UNHOLY TERROR

“I know you,” the zealot priest rasped. “The barbarian who preferred the company of Vaspurakaners to mine.” Zemarkhos’ stabbing finger darted at the Vaspurakaners his magic had slain. “There they lie, given over to death by Phos’ just judgment.”

“Any evil wizard could work the same, without taking Phos’ mantle for himself,” Marcus shouted, and the crowd gasped. “Come on, show everyone here Phos’ power—strike me dead with it.”

“No need to beg,” Zemarkhos said, his voice an eager whisper. “I will give you what you want.” The priest’s arm shot toward the tribune, and Marcus stumbled under the immaterial blow. His ears roared; his sight grew dark; agony filled his mind like the kiss of molten lead.

Dimly he heard Zemarkhos’ cackle of cruel, vaunting laughter.