With no notion as to what else to do with his time, he tried his best to go to sleep. Despite the stench—or perhaps because of it—Norrec managed to doze off. Unfortunately, his dreams proved again to be troubled ones, in great part because they did not even seem his own.
Again he lived as Bartuc, taking relish in the dreadful acts he performed. A settlement that hesitated too long in accepting his domination felt the full force of his righteous wrath, the town elders and several other chosen fools drawn, quartered, then flayed for the good of the rest. A Vizjerei caught spying became the centerpiece for a macabre candelabra that illuminated not only the warlord’s quarters, but even caused his demonic servants to shudder. A bell sounded . . .
—stirring a grateful Norrec from his sleep. He blinked, finally registering that he had actually slept until the bell for evening meal. While he doubted the food would be anything to his liking, his hunger had become so great that Norrec could not avoid the matter any longer. Besides, he did not want to risk the suit summoning imps to feed him. There was no telling what they might decide could be edible . . .
Pulling his cloak tight around him, the fighter stepped out to see several worn, bitter-looking men heading down into the bowel of the ship. Assuming that they, too, planned to eat, Norrec followed them down to a rather seedylooking mess. In silence the former soldier stood in line, receiving hard bread and a questionable meat dish that almost made him yearn for the thieving innkeeper’s fare.
One glance at the surly group convinced Norrec to retire to his room. Carrying his food up to the deck, he paused at the rail for a moment to inhale some of the relatively fresh sea air before going back into the cabin.
A figure standing in the fog-enshrouded dock caught his eye.
The food slipped from his hands, spilling all over the deck, but Norrec did not even notice.
Fauztin . Even with his robes wrapped around him, it could be no other.
The dead eyes of his former comrade stared back at him. Even from where the fighter stood, he could see the gaping hole where the Vizjerei’s throat once had been.
“Fool!” Casco roared from behind Norrec. “What mess! You clean up! No help!”
The startled veteran looked over his shoulder at the angry captain, then down at the spilled food. Some of the meat dripped over the toes of Bartuc’s boots.
“Clean up! No help! No more food tonight!” Casco limped off, muttering in his native tongue something no doubt derogatory about foreign devils.
Despite the fury of the captain, Norrec immediately forgot the spilled meal, instead quickly returning his gaze to the dock in search of—
Nothing . No sepulchral figure stood staring back at him. The ghastly shade had vanished—if it had ever even been there in the first place.
Hands trembling, he stumbled back, unmindful of anything but the terrifying sight he thought he had just beheld. Fauztin, so clearly dead, condemning him with those empty eyes . . .
Still ignoring Captain Casco’s earlier demand that he clean up the mess, Norrec hurried back to his cabin, slamming the door tight behind him and not daring to breathe until he sat once more on the bunk.
He had lost the struggle. The sorcerer’s ghost had been the first obvious sign. Norrec had lost the struggle for his sanity. The horrors the cursed armor had put him through had finally torn away the last barriers protecting the veteran’s mind. Surely now, the downward spiral into complete madness would be swift. Surely now, he had no hope of saving himself.
Surely now Bartuc’s legacy would claim not only his body—but his soul, too.
An exhausted Kara Nightshadow inspected the miserable little port town with some distaste. Accustomed to the beauty of the jungle and the carefully cultivated ways of her kind, she found the port, Gea Kul, reeking of too many unwashed bodies and far too much devotion to materialistic things. As a necromancer, Kara saw the world in balance between the actions of life and that which occurred after death and believed that both aspects should be dealt with accordingly with as much dignity as a soul could muster. What she had so far witnessed in her few minutes here had revealed very little dignity.
It had taken her great effort to reach this place as quickly as she had, effort that had worn her out physically, spiritually, and very much magically. Kara dearly wanted to get some sleep, but she had come to this place for reasons that even she did not completely understand and so needed to at least survey the area in the hopes of finding some answers.
After the unsettling loss of not only the warlord’s armor but also both her prized dagger and the two corpses, the young necromancer had used her training to try to ferret out the locations of all—and that had unerringly led her to this most unassuming place. What ties the port might have to all, she could not say, but it clearly did not bode well. Kara wished that she could have consulted with her teachers, but time had been of the essence and she had been trained to rely on herself as much as possible. Delaying the chase only meant it becoming more difficult to track everything later on. That, she could not afford. If the thieves planned on taking the armor overseas, she had to stop them now.
As for the revenants . . . she had no idea what to do about that unsettling pair. They acted like nothing spoken of in her studies.
Ignoring the unsavory glances from the sailors she passed, Kara headed for the first inn she found. On the one hand, the ebony-tressed enchantress needed food, while on the other, she hoped to garner useful information. Surely those who carried Bartuc’s suit had needed a meal or a drink after such an arduous trek.
The Captain’s Table, as the inn had been titled, proved to be a bit better in appearance than she expected. Although the building looked old and worn, the gray-haired, imposing man in charge kept it clean and orderly. Kara immediately knew that he had once been an officer in some naval force, from his features likely one of the wealthier Western Kingdoms. Cheerful for the most part, the gigantic figure with muttonchop sideburns brooked no argument from one patron who believed he could depart without paying. Despite his advanced age, the innkeeper handled the much younger seaman with ease, not only retrieving the money owed him but also depositing the culprit out in the fog and mud.
Rubbing his hands on his apron, the owner noticed his newest guest. “Good evening, milady!” He bowed graciously despite his growing girth, his entire expression lighting up at the sight of her. “Captain Hanos Jeronnan, your humble servant! May I say you grace my little place!”
Unaccustomed to such open displays toward her, Kara did not answer at first. However, Captain Jeronnan, clearly realizing that he had overwhelmed her, patiently waited for her to recover.
“Thank you, captain,” she finally responded. “I seek some food and, if you have the time, the answers to a few questions.”
“For you, my lovely little one, I’ll make the time!”
He walked off, humming to himself. Kara felt her face reddening. Captain Jeronnan obviously meant nothing forward in his comments, but none of the dark mage’s intense training had taught her how to take compliments on her appearance. She knew that some of her brethren found her attractive, but among the followers of Rathma such matters were treated with the formality with which they treated everything.
Seating herself in a side booth, Kara glanced around at the other patrons. Most went about the business of drinking and eating, but a few had other matters in mind. She saw a woman in scandalous garments leaning over a sailor, her offer to him needing little actual conversation. To her right, a pair of men dickered over some deal, babbling in a language of which the necromancer had no knowledge. There were also a few males among the clientele who eyed her with more open interest than Captain Jeronnan had and without his tact. One who showed far too much interest for her own tastes received a stony glare from her silver eyes, a sight so unsettling to him that he quickly turned away, burying his head in drink and visibly shivering for several seconds.
The innkeeper returned with a plate bearing broiled fish and some sea vegetable
. He placed that and a mug in front of the necromancer. “Cider in the mug. ‘Tis the simplest drink I’ve got here, milady.”
Kara considered telling him something about the strong herbal concoctions developed by the Rathma faithful, but chose to graciously accept the mild drink. She looked at the fish, the spices giving it a very enticing scent. Of course, at this point Kara almost would have been willing to eat it right out of the sea. Still, it pleased her to find such civilized fare here. “What do I owe?”
“Your company alone’s worth the price.”
She bristled, thinking of the woman plying her wares on one of the customers. “I am no—”
He looked chagrined. “No, no! ‘Tis just that I don’t get such fair visitors much, lass! I only meant sitting here and answering your questions! No harm meant—” Jeronnan leaned closer, whispering, “and I know better than to try forcing myself on one who follows the ways of Rathma!”
“You know what I am and still you desire to sit with me?”
“Milady, I sailed every sea and all over the Great Ocean. I’ve seen many a magic, but the most trustworthy of mages were always the faithful of Rathma . . .”
She rewarded him with a slight smile that proved enough to redden his already ruddy cheeks. “Then perhaps you are the man with whom I can trust my questions.”
The captain leaned back. “Only when you’ve first tasted my specialty and given me your fine opinion.”
Kara cut into the fish, tasting a small bite. Immediately she cut a second, downing it as quickly as the first.
Jeronnan beamed. “’Tis to your liking, then?”
Indeed, it was. The jungles of the east contained a variety of marvelous spices, but the necromancer had never eaten anything like this fish. In less time than she could have imagined, Kara had devoured a good portion of her meal, so much so that she finally felt like herself again.
Captain Jeronnan had excused himself now and then to deal with his other customers, but by the time she had finished, there remained only two others, a pair of dourlooking sailors clearly too weary to do anything but nurse their ales and food. The innkeeper settled in across from her and waited.
“My name is Kara Nightshadow,” she began. “You know what I am.”
“Aye, but I’ve never seen one that looked like you, lass.”
Kara pushed on, unwilling at this point to be detoured by niceties. “Captain, have you noticed anyone out of the ordinary here?”
He chuckled. “In Gea Kul? It’d be more extraordinary to see someone ordinary!”
“What about . . . what about a man traveling with armor probably strapped to the back of an animal?” The necromancer paused to consider the implications further. “Or a man wearing armor?”
“We get some soldiers here. Not uncommon.”
“In crimson plate?”
Jeronnan’s brow wrinkled. “I’d recall that—but, no. No one.”
It had been a desperate hope. Kara wanted to ask another, very particular question, but feared that if she did, the captain’s easy manner would change. He might be familiar with her kind, but some subjects could be too dark even for him to accept. Walking corpses would certainly be one of those subjects.
Kara opened her mouth with the intention of trying a different track, yet what escaped from her lips proved not to be words but rather a long yawn.
Her companion looked her over. “Pardon me for being blunt, milady, but you look even more pale than you likely usually are. I think you need some good rest.”
She sought to dissuade him, only to yawn again. “Perhaps you are right.”
“I’ve got a couple of rooms available, lass. For you, no charge—and nothing expected, if you’re worried about it.”
“I’ll pay you.” Kara managed to retrieve some coins from the purse on her belt. “Is this enough?”
He shoved most of it back. “That is . . . and don’t go showing all that money around. Not everyone’s a kind soul like me!”
The necromancer could barely move. Her legs felt like lead. The spellwork she had utilized to quicker get her to her destination had taken too much from the dark mage. “I think I will go to it immediately, if you will forgive my leaving.”
“Best give me a few minutes, lass. I fear that with the help I hire here, it might not be ready for you. Just remain here and I’ll be back shortly!”
He hurried off before she could protest. Kara straightened, trying to keep awake. Both the spellwork and her own physical efforts naturally had drained her much, but this exhaustion seemed far more oppressive than it should have been, even taking those matters into account. It almost made her believe—
She pushed herself to her feet, turning to the door at the same time. Perhaps Kara had misjudged Captain Hanos Jeronnan. Perhaps his congenial manner hid a darker side.
Aware that her thinking might well be too muddled, the necromancer stumbled her way toward the entrance, not at all caring what the two sailors in the corner might think. If she made it outside, then perhaps she could clear her mind enough to reconsider. Yes, for all the odious smells of the port itself, the sea air would still no doubt help her regain her balance.
Kara nearly fell through the doorway, so weak had her legs become. Immediately she inhaled. Some of the heaviness in her head evaporated, enough at least for her to get some general sense of her surroundings, but the raven-haired enchantress needed more. She could not decide what to do about the innkeeper until she could think clearly again.
Once more she inhaled, but as her head cleared a bit more, a sense of immediate unease struck Kara.
She looked up into the dark fog and saw a figure in a worn travel cloak standing just a few feet from her. His face remained obscured by the hood of his cloak, but lower Kara could make out one pale hand emerging. In that hand, the figure held a dagger that gleamed even in the mist-enshrouded night.
An ivory dagger.
Kara’s dagger.
Another pale hand reached up and pulled back the hood slightly, revealing a face the necromancer had seen but once before. The Vizjerei from Bartuc’s tomb.
The Vizjerei who had had his throat torn out.
“Your spell . . . should’ve worked . . . better on her,” a voice croaked from behind her.
Kara tried to turn, her body still moving far too slowly. At the same time, it occurred to her that all her training, all her spellwork, had failed to enable her to notice not one attacker, but two.
A second pale face smiled grimly at her, the man’s head tipped slightly to one side as if not entirely connected to his body.
The second corpse from the tomb. The wiry man whose neck had been snapped.
“You leave us . . . no choice.”
His hand had been raised, in it another dagger held hilt up. Even as this fact reached her sluggish brain, the hand of the ghoul came down, swinging hard.
The blow caught Kara Nightshadow on the temple. She spun around once and would have surely cracked her head on the stone path save that the undead creature who had hit her now caught her in his arms. With astonishing tenderness, he lowered the stunned woman to the ground.
“You . . . really . . . leave us . . . no choice.”
And with that, she blacked out.
Six
Norrec did not leave his cabin again until time came to retrieve his morning meal. No one spoke to him, especially Captain Casco, who had not forgiven his passenger for leaving the mess near the rail. Norrec actually appreciated the lack of conversation, wanting nothing to slow his return to the safety of his room. He had slept fitfully during the night, not only haunted by dreams of Bartuc’s glory, but now also dread images of Fauztin’s vengeful spirit come to claim him. Not until the Hawksfire finally set sail did the veteran fighter calm at all. Out on the sea, troubled spirits could certainly not pursue him. In fact, as the ship pushed out onto the stormy waters, it finally began to sound reasonable to Norrec that he had imagined the dreadful vision, that what he had taken for Fauztin had either been
but another Vizjerei—for certainly the port lay near enough to their eastern lands—or the complete figment of his own troubled mind.
The latter seemed more and more likely. After all, Norrec had been both physically and mentally torn apart by the demands of the cursed armor. The memories of not only the tomb but the slaughter at the inn remained with him. In addition, the warlord’s suit had pushed his endurance to the limits and beyond, forcing the soldier to traverse a rough landscape without hardly any rest and at a pace that would have killed many men. If not for the fact that only part of the effort had been his own, Norrec suspected that he would definitely have died along the way.
The waves grew choppier as the Hawksfire entered deep waters. With each groan of the hull, Norrec became more and more convinced that at some point the sea would crush the worn ship like tinder. Yet, somehow, the Hawksfire continued on, riding one wave to the next. In addition, for all their motley outer appearance, Captain Casco and his crew proved quite adept at managing the vessel. They scurried up the ropes, raced across the decks, ever keeping their ship ready to meet the elements.
What they could not entirely keep at bay, though, was the storm. It struck but a few hours out, the sky blackening and lightning flashing all about. The winds picked up, bending the masts and trying to rip the sails. Norrec, who had finally stepped out, quickly gripped the rail as the sea tossed the Hawksfire to the side.
“Starboard!” called Casco from the deck. “Starboard!”
The man at the wheel worked to obey, but wind and water battled against him. A second crew member came to his aid, the pair managing to fulfill the captain’s orders after great effort.
Rain at last fell, a torrent that forced Norrec back into the cabin. Not only did he know nothing about sailing, but, clad in armor, he risked his life every time he neared the rail. It would take only one strong wave to toss him over the side.
Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood Page 8