He wiped at the bone-dust that clung to his sweat-streaked face. He had destroyed every corpse the Scourer raised. Sri and Folo stood over the priest’s limp form. Folo shook his head. The priest’s mind had been obliterated.
Urreal realized there was only one way to determine the true nature of the creature. “If you really are an aspect of the divine,” he said, “then I must face you.” He met the Scourer’s gaze. And he raised the sword of Atarac. He knew one thing for sure about the blade: it killed gods. If the gruesome orb was an aspect of the divine, it would die. If not, Urreal would.
The blade curved away, warped by the Scourer’s gaze. Urreal twisted it back and plunged it into the ocular membrane. Hot puss squirted his face as the Scourer collapsed upon him. The creature’s imponderable weight drove the sword deeper and deeper within itself. Urreal’s head cracked against the stone floor and the meaty wetness of the eye engulfed him. He struggled to take a breath, but too much weight pressed on his chest. Salty goo closed over his mouth...