The searing heat still burning his nostrils, Norrec slumped back into the old chair. Drognan’s unnerving display had proven two things. The first had been that what the elderly sorcerer had claimed had been true; with his magic, he had subdued the enchantments of the armor.
The second had been that Norrec had evidently placed himself into the hands of a somewhat ruthless and likely half-mad wizard.
Yet . . . what else could he have done?
“There is a bottle of wine next to you. Pour yourself some. Calm your nerves.”
The offer itself did little to calm Norrec down, for both the bottle mentioned and the table upon which it now sat had not been next to the veteran a second earlier. Still, he kept himself from showing any uncertainty as he first filled a goblet, then sipped some of the contents.
“That should be better.” One hand spread over a page in the massive book, Drognan peered at his guest. The staff rested loosely in his other hand. “Do you know anything of the history of Lut Gholein?”
“Not much.”
The wizard stepped away from the book. “One fact I will impart upon you immediately, a fact I think central to your situation. Before the rise of Lut Gholein, this region served briefly as a colony of the Empire of Kehjistan. There existed Vizjerei temples and a military presence. However, even by the time of the brothers Bartuc and Horazon, the empire had begun to pull back from this side of the sea. Vizjerei influence remained strong, but a physical presence proved too costly for the most part.” An almost childlike smile spread across the dark, narrow features. “It is all quite fascinating, really!”
Norrec, who, under the circumstances cared little about history lessons, frowned.
Seeming not to notice, Drognan continued. “After the war, after Bartuc’s defeat and death, the empire never regained its glory. Worse yet, its greatest sorcerer, its shining light, had suffered too much in body and, most pointedly, mind . I speak, of course, of Horazon.”
“Who came to Lut Gholein,” Norrec helpfully added, hoping by doing so that it would assist the rambling elder to reach whatever point he sought to make. Then— perhaps then—Drognan would finally get around to helping the fighter.
“Yes, exactly, Lut Gholein. Not named that yet, of course. Yes, Horazon, who had suffered so terribly even in victory, came to this land, tried to settle into a life of studious pursuit—and then, as I informed you earlier, just disappeared.”
The veteran soldier waited for his host to continue, but Drognan only stared back, as if what he had just said explained all.
“You do not understand, I see,” the robed sorcerer finally commented.
“I understand that Horazon came to this land and now the cursed armor of his hated brother has come here, too! I also understand that I’ve had to watch men slaughtered, demons rise from the earth, and know that my life’s no longer my own, but that of a dead demon lord!” Norrec rose again, having had enough. Drognan could have easily raised the staff and slain him on the spot, but his own patience had come to an end. “Either help me or slay me, Vizjerei! I’ve no time for history lessons! I want release from this hell!”
“Sit.”
Norrec sat, but this time not of his own accord. Adarkness crossed Drognan’s features, a darkness that reminded the hapless soldier that this man had readily taken control of not only half a dozen guards, but the damnable suit, too.
“I will save you despite yourself, Norrec Vizharan— although certainly no servant of the Vizjerei are you despite that ancient name! I will save you while at the same time you will lead me to that for which I have searched for more than half my life!”
Whatever spell Drognan used pressed the fighter so tight into the chair that Norrec could barely speak. “What . . . what do you mean? Lead you to what?”
Drognan gave him a nearly incredulous look. “Why, what must surely be buried somewhere under the city itself and what the armor must also be seeking—the tomb of Bartuc’s brother, Horazon . . . the legendary Arcane Sanctuary!”
Twelve
As he did each night, General Augustus Malevolyn marched the perimeter of the encampment. Also as he did each night, he studiously observed each detail concerning his men’s readiness. Ineptitude meant severe punishment no matter what the soldier’s rank. Yet, one thing the general did different this particular night, a single change that went little noticed by most of his weary men. This night, Malevolyn made his rounds still wearing the crimson helm of Bartuc.
That it did not quite match with the rest of his armor did not concern him in the least. In fact, more and more he considered the possibility of finding some manner by which to dye his present armor a color more akin to that of the helmet. Thus far, though, Malevolyn had come up with but one method by which to possibly match the unique color, a method that surely would have caused a full-scale insurrection.
His hand touched the helm almost lovingly as he adjusted its fit. Malevolyn had noticed some discomfort on Galeona’s part when he had earlier refused to remove it, but had simply chalked it up to her fear of his growing might. In truth, when both the helmet and the suit became his, the general would no longer need the witch’s magical skills—and while her more earthly talents were most expert, Malevolyn knew that he could always find a more willing, more submissive female to satisfy his other needs.
Of course, such matters of flesh could wait. Lut Gholein called to him. He would not be cheated out of it, as he had been cheated out of Viz-jun.
But are you worthy of it? Are you worthy of the glory, the legacy of Bartuc?
Malevolyn froze. The voice in his head, the one that asked on a previous eve the questions that he himself feared to ask out loud, that proclaimed what he dared not yet proclaim.
Are you worthy? Will you prove yourself? Will you seize your destiny?
A faint glint of light from beyond the encampment caught his attention. He opened his mouth to summon the sentries, then made out the murky figure of one of his own men, a dying torch in one hand, coming toward him from that direction. The dim light of the flames kept the soldier’s visage almost a complete shadow even when the man came within a couple of yards of the commander.
“General Malevolyn,” whispered the sentry, saluting. “You must come and see this.”
“What is it? Have you found something?”
The sentry, though, had already turned back to the darkness. “Better come see, general . . .”
Frowning, Malevolyn followed behind the warrior, one hand gripped on the pommel of his sword. The guard no doubt understood that whatever he had to show his leader had better be of some import or there would be hell to pay. Malevolyn did not like his routine disturbed.
The two wended their way some distance through the uneven landscape. With the sentry in the lead, they crossed over a dune, cautiously making their way down to the other side. Ahead, the dark outline of a rocky ridge loomed over the otherwise sandy region. The general assumed that whatever the guard had noticed had to be out there. If not . . .
The sentry paused. Malevolyn did not even know why the man bothered to carry the torch any longer. The pale, sickly flame did nothing to illuminate the area and if some foe lay ahead, it would only alert them to the presence of the approaching pair. He cursed himself for not having ordered it doused before, but then assumed that, if the soldier had not thought to do so, whatever he had brought the general out to see could not be an enemy.
Spitting granules from his mouth, Augustus Malevolyn muttered, “Well? What did you see? Is it near the rocks?”
“It is difficult to explain, general. You must see it.” The shadowed soldier pointed at the ground to the right, “The footing is better there, general. If you’ll come . . .”
Perhaps the man had discovered some ruins. Those Malevolyn would have found of interest. The Vizjerei had a long history in and around Aranoch. If this turned out to be the remains of one of their temples, then perhaps it contained some lost secrets of which he could make use.
The grou
nd beneath his foot, the ground on which the sentry had told him to step, gave completely away.
Malevolyn first stumbled, then fell forward. Fearful of losing the helmet, he sacrificed one hand in order to keep it in place, thus losing any chance of halting his fall. The general dropped to both knees, his face but inches from the sand. His right arm, the one that had been forced to support his weight, throbbed with pain. He tried to right himself, but the loose ground at first made it difficult.
He looked up, searching for the fool who had led him into this. “Don’t just stand there, you wretch! Help me—”
The sentry had vanished, even his torch nowhere to be seen.
Steadying himself, Malevolyn managed at last to rise. With great caution, he reached for his sword—and found that also missing.
Are you worthy? repeated the damnable voice in his head.
From the sand erupted four hideous and only vaguely humanoid forms.
Even in the darkness, the general could make out the hard carapaces, the distorted, beetlelike heads. A pair of arms ending in oversized, sharp pincers completed the look of an insect out of some nightmare, yet these manlike horrors were no product of Malevolyn’s imagination. He knew already of the sand maggots, the massive arthropods that hunted for prey in the wilderness of Aranoch and also knew of one of the few hellish creatures that hunted them in turn . . . when human prey could not be found.
Yet, while scarab demons in great numbers had been rumored to be the cause of caravans lost over the years, never had the commander heard of such creatures lurking in the vicinity of as great a force as his own. While not the largest of armies—not yet —Malevolyn’s disciplined warriors certainly represented a target not at all of temptation to creatures such as these. They preferred smaller, weaker victims.
Such as a lone warrior tricked into walking into their very midst?
Which of his officers had betrayed him he would find out when he located the traitorous sentry. For now, though, Malevolyn had more important matters to consider, such as keeping himself from becoming the scarab demons’ next meal.
Are you worthy? the voice repeated again.
As if suddenly prodded to action, one of the grotesque beetles reached for him, its pincers and mandibles clacking wildly in anticipation of a bloody prize. Although not true beasts of Hell despite their name, the scarab demons were certainly monstrous enough foes for any ordinary man to face.
Yet Augustus Malevolyn considered himself no ordinary man.
As the savage claws came at him, the general reacted instinctively, his hand swinging forward to deflect as well it could the attack. However, to his surprise—and certainly that of the creature before him—in that empty hand materialized a blade of purest ebony surrounded by a blazing crimson aura that lit up the surrounding area more than any torch. The blade grew even as it cut an arc through the air, yet its weight and its balance remained perfect at all times.
The edge dug into the hard carapace without hesitation, completely severing the pincered appendage, which went flying to the side. The scarab demon let out a highpitched squeal and backed away, dark fluids dripping from its ruined arm.
General Malevolyn did not pause, caught up in the miraculous turn of events. With expert ease he drove the wondrous blade through the second of his attackers. Even before that monster had fallen, the general turned to the next, forcing it back with his relentless onslaught.
The two remaining creatures joined with the third, seeking to catch the commander from opposing directions. Malevolyn took a step back, repositioned himself, and immediately dispatched the one whose limb he had but moments before cut off. As the other pair fell upon him, the veteran officer twisted, bringing the sword around and beheading one.
A foul-smelling liquid sprayed him as he did it, momentarily blinding the general. The final of his opponents took advantage, first dragging him to the ground, then attempted to remove Malevolyn’s head by biting through his throat. Snarling like an animal, Malevolyn blocked the mandibles with his armored forearm, hoping that the plate there would protect the flesh and bone beneath long enough for him to recover.
With one knee, he managed to push his monstrous attacker up a bit, forcing the mandibles away. That gave Malevolyn the angle he needed. Twisting the sword around in his other hand, the general turned the point toward the head of the scarab demon and drove it through the thick, natural armor of the beast with all the force he could muster.
The horrific beetle let out a brief, shrill squeal and dropped dead on top of General Malevolyn.
With only a slight sense of disgust, the commander pushed the carcass away, then rose. His immaculate armor dripped with the life fluids of the scarab demons, but, other than that, they had done him little real harm. He stared at the dark, still forms, both angered at the earlier betrayal yet also feeling a rush of intense satisfaction for having singlehandedly slain the four hellish creatures.
Augustus Malevolyn touched his breastplate, which had become covered with the fluids of the scarab demons. For nearly a minute, he stared at the stenchridden muck now covering his gauntleted hand. On impulse, Malevolyn touched the breastplate again, but instead of trying to wipe his armor clean, he began to spread the fluids further—just as Bartuc had done with the blood of his human foes.
“So . . . perhaps you are worthy . . .”
He spun about, at last sighting the night-enshrouded form of the traitorous sentry. However, common sense now told Malevolyn that what he had taken for one of his own men surely had to be something far more powerful, not to mention sinister . . .
“I know you now . . .” he muttered. Then his eyes widened slightly as truth dawned. “Or should I say . . . I know what you are . . . demon . . .”
The other figure laughed quietly, laughed as no man could. Before the astounded eyes of General Malevolyn, the sentry’s shape twisted, grew, changed into that not born of the mortal plane. It towered over the human and where there had been four limbs now six materialized. The foremost appeared as great scythes with needle points, the middle as skeletal hands with deadly claws, and the last, serving as legs, bent back in a manner much like the hind limbs of the insect the demon most resembled.
A mantis. Amantis from Hell.
“Hail to you, General Augustus Malevolyn of Westmarch, warrior, conqueror, emperor—and true heir to the Warlord of Blood.” The hideous insect performed a bizarre bow, the sharp points of the scythes digging into the sand. “This one congratulates you on your worthiness . . .”
Malevolyn glanced at his hand, now empty of any weapon. The magical blade had vanished the moment it had no longer been needed—and yet the general felt certain that, in the future, he could summon that blade whenever necessary.
“You’re the voice in my head,” the commander finally replied. “You’re the voice that cajoles me . . .”
The demon tilted his own head to the side, glowing bulbous eyes flaring once. “This one did not cajole . . . simply encouraged.”
“And if I had not passed this little test?”
“Then this one would have been terribly disappointed.”
The creature’s words caused General Malevolyn to chuckle despite the implications in the response. “Damned good thing I didn’t fail, then.” One hand reached up to adjust the helmet while Malevolyn thought. First had come the visions, then the increase in his otherwise limited powers—and now this magical blade and a demon to boot. Truly it had to be as the mantis had proclaimed; Augustus Malevolyn had indeed earned the mantle of Bartuc.
“You are worthy,” the demon chittered. “So says this one—Xazax, I am called—but still one thing remains outside your grasp! One thing must you have before Bartuc you become!”
General Malevolyn understood. “The armor . The armor that fool of a peasant wears! Well, it comes to me even now from across the sea! Galeona says it approaches Lut Gholein, which is why we march there now.” He considered. “Perhaps now would be a good time to see what she can learn. Maybe with yo
ur aid . . .”
“Best to not speak of me to your sorceress, great one!” Xazax chittered with what seemed some anxiety. “Her kind . . . cannot always be trusted. They are better not dealt with at all . . .”
Malevolyn briefly mulled over the demon’s statement. Xazax almost spoke as if he and Galeona shared a history, which, in retrospect, would hardly have surprised the general. The witch dealt with dark powers almost on a continuous basis. What did interest him, however, was that this creature did not want her to know what was now being discussed. A falling out? A betrayal? Well, if it served Malevolyn, then so much the better.
He nodded. “Very well. Until I decide what must be done, we’ll leave her ignorant of our conversation.”
“This one appreciates your understanding . . .”
“By all means.” The general had no more time to concern himself with the sorceress. Xazax had raised a point of much more interest to him. “But you spoke of the armor? Do you know something of it?”
Again the foul mantis bowed. Even in the starlight, the general could see the horrendous veins coursing all over its body, veins that pulsated without pause. “By now, this fool has brought it to Lut Gholein . . . but there he can hide it within the city’s walls, keep it from he to whom it truly belongs . . .”
“I had thought of that.” In fact, General Malevolyn had considered it much during the journey, considered it and grown more and more enraged, although he had revealed no outward sign of that fury to anyone else. A part of him felt certain that he could seize Lut Gholein and, thus, capture the peasant who wore the armor, but a more practical part had also counted up the losses on his own side and found them far too great. Failure still remained well within the realms of possibility. Malevolyn had, in truth, hoped to keep his army beyond the sight and knowledge of the kingdom and wait for the stranger to head out to the desert on his own. Unfortunately, the general could not necessarily trust that the fool would do as he desired.
Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood Page 18