right. None of them would swear allegiance to a human. At least, not yet.
“The moon is not your mother,” Cyric shouted, using magic to enhance his voice so it was heard by all. “You were not born of its light. You were made for war, in an age long past. Two gods battled, and my god, Karak, was the one who gave you life. He gave you legs to walk upon, and minds to lift you up beyond those of your four-legged brethren. You have strength, and bloodlust, all born not from the moon but from Karak. You have moved away from him now, turning to the blasphemy of your shamans. I offer you a chance to return to Karak’s embrace, to worship the Lion in the way you were always meant to worship: in servitude.”
They looked ready to bury him in a wave of claw and fur, but against their rage, he smiled. It was the flailing of children, angry at their parent for a scolding. They would come to know his wisdom, one way or another. As much as it pained him to rely on Redclaw, he would have to let the beast prove the truth of his words. Many times before the Gathering he’d coached Redclaw on what to say and when to say it, and this was that moment. Cyric tensed, eager to see how his champion reacted.
“I am strong,” Redclaw roared to the rest of his race. “But I will be made stronger still. The moon is false. We bow to the Lion now. Come, any of you. Face me upon the bones, and I will show you my strength!”
Mostly right, though he should have said ‘Karak’s strength’, not ‘my strength’. The priest took a step back, to the far edge of the bones, so that Redclaw stood at the top, towering over them all. This was it. Cyric had thought long on this, and knew exactly what he desired. Karak had already blessed him with the arrival of the two lions, Kayne and Lilah. Pulling two creatures of the Abyss into the world of the living was a tremendous boon, but it was not enough. The world needed cleansing. He didn’t need two lions. He needed an army.
And so he would make it, for he was Karak made flesh, was he not?
“I will not be denied the pleasure of a blasphemer’s blood on my tongue!” Gutdancer cried, leaping past Warfang before the other could react. Redclaw crouched low, and when Gutdancer came lunging in, he rose up. In a sudden display of speed and strength, he caught Gutdancer by the throat, twisted him in the air, and then flung him on his back amid the pile of bones.
The wolf-men were howling, the Gathering reaching a frenzy as Redclaw licked blood from his claws. Now was the time. Cyric lifted his arms, calling forth all his power. The world of Dezrel needed a cleansing flood, a purging force of claws and muscle to tear away the life of the faithless.
“Be my champion,” Cyric whispered. “Be my blade.”
High above, where there had once been clear sky, a dozen thick clouds rumbled with lightning. It struck the pile of bones once, twice, the power of its thunder rattling teeth and sending wolf-men to the ground. Fire burned, swarming over Redclaw, the lightning having set his fur aflame. Redclaw let out a cry of immense pain, but it meant little to Cyric, for he could see the transformation had already begun.
As the wolf-men regained their senses, their eyes recovering from the sudden blinding flashes, they looked upon the changed Redclaw. His fur glowed a deep crimson, as if he were made of living embers. From his claws dripped molten rock, sizzling upon the bones beneath him. When he took a step forward, his footprints trailed fire. He sucked air deep into his belly, and then his roar breathed red in the dark night.
“Demonflesh!” cried Many-Bruises. Cyric had been told that wolf-men knew no fear, and he saw the proof of it then. Many-Bruises flung himself onto the pile of bones, accusing Redclaw again and again of being demonflesh. Redclaw did not even bother to block the claws that swiped at his skin. When they pierced his flesh, liquid flame poured across Many-Bruises paws, and he let out a pained scream. Redclaw slashed open his throat, then ripped off the head to hold it up to the stars. In his grip, the head shriveled black as it burned.