David Dalglish: The Old Ways

Movement at the entrance of his large tent alerted him to a man’s arrival. Luther turned, saw one of his paladins holding a scroll.

“My priest, forgive me,” said the paladin.

“Yes, Grevus?”

The paladin crossed his arms, and he looked uneasy.

“We’ve received disturbing reports from the towers. It’s about Cyric.”

Luther sighed, and with a groan, rose from his knees.

“What has my pupil done now? Don’t bother reading the message, just tell me.”

Grevus’s cheek twitched.

“We hear he’s overthrown Sir Robert at the Blood Tower, and also assaulted the village of Willshire. Worse…I do not know what to make of this, my priest. Perhaps the messenger lies, or has heard wrong.”

“Out with it,” Luther said, feeling anger growing in his breast.

“Luther, among many other things, it says Cyric preaches that he is Karak made flesh, now free to walk the land and remake it in his image.”

Luther swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He nodded to the lengthy message the paladin held in his hand.

“Tell me everything.”