Forcing the thoughts from his mind, Grevus read the scroll aloud.
“My dear pupil, Cyric,” it began. “I have heard of your exploits in the North. I know of Willshire, and of your schemes at the Blood Tower. Reports so far say otherwise, but I fear Sir Robert is dead, for that proud man would never bend the knee to Karak. Did I not tell you he could be of use to you, even if his faith was lacking? But you have never seen the world as I have. You see it in a light that has never existed. You see a past far more glorious than it ever was, and view our growing understanding of Karak’s wisdom as nothing more than perversions of the original truth. And now, worst of all, you claim yourself Karak made flesh. You speak blasphemy, Cyric, and there is only one penalty. I would ask you to repent, but your soul is scarred too far for that. Karak forgive me for not stopping you in time to save you.”
So far Cyric had said nothing, done nothing, only stared at him with an amused smile on his face. But there was one sentence left, and it was written not in ink, but in blood. Grevus read the words aloud, knowing their pronunciation even though they were nothing but gibberish, a sentence of strange, archaic words. It was the language of magic, Grevus realized, even as he felt a fever overcoming him with each word leaving his tongue. Powerful, ancient magic.
The sound of the Lion’s roar echoed throughout the Blood Tower. Grevus dropped the scroll and clutched his arms to his chest as he felt his mind being ripped in two. His knees shook, and then the fire began to swirl about him. Red light shot from his fingertips, and from behind his eyes he felt Luther peering out.
At last that smile left Cyric’s face.
“What is this?” he asked. “Who are you really, Grevus?”
Luther’s power enveloped him fully now. His muscles felt as if they were made of stone, his armor the lightest of cloth. In the back of his mind he heard a constant hymn, sung by voices whose words were indecipherable. The darkness about him was suddenly bright, and surrounding the hundred dead were auras of a deep red. Around Cyric he saw ethereal fire of a royal blue, burning without consumption. Grevus drew his sword, whose fire burned so great not a hint of steel could be seen.
“Our house must not be divided,” Grevus spoke, but the words weren’t his. “Your way is wrong, and would lead to our destruction.”
“Do you think I fear your puppet?” Cyric asked. “I am your master. I am your god.”
“No god. Once my student, now just a man. That’s how you lived. That’s how you’ll die.”
His sword arm moved without him thinking it. The blade rose, then fell, the black fire trailing behind. It should have cleaved through Cyric’s skull, but the priest lifted his hands. A shimmering translucent shield appeared before him, and Grevus’s sword smacked into it as if it were hardened steel. The paladin tensed his muscles, and power flooded through him anew. It was as if Luther stood beside him, lending every bit of his holy strength. The shield sparked and cracked, unable to endure the force.
“Once a student,” Cyric gasped, his fingers locked tight and his hands shaking. He fell to one knee, gasping as the sword descended closer and closer to his skull.
“Once a man.”
He looked up at Grevus, and their eyes met. It was strange, but Grevus knew it wasn’t him that Cyric saw, but Luther. The shield strengthened, and Grevus pressed further. He waited for another surge, just that slightest bit needed to finally crush through Cyric’s defense and put an end to his blasphemous claims. But Grevus sensed Luther’s strength wasn’t quite complete. A strange pain filled his chest, as if he’d been pierced by a dagger or an arrow. His breathing came shallower, and with desperation he tried to realize the kill.
“No longer!” cried the priest.
Cyric stood, and with a wave of his hand a shockwave rolled out, knocking Grevus back and the sword safely away.
Panic spiked in Grevus’s heart, and he knew only part of it was his. He rushed the priest, sword pulled back for a wide swipe. Before he could swing, Cyric pointed a finger. A tiny ball of darkness shot out, its spherical form outlined with white lightning. It struck Grevus in the chest, punching through his armor and into his flesh. The pain was extreme, and the power flooding through him wavered, the link between him and Luther starting to wane.
“Not yet,” Grevus muttered, staggering forward even as blood ran down his armor. Instead of swinging with his blade, he extended a palm, and a blast of energy shot forth, its essence circling with stars and the deep shadows of space. It was the greatest Luther could muster. Keenly, Grevus felt the wounds his priest battled, and how great the strain was to strengthen him. The blast hit Cyric’s extended hand. When it broke against his shield like water against a stone, Grevus gave him no time to recover. He lunged forward, sword stabbing for his neck.