“Stand firm, and receive strength from the righteousness of our cause!” the priest bellowed. He was a mousy-looking fellow, much of his head balding along the top. The light about his hands rolled forward in a wave that swirled around the soldiers defending him. Strengthening them, if the rumors Cyrus had heard were true, but could it be enough to handle the raging Heretic?

The soldier’s body flying down the steps to smash headfirst onto the hard cobblestones suggested no.

Cyrus dashed along the far side of the steps, just shy of the ornate railing. One of the soldiers moved to intercept, only for Arn to grab him by the wrist. A single clench of those gauntlets and the frail bones within broke.

“Get back here,” Arn shouted, and he tugged the soldier close, opening the way for Cyrus. He burst onto the flat stretch of stone before the church doors at the top of the steps. The priest lifted his arms, and though his face was beaded with sweat, and panic swelled his eyes wide, his voice spoke with surprising calmness.

“God bless and keep me,” he chanted as a golden sword materialized in the air before him. Though it shimmered like light, Cyrus knew it could both cut and be blocked like any other blade. Since wielded by the mind, not by bone and muscle, it could weave and move in unnatural manners. This meant Cyrus had to dictate the fight, and overwhelm the priest quickly, if he were to win.

“Your faith?” he asked as he stalked the priest. His every step was measured. The slightest hint of movement from that golden sword and he would react. “Faith in whom, priest?”

“God watch and guide me,” the priest continued, ignoring him. Cyrus tilted his head just so. Moonlight fell across his mask. He paused so the priest might see the mocking grin.

“Your god isn’t here, priest. I am.”

The priest hesitated, fear pulsing through him like venom, and it was in that moment that Cyrus lunged, left hand held close and defensive, right hand extending for a thrust. The priest mentally recovered, fell back a step, and then clapped his hands together. The holy sword split, becoming two blades, each one bathed with power and swinging to cut off Cyrus’s charge.

It was a fine trick, but not enough. The priest had no skill in swordplay, and he struck without imagination. Both blades arced straight down, aiming for no specific body part. Cyrus blocked the left with ease, his arm rising as if he wielded a shield. His right, already pulled for a thrust, shifted so that he instead parried the other chop harmlessly aside. His momentum continued. The space between them closed. Cyrus’s butterfly off-hand blade weaved a figure eight before him, crisscrossing an X over the priest’s throat. The priest dropped, blood gurgling out his ruined windpipe. The glowing swords faded into nothing.