Behind them came Cyric. He wore his priestly robes, a smile on his face, and atop his brow burned a crown of fire that did not consume.
“Why do you resist me?” he asked them, his voice rolling across the plain. “I come offering power. I come offering freedom. The true faith, the faith you all serve, will blanket this land. We’ll know peace. We’ll see an end to chaos. I am your god, you fools, yet you would still stand against me? Everything you’ve dreamed of, every prayer for this world you’ve prayed while on your knees, I’ve come to fulfill. No one need die. Not now. Not today. All you must do is kneel.”
Jerico looked to the paladins around him. There was a power in Cyric’s words, and the approaching dead only added danger to his message. Would the others listen? Jerico had heard no speeches or warnings from Luther, no explanation of the foe they fought beyond him being a heretic to the faith of Karak and a threat to all of Dezrel. Or did keeping them in ignorance protect them from Cyric’s twisted wisdom?
“Send the dead back to their graves,” Luther called out to them. “And do not listen, do not obey. Kill him, my brethren, for the sake of your souls, kill him!”
The dead were near, and Jerico lifted his shield.
“Burst through,” he told Darius at his side. “Cyric is all that matters.”
“Then lead the way.”
The undead hit their line. Flaming swords cut them down, slicing through rotted flesh with ease. But they were so many, even with each swing taking two at a time the paladins were nearly overwhelmed. Jerico let the light of his shield flare, and all about the abominations staggered and moaned, the magic holding them together threatening to break. In their weakened state he slammed through them, shattering them to dust with his shield and crunching bones with his mace. Darius followed after, his sword spinning side to side to finish off the undead who tried to close around their rear. By the dozens they fell, and then the paladins were beyond them, rushing across the space between Cyric and his army.
Risking a glance back, Jerico saw the dark paladins holding their own, but just barely. A few of the priests helped them, but the rest hurled arrows of shadow and bolts of black flame over their heads, each one aimed at Cyric. It felt like they were rushing a besieged castle, but instead of high walls it was only one man, who stood with his arms out. A translucent shield shimmered before him, and against that shield broke the bolts and arrows.
“Paladins of Ashhur?” Cyric asked as they neared. “Truly my brethren are lost if they have enlisted your aid.”
The priest clapped his hands together, and a shockwave rolled outward. All magical attacks against him ceased to exist, and then the force slammed against Jerico. He struggled, and it wasn’t until he placed his shield before him that he felt the pressure vanish. Darius kept his sword up, arms braced, as he screamed out with every painful step he took.
“Can’t you do better?” Jerico said.
No more attacks by the other priests followed. The dark paladins were overwhelmed, and only their spells kept them from falling. Jerico and Darius were alone.
“Trying,” Darius said through clenched teeth.
A great funnel of fire burst from Cyric’s hands. Jerico took a step back, and he let his shield absorb its heat. Darius did the same, swinging his sword so the light about it banished the magic. Free of the resisting force, Darius rushed Cyric, who only grinned at his attack.
“You beat me, once,” Cyric said. “Not again.”
From his palm tendrils of shadow burst in all directions, growing upward and outward for several feet before turning downward and punching into the dirt. The ground rumbled, and then all around Darius the tendrils surfaced, lashing at him, curling around his ankles, wrists, and neck. Darius screamed, and he hacked at them, but each one he cut became two, and even faster he lost the mobility of his arms and legs.
“Let him go!” Jerico cried. He flung himself forward, shield leading, mace at the ready to crush the priest’s skull. With his free hand Cyric reached out as if to greet him, but his skin was like that of a ghost. When it touched Jerico’s shield, his progress halted, and a great thunder shook the battlefield. No matter how hard he pushed with his legs, he could not close the distance.
“The others will serve,” Cyric said, and though he smiled, Jerico could see the strain wearing at him. “You, however, will die. There will be no salvation, not for you. My order has tolerated heathens long enough.”
“Heathens?” Jerico said, and he couldn’t but laugh. “Your words hurt, Cyric. Let me return the favor.”
He shifted his shield to the side, and around it he swung his mace. It connected with the palm the tendrils grew from. Blood splattered as the flesh of Cyric’s hand tore, and all at once the tendrils vanished. From behind him, Jerico heard Darius let out a gasp of air. Before Jerico could feel too proud of himself, Cyric shoved his wounded hand his way, splashing blood across Jerico’s armor. With a snap of his fingers, it ignited, covering his armor with flame. Jerico screamed. Despite his urge to roll to the ground to put out the fire, he stepped closer and swung his mace. It should have connected with Cyric’s head, but instead it struck the fire of his crown and halted.