Grevus lashed out with his sword, trying to keep them at bay, but they were not interested in him just yet. As his horse reared up, trying to kick two wolf-men biting at his legs, another ducked in, slashed out its throat, and then leapt away. The beast began to topple, and Grevus scrambled to launch himself from the saddle. He landed in a roll, and came up swinging. The wolf-men stayed back, snarling, watching. It was just a game, Grevus realized, a little play with their food. The black fire burned deep across the blade of his sword, and he beckoned them on. Let them do whatever to his mortal body. He’d take plenty with him, and enter eternity with his head held high.
But it seemed eternity was not yet ready for him, for a loud cry broke through the howls.
“Get back!”
The wolf-men obeyed, their ears flattened and deep growls emanating from their throats. Through their opened ranks approached a man who must have been Cyric. Deep down, Grevus knew he should feel relieved to see the priest coming to his aid, but instead his anxiety only increased. He’d been ready to give his life killing the wild savages; what did it mean if the wild savages served Cyric?
“You must be the one I seek,” Grevus said, standing tall and nodding his head in greeting. He kept his sword unsheathed.
“Many will seek me before the world’s end,” Cyric said, and he smiled. Grevus took in his pale skin, his carefully brushed hair, and his vibrant eyes so bright a brown they almost looked red. He was a handsome man, almost seemed to gleam with life. Grevus’s worries deepened. The words the priest spoke were familiar to him, and oft-repeated in the holy scriptures housed in the temples.
“And cherish the rare man who finds him,” Grevus said as a test. Would Cyric then and there declare himself Karak? Would he state himself the man the world sought in its darkness, yet seldom found?
“Indeed,” Cyric said, his smile growing. “Warfang, please give my guest some space. He is to be treated with the respect of his station.”
One of the larger wolf-men beside him snarled, and with a few quick barks, the rest of the wolf-men retreated further into the complex, leaving the dark paladin alone with Cyric.
“You’re not in danger,” Cyric said, stepping beside Grevus and putting a hand on his shoulder. Grevus sheathed his blade, and then with the same hand, grabbed Luther’s scroll from the pouch at his hip.
“Forgive me,” Grevus said. “Seeing so many of the beasts puts me on edge. My name is Grevus, and I come from Mordeina.” He gestured to the wolf-men. “I must ask…do they serve you willingly, or have you enslaved them with magic, perhaps beaten them into submission with Karak’s might?”
“It is a little of all three,” Cyric said. “Some serve for power, some serve for loyalty, and some out of fear. It matters not. The wolf-men obeyed Karak in the beginning times, and it is right they do so again.”
“Some priests say their kind should be extinguished, their blight removed from the land.”
“All because they no longer serve?” asked Cyric. Grevus nodded, eliciting a chuckle from the priest. “Amusing, then, that they judge these heathen creatures of the wild more harshly than the wicked men of the cities.”
“Are you saying we should show the wolf-men leniency?”
Cyric looked to Grevus as if he were a simpleton.
“I say we hold man to the highest of standards, not the lowest. Wouldn’t you?”
The priest turned back to the broken entrance, and Grevus took step after him. He thought he should read the message now, but he wanted to see more. He wanted to gain a feel for the strange man. His looks were pleasing, his voice charismatic and aflame with faith.
“I would not consider myself intelligent enough to say either way,” Grevus said. “Karak gives his word to his priests, and sometimes to me in my most heartfelt prayers. I will obey orders, without question. Let those smarter than I decide the rest.”
“In your humility you show wisdom,” Cyric said. “Come with me, and do not open the message you hold just yet. I would show you something.”
At first Grevus was surprised, but realized he shouldn’t be. Given Cyric’s activities, he would surely expect some sort of message, be it blessing or reprimand, from the priests in Mordeina. But did Cyric realize the message was not from them, but from Luther only, made in secrecy? Grevus didn’t know, but the way the priest looked straight through him, as if he were barely a shadow compared to his light, it made him wonder.
Cyric led him to the gateway, then stopped. Walking in rows, over a hundred in number, were men, women, and children. Grevus immediately sensed the power of Karak about them, intermixed with an unmistakable aura of death. It was necromancy he sensed, and although he had been in its presence rarely, he didn’t need the blessings of a paladin to know it. The men and women walked with vacant eyes, slack jaws, and gaping wounds across their flesh that did not bleed.