The mountains lay far behind him, although how he had journeyed so far Norrec only half-recalled. At some point he had passed out from exhaustion, but evidently the suit had gone on and on. Despite the fact that none of the effort had actually been his own, every muscle in the veteran’s body screamed and every bone felt as if it had broken. His lips were parched from the wind while sweat covered much of his body. Norrec yearned to peel off the armor and run free, but knew the hopelessness of that dream. The armor would do with him as it chose.
And now he stood atop a ridge, staring at the first sign of civilization he had seen in many a day. An unsavory inn, a place that more befitted brigands and highwaymen rather than honest warriors such as himself. However, with darkness about to befall and Norrec nearly done in, the suit seemed to finally register that it had to once more deal with the frailties of its human host.
He marched without desiring to toward the building. Three glum horses stood tethered nearby and at least one more sounded its displeasure from a wretched stable just beyond. Norrec found himself wishing that he had his sword; the armor had not bothered to take that when it had walked out of the tomb with him.
Just before he reached the doorway, the veteran’s legs suddenly buckled under him. Norrec quickly caught himself, realizing that Bartuc’s damnable armor had granted him the dubious gift of entering on his own, likely in order to avoid notice of anything strange.
Hunger and rest more important to Norrec at the moment than his own pride, the soldier pushed the door wide open. Grimy, suspicious faces looked up, the onlookers a mixture not only of the eastern races, but those on the other side of the Twin Seas as well. Mongrels, all four of them, Norrec saw, and although he certainly held no man’s background against him, this group did not look at all like men next to whom he desired to sit.
Kind of place where you gotta watch your back even around the serving wench! Sadun Tryst would have jested. Tryst, of course, would have sat with anyone who would have offered him a drink.
But Sadun was dead.
“Shut the door or go back out!” snarled the one seated nearest.
Norrec obeyed, desiring no confrontations. Forcing himself to act as if he had just ridden in, the weary fighter kept his head high as he walked smartly through the room. His body screamed as he moved, but no one there would know of it. Give these men even the slightest hint of weakness and Norrec suspected that they would make dire use of that fact.
He approached what he assumed to be the innkeeper, a towering heavy-set figure more frightful than his patrons, who stood behind a worn and scratched counter. A bush of dirty brown hair fought its way from under an old travel cap. Beady eyes stared from a round, canine face. Norrec had noted a peculiar odor in the room when he had first entered and now he knew it to originate from the man before him.
Had he thought that the armor would let him leave, Norrec would have walked right out regardless of his needs.
“What?” the innkeeper finally muttered, scratching his extravagant belly. His shirt had been decorated in a variety of stains and even a rip under the arm.
“I need food.” That, more than anything else, Norrec had to have quickly.
“I need good coin.”
Coin. The desperate soldier fought back growing frustration. Another item that had been left behind with the bloodied corpses of his companions.
His left hand suddenly shot forward, the gauntlet slapping down so hard on the counter that the innkeeper jumped. The men seated at the tables leapt to their feet, some reaching for weapons.
The gauntlet pulled away . . . leaving behind an old but clearly gold coin.
Recovering before the rest, Norrec said, “And a room for that, too.”
He could feel every pair of eyes avidly staring at the coin. Once more Norrec silently cursed the damnable armor. If it could produce wealth from thin air, it could have at least produced something less conspicuous than gold. Again he wished that he still carried his sword or at least a good, solid knife.
“Got some stew in the pot back there.” With a tip of his head the ursine giant indicated the kitchen. “Got a room up the second floor. First on the right.”
“I’ll eat in there.”
“Suit yourself.”
The innkeeper vanished in back for a few moments, then returned with a stained bowl containing something that smelled even worse than he did. Nevertheless, Norrec gratefully accepted it, his hunger so demanding now that, if offered to him again, he would have even eaten the goat the imps had mutilated.
With the bowl in the crook of his arm, Norrec followed the innkeeper’s directions to the room. As he walked up the creaking wooden stairway, he heard low muttering down in the common area. His free hand tightened. The gold coin had burned itself into the minds of the men below.
The room proved as dismal as the veteran had expected, a dark, dusty closet with a window so grimy it gave no view of the outside. The bed looked ready to collapse and what had once been white sheets now were permanently gray. The single oil lamp shed barely enough light to illuminate its immediate surroundings, much less the rest of the room.
With no table or chair in the place, Norrec gingerly sat on the bed and began spooning the contents of the bowl into his mouth. If anything, it tasted more vile than he could have imagined, but seemed at least fresh enough not to kill him.
The need to sleep grew more urgent as food filled his stomach. Norrec had to struggle to remain awake long enough to finish and the moment he had the bowl emptied, he dropped it gently on the floor and settled back. In the back of his mind, Norrec continued to worry about those below him, but exhaustion soon overcame even that significant concern.
And as he drifted off to sleep, Norrec began to dream.
He saw himself shouting commands at an infernal army of grotesque horrors his imagination could have never created on its own. Scaled, fiery, nightmarish abominations thirsting for blood—blood Norrec seemed all too willing to give them. Demons they were, but under his complete control. They would raze cities for him, slaughter the inhabitants in his name. Even Hell respected the power of the Warlord of Blood, he . . . Bartuc .
At that thought, the soldier finally fought to escape the dream. He could never be Bartuc! Never demand such horror for the sake of his own desires! Never!
Yet such absolute power had its seductive side.
Norrec’s internal battle with himself thankfully came to an abrupt halt as a noise suddenly awoke him. Eyes flashing open, he listened for more. What he had heard, the fighter could not say. A small, somewhat insignificant sound, but one that had registered even in his subconscious.
He heard it again, just barely audible through the closed door. The creak of someone slowly and, it seemed, very cautiously ascending.
There were other rooms, true, but the men below had hardly struck Norrec as so polite that they would tread so carefully in order not to disturb him. Had they tromped up the steps without concern, he would have thought nothing of it. However, such caution indicated to the soldier that perhaps they had something else in mind, something not at all to his liking.
If a weary traveler had one gold coin, surely he had more . . .
Norrec’s hand slipped to where his sword should have been. No hope there. That left him entirely dependent on the armor itself, not necessarily a path he could trust. Perhaps the suit would find one of the thieves more to its liking, opening the way for the soldier’s easy slaughter . . .
The creaking ceased.
Norrec pushed himself up as silently as he could.
Two men with drawn knives broke through the dilapidated door, instantly diving toward the figure before them. From behind the pair came a third villain, this one wielding a curved short sword. Each of the attackers matched the rising fighter in height as well as in muscle, and they had the advantage of trapping him in a room with a window too small for Norrec to try to fit through.
He raised a fist, ready to make them pay—
And th
e fist suddenly held a long, sable sword with wicked teeth set in the edge. Norrec’s hand came down with the blade, moving so swiftly that he and his first adversary could only gape.
The blade ripped into the attacker, tearing flesh and sinew without effort. A gaping wound spread across the robber’s entire chest as if by magic, blood spilling so fast from it that it took the victim a moment to realize he had been slain.
The first attacker finally slumped to the floor even as his companions came to grips with this sudden, dismaying turn of events. The one with the dagger sought to back away, but his partner pushed forward, daring to match blades. Norrec might have warned the brigand of the foolishness of that, but by then they were locked in combat.
Once, twice—that proved to be all the effort the suit would allow its opponent. As the intruder brought his sword up for a third strike, Norrec’s gauntleted hand twisted sharply. The sable blade turned in a mad, zig-zag fashion.
His life fluids spilling from a horrendous slit running from his throat to his waist, the second villain staggered. He dropped his sword as he desperately tried to prevent the inevitable.
As if impatient to end matters, Norrec’s hand came up again.
The head of his foe struck the floor, rolling to a corner and coming to rest—all before the torso even began to tip over.
“Gods!” the soldier managed to gasp. He had been trained to fight, not to slaughter.
Clearly aware of what chance he had, the third intruder had already hurried to the doorway. Norrec wanted to let him go, desiring no more bloodshed, but the suit chose otherwise, leaping over the two bodies and chasing after.
At the bottom of the steps, the last of the trio struggled to get around the innkeeper, who appeared to be demanding to know why his friends had failed in their task. Both men looked up to see the crimson figure above them, the dark blade flaring. The innkeeper drew a prodigious long sword from his waist, a weapon so massive Norrec momentarily feared that the suit had overestimated its invulnerability. The other man tried to continue his flight, but a fifth outlaw who suddenly appeared from behind the innkeeper pushed him back toward the fray.
If they expected to meet him on the stairs, they were sorely mistaken. Norrec found himself leaping feet first toward the trio, their astonished faces no doubt matching his own. Two of them managed to back away just in time, but the lone survivor of the earlier debacle stood too horrified to move quickly.
The sinister weapon made short work of him, the blade pushing through until it came out the back, then immediately retracting.
“His right!” snarled the heavy-set innkeeper. “His right!”
The other swordsman obeyed. Norrec knew exactly what the leader planned. Attack from opposite sides, keep the soldier distracted. One of them would surely land a blow, especially the innkeeper, whose weapon had nearly twice the reach of the black one.
“Now!” Both men struck at once, one aiming for Norrec’s throat, the other for his legs, where the armor did not cover everywhere. These two had evidently battled side-by-side before, just as Norrec had with Sadun and Fauztin. Had it been his effort alone, the soldier knew that he would have perished there and then. Bartuc’s armor, however, fought with a speed and accuracy that nothing human could match. Not only did it force down the larger adversary’s gargantuan blade, but it also managed to come up in time to deflect the second villain’s strike. More amazing, it followed through with a savage thrust that sank into the throat of the latter man.
And as his companion fell, the innkeeper’s iron reserve suddenly melted. Still wielding his sword before him, he began to back toward the doorway. The suit pushed Norrec forward, but did not harry the last of its foes.
Flinging open the door, the innkeeper turned and fled into the night. Now Norrec expected Bartuc’s armor to pursue, but instead the suit turned around and marched him over to where one of the other bodies lay. As Norrec knelt beside the corpse, the sable blade dissolved, leaving both hands free.
To his horror, one gauntleted finger thrust into the mortal wound, pulling back only when blood covered much of the upper portion of the digit. Moving to the wooden floor, the finger drew a pattern.
“Heyat tokaris!” his mouth suddenly blurted. “Heyat grendel!”
The suit backed away and as it did, a plume of rank, greenish smoke arose from the bloody pattern. It quickly formed arms, legs—and tail and wings. Areptilian visage with too many eyes blinked in disdain, disdain that vanished when the demon saw what stood before him.
“Warrrlorrrd . . .” it rasped. The bulbous eyes looked closer. “Warrrlorrrd?”
“Heskar, grendel! Heskar!”
The demon nodded. Without another word, the monstrous being headed toward the open door. In the distance, Norrec heard the frantic beats of several fleeing horses.
“Heskar!” his mouth demanded again.
The reptilian horror picked up its pace, departing the inn. As it stepped outside, it spread its wings and took off, disappearing into the night.
Norrec did not have to guess its purpose. On the command of Bartuc, it had gone hunting.
“Don’t do it,” he whispered, now certain that whatever spirit lurked within the armor could hear him. “Let him go!”
The suit turned back toward the first corpse.
“Damn it! Leave him be! He’s not worth it!”
Seemingly ignorant to his pleas, it forced him again to bend down near the body. The hand that had earlier touched the wound with but one finger now planted all of them there, letting the blood stain the entire palm.
Outside, a frantic human scream rose high—then cut off with harsh finality.
In Norrec’s other hand, a new weapon appeared, this time a scarlet dagger with a double point at the end.
The flapping of wings warned him of the demon’s return, but Norrec could not twist his neck enough to see. He heard the heavy breathing of the creature and even the folding of its leathery wings as it settled down in the common room.
“Nestu veraki . . . “ The dagger shifted toward the corpse’s throat. “Nestu verakuu . . . “
The veteran soldier shut his eyes, now praying for himself. Enough of his memories concerning his friends’ deaths had come back to him to give him indication of what would happen next. Norrec had no desire to face it, would have fled if he could.
“Nestu hanti . . . “
But he could do nothing now except try to preserve both his sanity and his soul.
“Nestu hantiri . . .“
The dagger plunged into the throat of the brigand.
General Augustus Malevolyn arose from the sea of pillows, leaving Galeona to whatever dreams a sorceress of her ilk had. Without making a sound, he donned some clothes and stepped out of his tent.
Two sentries snapped to attention, their eyes straight ahead. Malevolyn gave them the slightest of nods, then moved on.
A city of tents spread out to the west, the only homes for the general’s dedicated minions. Despite being a landless noble, he had managed to raise a fighting force virtually unequaled in the Western Kingdoms. For a price, he had served the causes of any ruler, garnered for himself the money he had needed for his future ambitions. Now, however, the point had come when he had sworn never to serve another, that some day he, Augustus Malevolyn, would be master of more than this worthless patch of ground.
The general turned his eyes to the south, where the vast desert of Aranoch lay. For some time now, he had felt drawn in that direction, drawn to more than the fact that a tremendous prize, the rich, lush city of Lut Gholein, lay some distance within. Lut Gholein, despite its proximity to the desert, also bordered the Twin Seas. Because of that and the fertile strip of land on which it stood, the kingdom had prospered well. Several times would-be conquerors had thought to add its riches to their coffers, but each attempt had met with total disaster. Lut Gholein had not only proven to be well defended, but it appeared to have a bit of a charmed existence. In fact, in Malevolyn’s mind, that charm borde
red on outright sorcery. Something watched over the city.
And that something was what most tantalized the commander now. Somehow it had some link to his desire to seize Bartuc’s legacy and make it his own. Malevolyn dreamed about it, found himself constantly turning his thoughts toward it.
“Soon,” he whispered to himself. “Soon . . .”
And what will you do with that legacy? came the sudden thought in his head. Emulate Bartuc? Repeat his mistakes as well as his victories?
“No . . .” He would not do that. For all the warlord’s power, for all his command of demon hosts, Bartuc had had one failing that the general could not overlook. Bartuc had not been a career soldier. The fabled Warlord of Blood had been first and foremost a sorcerer. Mages had their uses, especially Galeona, but they were unstable and too focused on their arts. A true commander had to be able to keep his attention on the field of battle, on the logistics and the sudden shifts. That had been part of the reason Augustus Malevolyn had been unable to achieve any true skill with his own sorcerous abilities; his military career had been his true passion.
But with the armor, with the magic of Bartuc, you could be more than him, the perfect fusion of soldier and sorcerer! You could be more than Bartuc, even eclipsing him . . .
“Yesss . . . yesss . . .” The general pictured his image forever engraved in the hearts and minds of those in the future. General Augustus Malevolyn, emperor of the world !
And even demons will bow to you, call you master.
Demons. Yes, with the armor his, the ability to summon demons would surely follow. The dreams he had had since first wearing the helm had all pointed to that. Reunite helm with suit and the enchantments within would give him the power.
The suit. . . . His brow furrowed. He needed the suit!
And some fool had it.
Malevolyn would find him, find the witless wretch and peel off the armor piece by piece. Then, he would reward the cretin with the honor of being the first to die at the hands of the new Warlord of Blood.
Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood Page 6