Grel'thak didn't give Ragon a chance to breathe. He knew mages usually needed time...time to chant and time to gather focus. Determined to end it fast, the orc leader lunged forward, dirt spraying under his boots as he closed the gap in seconds. His club arced down, aimed square at Ragon's head.
The strike never landed. A silver barrier flashed into place the instant before impact.
CLANG!
The shock rang out like metal striking metal. The ground quaked, pebbles skittering across the dirt. The force of the rebound knocked Grel'thak off balance and hurled him backward. He crashed into the earth with a heavy thud, dust bursting around his body.
"What?!" Grel'thak's voice cracked with disbelief. He pushed himself up, shoulders trembling under the weight of what he had just seen.
"That's not possible," he spat, shaking his head. "No mage aliv....especially not some three-star weakling...can summon a barrier that fast!"
Ragon stepped forward from behind the glowing shield. His silver-lit eyes cut through the haze as if nothing about the exchange had shaken him.
"I told you," he said, voice steady, almost cold. "I am no mere mortal. Gods don't waste time chanting spells when they can bend the world with their will."
Ragon wasn't completely sure why he said things like that. Calling himself a god never felt natural. It almost sounded like the words came from somewhere else.
At times, his body reacted faster than his mind could follow. His instincts were sharper than what any normal man should have. He often wondered if it was really him making those choices, or the other part of him, Ragon.
Grel'thak made the first real move. He dropped his weight and charged like a battering ram, his club held high as dust exploded from under his boots. He came at Ragon so fast the human had no time to think.
The club hit the dirt where Ragon had stood a second before. The shock bent the earth, cracked a tent pole, sent a sheet of leather snapping like a sail. Ragon read the motion and stepped—too slow. The force threw him into a splintered support post. Wood splinters jabbed his shoulder as he tasted blood.
Grel'thak bellowed and ran the line, sweeping men aside. He was in motion like a mountain, impossible to stop.
Ragon sputtered, pushed himself up, wiped mud from his eyes. He healed fast, but it was like an excessive wear and tear which stillade him undergo pain.
Grel'thak closed again. This time he didn't just hit; he followed with a knee that shattered Ragon's ribs against a cooking spit. Ragon rolled, felt his bones jar, and got up.
Grel'thak smiled, blood glinting between his teeth. "All talk, half-blood,' he spat. 'Why don't you use that childish trick of yours again?"
He moved like a battering ram and a butcher at once. He smashed a tent frame down across Ragon's back and followed through with two elbow jabs aimed to break the warrior's hold on breath and balance. Ragon tasted iron and dirt. For a long beat, Grel'thak had him.
Ragon tried to respond, throwing out a palm blast, a thin crackle of silver that knocked a few orcs back. It grazed Grel'thak and stung.
The orc roared and grabbed a wagonside as he steadied. Then, with a laugh that was half delight and half hate, Grel'thak slammed the club into Ragon's jaw. The world tilted.
The orc leader pressed his advantage and pushed like he meant to finish it then. He drove Ragon across a heap of barrels as wood exploded under him. Ragon was pinned, bled, spit dirt. The men who had followed him to the camp watched, white-faced. This was not a fair fight; Grel'thak had the upper hand and he was not letting up.
Ragon coughed, felt his vision swim. He reached for the staff strapped to his back, but an orc with a smashed face kicked it away. The crowd noise became a dull roar. Grel'thak came in for another blow, slow, heavy, meant to stop the fight.
Then the change came small and sharp. Ragon's body moved without him ordering it. He felt it like a nudge under his skin. Reflexes took the helm. The unconscious god-soul pushed into the open like a tide.
It started with a blink of silver light at Ragon's hands. He did not plan it. The light scouted ahead like teeth. He touched the dirt and the flash traced a line. The ache stepped down a notch. His limbs tightened. For a moment he tasted other memories—thunder, a ridge of mountain, a storm-born shout. He did not understand them. They were not his.
Grel'thak came at him with a club swing meant to chop him in two. Ragon caught the blow on his forearm. Pain flared. Then, as if guided, he twisted, used the club's momentum, and threw himself behind the orc. He vaulted, used a cart for a spring, and slammed his shoulder into Grel'thak's back. The orc staggered. For once, the force land in Ragon's favor.
He moved like a thing that had war written in its muscles. He spun between strikes, used the ruined poles and burning carts as steps and walls. When Grel'thak drove his club at the head, Ragon ducked, grabbed the haft, and wrenched. The orc's balance broke. He came down hard on his knees. The mood shifted. The orcs around them hissed and whispered.
Grel'thak got up, furious. He slammed an elbow into Ragon's side that knocked wind out of him, but a strike of silver that cut muscle.
Then Ragon's eyes brightened. The other soul...Ragon's sleeping god part pushed up and met the fight with cold speed. It flowed through him like water through a broken dam. His hands moved like a thing alive with lightning. He hit the orc's chin with the flat of his palm.
Grel'thak's head snapped back. He tasted the dirt. He rolled and tried to rise, but Ragon was on him. He grabbed the leader's wrist, and twisted it. His club flew from his hands immediately an arc. It hit the ground and skidded away, a dark comet.
Ragon did not gloat. He stepped close, palm pressed to Grel'thak's chest as silver light flowed up from ground to skin as he whimpered. Then Ragon pulled. Grel'thak's breath hitched. He went limp.
Around them the camp watched in stunned silence.
"Wait! Please... wait! I have something you'll want," Grel'thak gasped, vas his bones neared complete collapse. His once-mighty frame was now reduced to a pitiful, mangled form.