Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  Yes, the general would make the fool’s death a memorable one.

  Augustus Malevolyn walked on, dreaming of his glory, dreaming of what he would do with the dark powers he would soon wield. Yet, while he walked and dreamt, he still paid meticulous attention to the encampment, for a good leader always watched to make certain that slovenliness did not spread among his forces. Empires were won and lost because of overlooking such seemingly minor things.

  Yet, while Malevolyn noted the care with which his loyal warriors performed their tasks, he failed to notice a shadow not caused by the flickering torches. He also failed to notice that this selfsame shadow had stood behind him moments prior, whispering what the general had believed had been his own thoughts, his own questions.

  His own dreams.

  The shadow of the demon Xazax shifted toward Galeona’s tent, his work this night more than to his satisfaction. This human presented some interesting possibilities, ones that he would explore. It had occurred to him long ago that the armor of Bartuc would never accept an actual demon as its master, for, while the warlord had come to believe in the ways of Hell, he had also carried a basic distrust of anyone but himself. No, if the spirit of Bartuc remained even in part in the ancient armor, it would demand a more susceptible human host, however fragile and temporary their bodies might be.

  The general desired to play warlord. That suited Xazax well. The witch had her uses, but a successor to the bloody Bartuc—Xazax’s lord, Belial, would reward his humble servant well for such a find. Not only had the civil war in Hell against Azmodan not gone well of late, but troublesome rumors had reached even there that the Prime Evil Diablo had made good his escape from his mortal prison. If so, he would seek to free his brothers Baal and Mephisto from theirs as well, at which point they would then attempt to regain their thrones from Azmodan and Belial. The three would not deal well with demons who had so loyally served their rebellious lieutenants. If Belial fell, so too would Xazax . . .

  “What’ve you been doing?”

  The shadow paused just within the entrance of the sorceress’s abode. “This one has many tasks and cannot always be at your beck and call, human Galeona . . .” He made a clacking sound, much like a sand maggot might have done just before crushing its prey in its mandibles. “Besides, you slept . . .”

  “Not deep enough to not sense your magic in the air. You promised you wouldn’t cast any spells around here! Augustus has some skill; he might notice it and wonder what it means!”

  “There is no danger of that, this one promises.”

  “I ask again, demon! What were you doing?”

  “Making a little study of the helmet,” Xazax lied, shifting to another part of the tent. “Searching for our fool who knows not what he wears . . .”

  Her anger turned to interest. “And did you find out where he is? If I could tell Malevolyn more . . .”

  The demon chuckled, a scratchy sound like furious bees trapped in a jug. “Why, when we agreed that the armor will never be his?”

  “Because he still has the helmet, you fool, and until we find the armor, we still need Augustus because of his connection to the helmet!”

  “True,” mused the demon. “His ties to it run deep . . . this one would say blood deep.”

  Her chin went up as she flung her hair back, signs that Xazax had long ago learned meant that the human had grown angry. “And what does that mean?”

  The shadow did not waver. “This one only meant a jest with that, sorceress. Only a jest. We speak of things concerning Bartuc, do we not?”

  “A demon with a sense of humor.” Galeona looked not at all amused. “Very well, I’ll leave the jesting to you; you leave Augustus to me.”

  “This one would not seek to take your place in the general’s bed . . .”

  The sorceress gave the shadow a withering glance, then left the tent. Xazax knew she would hunt down Malevolyn, begin reinforcing her hold on him. The demon respected her abilities in this matter even if he felt confident that in a struggle between Galeona and himself, the witch woman would surely lose. After all, she was mortal, not one of the foul angels. Had she been such, Xazax might have been more concerned. Angels were conniving, working behind the scenes, playing tricks instead of confronting their foes directly.

  The shadow of the demon pulled back, secreting himself in the darkest corner. No angels had interfered so far, but Xazax intended to remain wary. If one showed itself, he would take it in his claws and slowly pluck its limbs from it one at a time, all the while listening to the sweet song of its screams.

  “Come to me if you dare, angels,” he whispered to the darkness. “This one will greet you with open arms . . . and teeth and claws!”

  The dim flame from the single oil lamp suddenly flared, briefly illuminating Galeona’s tent far more than normal. In that sudden light, the shadow hissed and cringed. The outline of a massive emerald and crimson insect briefly flashed into sight, then quickly faded again as the flame dimmed.

  Xazax chittered furiously, grateful that Galeona had not witnessed his reaction. Oil lamps often flared; he had only been taken by surprise by a mundane act of nature. Nonetheless, the shadow of the demon pressed deeper into the comforting recesses of the tent. There he could safely plot. There he could safely use his power to seek out the human wearing Bartuc’s armor.

  There he could better watch for cowardly angels.

  Five

  Rumbling storm clouds turned the day as nearly as black as the night had been, but Norrec hardly noticed. His mind still sought to come to grips with the terror of the previous evening and his own limited part in it. More men had died brutally because of Norrec’s damned quest for gold; although unlike Sadun and Fauztin these had likely deserved execution for past crimes, their deaths had been too awful as far as the soldier had been concerned. The innkeeper especially had suffered a horrible demise, the returning demon bringing back far too much proof of its thorough handiwork. Norrec only gave thanks that the hellish beast had returned to the nether realm shortly thereafter with its prize. That, of course, had not enabled Norrec to escape the suit’s own monstrous actions afterward. As the desperate fighter moved on, he tried not to look down at the armor, greatly stained by the night’s activities. Worse, each passing second Norrec remained aware that his own face still bore a few smudges despite his best attempts to rub everything off. The armor had been very thorough in its foul work.

  And while he fought off the horrors in his thoughts, the suit pushed him unceasingly west. Thunder rumbled again and again and the wind howled, but still the armor moved on. Norrec had no doubt that it would keep on moving even if the storm finally broke.

  He had been granted one slight boon at least, the garnering of an old, dusty travel cloak hanging on a peg in the common room. The odds had been that it had belonged to the thieving innkeeper, but again Norrec tried to avoid thinking of such things. The cloak obscured much of the armor and offered him a bit of protection should the rains come pouring down. A very small blessing, but one for which he was truly grateful.

  The more he headed west, the more the landscape changed, the mountains giving way to smaller hills and even flatlands. Now much farther down in altitude, it also grew increasingly warm. The plant life turned lush, becoming more and more reminiscent of the dense jungles the fighter knew existed further south.

  For the first time, Norrec could also smell the sea. What he recalled of the maps he and his companions had carried indicated to him that the more northerly of the Twin Seas could not be that far away at this point. Norrec’s original hope had been to head southwest to find one of the Vizjerei, but he had suspicions that the cursed suit had other plans in mind. A fear briefly erupted within him that it might actually try to walk the breadth of the sea, dragging a helpless Norrec into the inky depths. However, so far Bartuc’s armor had kept him alive, if not completely well. It apparently needed him breathing in order to achieve its mysterious goals.

  And after that?

 
; The wind continued to pick up, nearly buffeting Norrec about despite the determination of the cursed suit to keep on its course. No rain had yet fallen, but the air grew thick and moist and fog began to develop. It became impossible to see very far ahead and although that did not seem at all a bother to the armor, now and then Norrec still feared that it would walk him right off a cliff without ever realizing it.

  At midday—which almost might as well have been midnight for all the sun failed to penetrate the cloud cover—imps again came in summons to the unintelligible words spouted unwillingly by Norrec. Even despite the growing fog, it took them but minutes to bring back prey, this time a deer. Norrec ate his fill, then gladly allowed the small, horned demons to drag the rest of the carcass back to their infernal abode.

  On and on he trudged, the smell of the sea growing stronger. Norrec could barely see in front of him, but knew that he could not be that far from it—and whatever destination the infernal armor had in mind.

  As if reading his thoughts, a building abruptly materialized in the mist . . . followed almost immediately by another. At the same time, he heard voices in the distance, voices clearly of those hard at work.

  His hands his own for the moment, the exhausted traveler pulled his cloak tight about him. The less any of the locals saw what he wore underneath, the better.

  As he wandered through the town, Norrec sighted a dim but vast shape in the distance. A ship. He wondered whether or not it had just arrived or now prepared to disembark. If the latter, it likely would be the armor’s destination. Why else would he have been brought to this specific place?

  A figure in mariner’s garb came from the opposite direction, a bundle under one arm. He had eyes and features somewhat akin to Fauztin, but with much more animation in his face.

  “Ho, traveler! Not a good day to be making your way from the interior, eh?”

  “No.” Norrec would have walked past the man without another word, his concern that the mariner might become the next of the suit’s victims, but his feet suddenly stopped.

  This, in turn, caused the other to also halt. Still grinning, the seaman asked, “Where do you hail from? Look to be a westerner to me, though it’s a little hard to tell under all that stubble!”

  “West, yes,” the soldier returned. “I’ve been on a . . . a pilgrimage.”

  “In the mountains? Not much up there but a few goats!”

  Norrec tried to move his legs, but they would not budge. The armor expected something of him, but would not indicate what. He thought fast and furiously. He had arrived in a harbor town toward which the armor had purposely headed. Norrec had already assumed that it needed transport to some location, possibly even the ship in the distance—

  The ship . . .

  Pointing toward the murky shape, Norrec asked, “That vessel. Is it heading out soon?”

  The mariner twisted his head back to look. “The Napolys? She’s just come in. Be another two, maybe five days even. Only ship leaving soon’s the Hawksfire, just down that way.” He pointed toward the south, then leaned close—far too close, in Norrec’s anxious opinion—and added, “A word of caution there. The Hawksfire is not a good vessel. She’ll be at the bottom of the sea one of these days, mark me. Best to wait for the Napolys or my own fine girl, the Odyssey, though that’ll mean a week or more. We’ve need for a little refitting.”

  Still his legs would not move. What more did the armor want?

  Destination? “Can you tell me where each sails to?”

  “My own, we’re heading for Lut Gholein, but it’ll be awhile before we can leave, as I said. The Napolys now, that heads for far Kingsport, a long journey but a part of your Western Kingdoms, eh? Get you home faster, I think! That’d be the one for you, eh?”

  Norrec noticed no change. “What about the Hawksfire?”

  “Leaves tomorrow morn, I think, but I warn you against it. One of these days, she’ll not make it all the way back from Lut Gholein—and that’s if she makes it there in the first place!”

  The soldier’s legs suddenly started moving again. The suit had finally found out what it wanted to know. Norrec gave the mariner a quick nod. “Thank you.”

  “Heed my warning well!” the seaman called. “Best to wait!”

  Bartuc’s armor marched Norrec through the small town, heading to the southern part of the harbor. Mariners and locals glanced at him as he walked by, his western looks not as common here, but none made any comment. For all its tiny size, the port apparently handled a steady business. Norrec supposed that it would have looked more impressive in the sunshine, but doubted that he would ever have the opportunity to see it so.

  A sense of unease touched the veteran as he entered the southernmost part of the port. In contrast to what Norrec had seen so far, the area here looked to be in some disrepair and those few figures he noticed nearby struck Norrec as almost as unsavory as the unfortunate fools who had tried to rob him. Worse, the only vessel in sight looked to be most appropriate for a journey desired by a cursed suit of armor.

  If some dark spirit had dredged up a long-lost ship from the black depths of the sea, then failed afterward in a half-hearted attempt to make it pass for something still from the land of the living, it would have looked little more baleful than the Hawksfire did at that moment. The three masts stood like tall, skeletal sentinels halfwrapped in the shroudlike sails. The figurehead at the bow, once probably a curvaceous mermaid, had been worn down by the elements until it now resembled more an aquatic banshee in midshriek. As for the hull itself, something had long-ago stained the wood nearly to pitch and scars raked the sides, making Norrec wonder if at some point in its colored past the vessel had either served in war or, more likely, had been used more than once as a freebooter.

  He saw no crew, only a single, gaunt figure in a worn coat standing near the bow. Despite the uncertainty of taking a voyage on such a ghastly ship, Norrec had no choice but to do as the armor forced him. Without hesitation, it walked its unwilling host up the gangplank toward the rather haggard figure.

  “What you want?” The skeleton coalesced into an older man with parchment skin and absolutely no flesh and sinew beneath the thin veil of life. One eye stared sightlessly to a point just to the left of Norrec, while the other, bloodshot, glared suspiciously at the newcomer.

  “Passage to Lut Gholein,” replied Norrec, trying to end this matter as quickly as he could. If he cooperated, then perhaps the warlord’s garments would give him some freedom of movement for awhile.

  “Other ships in port!” the captain snapped, his accent thick. Under a broad-rimmed hat he wore his ivory-white hair in a tail. The faded green coat, clearly once that of a naval officer from one of the Western Kingdoms, had likely gone through several owners before this man had laid claim to it. “No time to serve passengers!”

  Ignoring the fetid breath, Norrec leaned closer. “I will pay well to get there.”

  An immediate change came over the captain’s demeanor. “Aye?”

  Trusting the armor to do as it had done at the inn, the soldier continued. “All I need is a cabin and food. If I’m left alone for the duration of the journey, so much the better. Just get me to Lut Gholein.”

  The cadaverous figure inspected him. “Armor?” He rubbed his chin. “Officer?”

  “Yes.” Let him think Norrec some renegade officer on the run. Likely it would raise the price but make the captain more trusting. Norrec obviously needed to be away from here.

  The elder man rubbed his bony chin again. Norrec noted tattoos running from his thin wrist down into the voluminous sleeve of the coat. The notion that this ship had served as a freebooter gained merit.

  “Twelve draclin! Bed alone, eat away from crew, talk with crew little! Leave ship when docked!”

  Norrec agreed with everything except the price. How much was a draclin worth compared to the coin of his own land?

  He need not have bothered worrying. The left hand stretched out, several coins in the gauntlet’s palm. The captain
eyed them greedily, scooping each from the proffered hand. He bit one to make certain of its worth, then poured all into a ragged pouch on his belt.

  “Come!” He hobbled past Norrec, for the first time revealing that his left leg had splints running down each side all the way to the boot. From the extensive binding he saw and his own experiences with field surgery, the veteran suspected that his host could not even stand on the leg without those large splints. The captain should have had the limb better looked at, but both the bindings and the splints appeared as if they had been put on quite some time ago and then forgotten.

  However much twelve draclin might be in Norrec’s own land, his first viewing of the cabin led him to believe it far too great a price for this. Even the room at the inn had looked more hospitable than what he now confronted. The cabin barely outspanned a closet; only a rickety bunk whose side had been nailed to the back wall represented anything in the way of amenities. The sheets were stained and looked as if they had been crudely cut from the sails, so dark and coarse were they. A smell like rotting fish pervaded the cabin and marks on the floor hinted of some past violence. In the upper corners, spiderwebs larger than Norrec’s head wiggled in the breeze let in by the open door and near the edge of the floor, moss of some sort had taken a foothold.

  Knowing he had no choice, Norrec hid his disgust. “Thank you, captain—”

  “Casco,” the skeletal figure grunted. “Inside! Eat at bell! Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  With a curt nod, Captain Casco left him to his own devices. Heeding the man’s advice, Norrec shut the door behind him and sat down on the dubious bed. To his further regret, the cabin did not even have a porthole, which might have offered some relief from the stench.

  He flexed his hands, then tested his legs. Movement had been granted to him for his cooperation, but for how long, Norrec could not say. He supposed that aboard the Hawksfire, the armor expected little trouble. What could Norrec do except step over the rail and sink to the bottom of the sea? As terrible as his situation had grown, he could not yet bring himself to try to end his life, especially in such horrifying fashion. Besides, Norrec doubted that he would be allowed to do even that, not so long as the suit required his living body.