Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  Vizharan had been their partner, their comrade, and yet he had evidently brutally slain both, then taken off with the armor. Sadun Tryst had not exactly told her all this, but she had come to that conclusion from the fragments of information garnered from conversations with the talkative ghoul. Tryst had never actually even accused Norrec, instead only saying that they needed to find their partner, to end what had begun in the tomb— and that because Kara had not stayed behind as they had wished, she would now be a part of their macabre quest.

  Kara ate in silence, purposely keeping her gaze from the ungodly pair as much as possible. The less she drew their attention, especially that of Tryst, the better. Unfortunately, just as she reached the bottom of the bowl, the more vocal revenant suddenly rasped, “Is it . . . does it taste . . . good?”

  The peculiar question so caught her by surprise that she had to look at him. “What?”

  One pale, peeling finger pointed at the bowl. “The food. Does it . . . taste . . . good?”

  Some bit remained, more than Kara truly desired at the moment. She considered what she knew of undead, never recalling any with an appetite for fish stew. Human flesh , yes, in some cases, but never fish stew. Still, on the off chance that it might ease tensions a little, the necromancer held out the bowl and, in a steady voice, asked, “Would you like to try it?”

  Tryst looked at Fauztin, who remained the immovable rock. The slimmer ghoul finally stepped forward, seized the food, then immediately returned to his favored spot. Kara had never known that a walking corpse could move with such speed.

  With decaying fingers he took some of the remnants and stuck them in his mouth. Sadun tried to chew, fragments of fish dropping to the floor. Despite the fact that both he and the mage acted as if living, the dead man’s body did not completely function as it had previous to his murder.

  He suddenly spat out what remained, at the same time a monstrous expression crossing his rotting countenance. “Filth! It tastes . . . it tastes of . . . death.” Sadun eyed her. “It’s too long dead . . . they should have . . . cooked it . . . less . . . a lot less.” He considered this crucial matter more, eyes never leaving Kara. “I think . . . maybe they should have . . . not cooked it . . . at all . . . the fresher . . . the better . . . eh?”

  The raven-haired woman did not reply at first, having no desire whatsoever to prolong a conversation that might turn to exactly what types of meat the ghoul would think tasted best uncooked. Instead, Kara tried to turn back to the subject of most concern to her—the hunt for Norrec Vizharan.

  “You were aboard the Hawksfire , weren’t you? You were aboard until whatever happened that caused the crew to abandon her.”

  “Not aboard . . . underneath . . . for the most part . . .”

  “Underneath?” She pictured the two clutching the hull, using their inhuman strength to hold on even through the most turbulent of waves. Only a revenant could have accomplished such a harrowing effort. “What do you mean . . . for the most part?”

  Sadun shrugged, sending his head wobbling for a moment. “We came aboard . . . for a short . . . time . . . after the fools jumped . . . ship.”

  “What made them leave?”

  “They saw . . . what they didn’t like to see . . .”

  Not a very helpful answer, but the longer Kara could keep the conversation going, the less time the pair had to think about what else they might need of her—and what it might cost the necromancer.

  Once more Kara thought about their unholy perseverance. The revenants had managed to nearly catch up with their prey, even latch themselves onto the hull of his vessel like a pair of lampreys onto a shark. The vision of the two undead clinging to the underside of the Hawksfire throughout the violent storm they had earlier mentioned would forever be seared into the necromancer’s imagination. Truly Norrec Vizharan would not escape their brutal justice.

  And yet . . . he so far had, even with them within yards of his throat.

  “If you and he were alone aboard the ship, then why is the hunt not yet over?”

  A decidedly grim change came over Tryst’s smile, managing to make his general appearance even more ghastly than previous. “It should . . . have been.”

  He would say no more and when Kara looked to Fauztin, his dark visage revealed nothing. She pondered their responses as rapidly as she could, finally deciding to try to play on their failure aboard the Hawksfire . “I can be of more help to you, you know. Next time, nothing will go awry.”

  This time, Fauztin blinked once. What that meant, the necromancer could not say, but the Vizjerei’s action had been for some specific reason.

  Sadun Tryst’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ll be . . . of all the . . . help . . . we need. Trust on . . . that . . .”

  “But I could be more than your unwilling puppet. I understand what drives you. I understand why you walk the earth. As an ally rather than a prisoner, the possibilities of what you can accomplish grow tenfold and more!”

  Silent, the wiry corpse tossed and caught his own dagger a few times, something he had done often since his arrival. Apparently even death could not break some habits. Kara thought he did it whenever he had to concentrate especially hard. “You understand . . . less than you think.”

  “All I am trying to say is that we need not be adversaries. My spell stirred up your murdered spirits, set you on this quest, and so I feel some responsibility. You seek this Norrec Vizharan, so do I. Why can we not work as allies?”

  Again the mage blinked, almost as if he might have wanted to say something—an impossibility, of course. In lieu of that, he glanced down at his companion. The two undead shared a long gaze, which made the enchantress wonder if they communicated in some manner beyond her ken.

  The grating sound of Sadun Tryst’s unearthly chuckle filled the tiny cabin, but Kara knew better than to hope that Captain Jeronnan or one of the crew would hear. The Vizjerei had cast a spell deadening all sounds within. As far as the men of the King’s Shield might be concerned, the necromancer made no more noise than if she now slept peacefully.

  “My friend . . . he brings up an . . . amusing point. You . . . as our good ally . . . would surely . . . expect your dagger back . . . eh?” When she had no good reply, Tryst added, “Not a bargain . . . we could very much . . . live with . . . if you know what I mean.”

  Kara understood very well. Not only did the dagger give them power over her, but it likely served as a focus for that which let them function on the mortal plane. The ritual blade had been what had first summoned the phantasm of Fauztin and the probable result of taking it from them would be that both bodies would simply collapse, the vengeful shades sent back to the afterlife forever.

  This pair would have none of that.

  “You’ll aid us . . . as we need. You’ll serve . . . as the cloak covering . . . the truth from . . . those we meet. You’ll do . . . what we can’t do . . . in the light of day . . . where all can see . . .”

  Fauztin blinked for a third time, a very distressing sign. He had never before taken such a visible interest in their conversations, preferring everything to come from his more vocal companion.

  Tryst rose, ever smiling. The more Kara Nightshadow thought of it, the more she realized that the smile never truly left the slimmer ghoul’s face save when its owner forcefully chose to make it go, as when the food had so disgusted him. What she had taken for humor looked, in part, to simply be what death had frozen on his countenance. Tryst would likely be smiling even when he ripped out the heart of his treacherous comrade, Norrec.

  “And as we must . . . have your cooperation . . . my good friend’s suggested a way . . . to make you even more . . . amenable . . . to the situation.”

  Both he and the Vizjerei approached her.

  Kara leapt from the bed. “You have the dagger. You need no other hold over me.”

  “Fauztin believes . . . we do. I am so . . . sorry.”

  Despite the unlikely chance of anyone hearing her, she opened her mouth to shou
t.

  The mage blinked for a fourth time—and no sound escaped the necromancer’s lips. Her seeming helplessness both horrified and infuriated the pale woman. Kara knew that there were far more experienced practitioners of her arts that could have turned both undead into silent, obedient servants. A few more years and perhaps even she would have been able to do so. Instead, the ghouls had turned her into the puppet—and now they sought to further add to her invisible chains.

  Tryst’s macabre grin and cold, white eyes filled her view. The breath of decay drifted to her nostrils each time the rotting figure spoke. “Give me . . . your left hand . . . and it’ll be . . . less painful.”

  With no choice left to her, Kara reluctantly obeyed. Sadun Tryst took the hand in his own moldering fingers, caressing it almost as if he and the young enchantress had become lovers. Kara felt a chill run up and down her spine at the thought. She had heard such tales before . . .

  “I miss many things . . . about life . . . woman . . . many things . . .”

  A heavy hand dropped on his shoulder. Tryst nodded as best his crooked neck allowed, then backed away a step. His grip on her hand remained painfully tight, the ghoul now turning it so that the palm showed.

  Fauztin plunged the gleaming dagger into it.

  Kara gasped—then realized that while she felt discomfort, she did not feel actual pain. She stared in astonishment, noting and yet not quite believing the sight before her. More than two inches of the curved blade stuck out of the other side of her hand, yet nowhere did she see any trace of blood.

  A brilliant yellow glow arose from the area where the dagger had penetrated, a glow that completely bathed her palm.

  The Vizjerei at last tried to say something, but only a thin gasp escaped. Even rewrapping his ruined throat did not work.

  “Let me . . .” snarled Tryst. Eyeing the captive necromancer again, he intoned, “Our lives are . . . your life. Our deaths . . . are your death. Our fate is . . . your fate . . . bounded by this . . . dagger and your . . . soul . . .”

  With that, Fauztin tugged the dagger free. The Vizjerei thrust the blade toward her face, showing Kara that no blood stained it. He then indicated her hand.

  She studied her palm, could not even make out the slightest scar. The murdered mage had summoned powerful sorcery for his terrible spell.

  Tryst pushed her toward the bed, indicating the young woman sit. “We are . . . one now. If we fail . . . you fail. If we should perish . . . or be betrayed . . . you . . . too . . . will suffer . . . remember that always . . .”

  Kara could not help but shiver slightly. They had bound her to them in a manner far more absolute than that which their possession of the dagger had previously done. If anything at all happened to the pair before they could accomplish their dreadful task, Kara’s soul would even be dragged back to the underworld with them, forever doomed to wander without rest.

  “You did not have to do that!” She looked for some glimmer of sympathy, but found none. Nothing mattered more than avenging what had been done to them. “I would’ve helped you!”

  “Now . . . we can be certain you will.” Tryst and Fauztin retreated to the far corner again. The ritual dagger gleamed golden. “Now . . . there’ll be . . . no fear . . . of tricks . . . when you meet with . . . the sorcerer.”

  Despite what they had just done to her, Kara stiffened at the last words. “Sorcerer? In Lut Gholein?”

  Fauztin nodded. Sadun Tryst cocked his head more to the side—or perhaps the weight on what remained of his neck simply had proven too much for the moment.

  “Yesss . . . a Vizjerei like . . . my friend here . . . an old man . . . with much knowledge . . . and known by . . . the name . . . Drognan.”

  “My name is Drognan,” the cloaked mage remarked as he swept into the chamber. “Please be seated, Norrec Vizharan.”

  As he gazed around the Vizjerei’s sanctum, the sense of unease that had crept over Norrec earlier returned a thousand times stronger. Not only had this elderly but certainly formidable figure drawn the veteran to him with ease, but Drognan understood well exactly what had happened to Norrec—including the quest by the cursed armor.

  “I always knew that the curse of Bartuc could not be contained forever,” he informed Norrec as the soldier seated himself in an old, weathered chair. “Always knew that.”

  They had come to this dim chamber after a short trek into even less savory areas of the otherwise rich, energetic kingdom. The doorway through which the pair had entered had seemed to have led into an abandoned, ratinfested building, but once through, the interior had shifted . . . transforming into an ancient but still stately edifice which Drognan informed him had once been rumored to be the home of Horazon, the bloody warlord’s brother.

  It had been abandoned at some point long after the disappearance of Bartuc’s brother, but the spells protecting it from curious eyes had continued to serve their designated purpose—until Drognan had outwitted them while searching for the tomb of the very one who had cast them. Deciding that no one had a more appropriate right to lay claim to the magical abode than himself, the Vizjerei had moved in, then continued his research.

  Through an empty hall whose floor had been covered in a rich tapestry of mosaic patterns that included animals, warriors, and even legendary structures, they had finally reached this particular room, the one that the old mage most called his home. Shelf upon shelf bordered the walls and on each of those shelves had been arranged more books and scrolls than a simple soldier such as Norrec could have ever dreamed existed in all the world. He could read, but few of the titles had been written in the common tongue.

  Other than the books, though, only a few other items decorated the shelves, among the most interesting being a single polished skull and a few jars of a dark colored liquid. As for the room itself, its decor consisted chiefly of a well-crafted wooden table and two old but stately chairs. It had all the look of a chamberlain’s office such as might have been found in the sultan’s palace. Hardly what Norrec would have expected from a Vizjerei or any other sorcerer for that matter. Like most common folk, he had expected to see all sorts of horrifying and grisly objects, the so-called tools of Drognan’s trade.

  “I am a . . . researcher,” the wrinkled figure added suddenly, as if he needed to explain his surroundings.

  A researcher who had been the reason why no guards had stopped Norrec on the dock. A researcher who, with but a simple use of his power, had seized the minds of a half dozen soldiers and directed them to bring the foreigner to him.

  A researcher who dabbled in dark arts, knew of the deadly enchantments contained in Bartuc’s armor—and who had apparently overcome most of them with ease.

  And that, more than anything else, had been why Norrec had willingly followed him here. For the first time since the tomb, hope had arisen that someone could at last free him of the parasitic suit.

  “It came to me in a vision little more than a week or two ago.” The sorcerer ran wizened fingers along a row of books, obviously searching for one in particular. “The legacy of Bartuc rising anew! I could not believe it at first, naturally, but when it repeated itself, I knew the vision to be a true one.”

  Since then, Drognan continued, he had performed spell after spell to discover the meaning—and in the process had uncovered Norrec’s secret and the journey the armor had forced upon him. Although he had not been able to observe the veteran during the long trek from the tomb, the elderly mage had at least been able to keep track of where that trail seemed to lead. Soon it became apparent that both man and armor would soon be in the Vizjerei’s very midst, a fortuitous event as far as Drognan had been concerned.

  The sorcerer pulled free one vast tome from the shelf, then placed it gently on a table in the center of the chamber. He began thumbing through it, still talking. “It surprised me not at all, young man, to find out that the armor sought out Lut Gholein. If some lingering, spectral aspect of Bartuc hoped to fulfill his last wishes, then certainly traveling to t
his fair kingdom makes perfect sense, especially for two particular reasons.”

  Norrec cared little for what those reasons might be, more concerned with that which the Vizjerei had hinted might be possible to obtain—the fighter’s freedom from the suit. “Is the spell in that book?”

  The aged sorcerer looked up. “What spell?”

  “The one to separate me from this, of course!” Norrec banged the breastplate with one hand. “This damned armor! You said you had some way you could peel it off of me!”

  “I believe my earlier words to you were closer to ‘if you hope to live, you will do exactly as I desire.’ ”

  “But the armor! Damn you, wizard! That’s all I care about! Cast a spell! Get it off of me while it’s still subdued!”

  Looking down on him as a father might a whining child, the silver-haired mage responded, “Of the armor, while I cannot as yet remove it, I assure you that you need not worry about its other enchantments while I have it under my power.” Reaching into one of the deep pockets of his robe, Drognan removed what at first seemed a short stick but quickly revealed itself to be much, much, much longer. In truth, by the time the sorcerer had it freed from the pocket, the “stick” had swollen in size and length—the latter a good four feet and more—and revealed itself as a spell staff covered in elaborate and glittering runes. “Observe.”

  Drognan pointed the staff at his guest.

  Norrec, who had traveled with Fauztin long enough to know what it meant to be on this end of the magical staff, leapt to his feet. “Wait—”

  “Furiosic!” shouted the mage.

  Flames shot toward the soldier, flames that spread as they moved. A blanket of fire sought to envelop Norrec.

  Just a few scant inches from his nose, the fire abruptly died out.

  At first Norrec believed that the suit had saved him again, but then he heard the wrinkled figure chuckle. “Not to worry, young man, not even a hair singed! You see now what I mean? My control over the armor is complete! Had I so desired, I could have left you a roasted skeleton and even the suit could not have saved you! Only my canceling of the spell protected you now! Now do sit back down . . .”