Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  Xazax leaned closer. “The kingdom, it is a strong one, with many soldiers well versed in the art of war. He who has the armor would feel quite safe in there.”

  “I know.”

  “But this one can give you the key with which to make Lut Gholein yours . . . a force most terrible . . . a force which no mortal army can subdue.”

  Malevolyn could scarcely believe what he had just heard. “Are you suggesting—”

  The demon suddenly looked back toward the camp as if he had heard some sound. After a momentary pause, Xazax quickly returned his attention to the human. “When but a day separates you from the city, we shall speak again. There, you must be prepared to do this . . .”

  The commander listened as the demon explained. At first even he felt repulsed by what the creature suggested, but then, as Xazax told him why it must be so, Augustus Malevolyn himself saw the need—and felt the growing excitement.

  “You will do this?” the mantis asked.

  “Yes . . . yes, I will . . . and gladly.”

  “Then we shall speak soon.” Without warning, Xazax’s form began to grow indistinct, quickly becoming more shadow than substance. “Until then, hail to you once again, general! This one honors the successor of Bartuc! This one honors the new master of demons! This one honors the new Warlord of Blood!”

  With that, the last vestiges of Xazax faded into the night.

  General Malevolyn immediately started back to camp, his mind already racing, the words of the monstrous mantis still echoing in his head. This night had become a turning point for him, with all his dreams coming together at last. The demon’s test and the manner by which Malevolyn had passed it paled in comparison to what Xazax now offered—the armor and the method that would guarantee that it and Lut Gholein fell into the general’s hands with little trouble.

  Master of demons, the mantis had said.

  One more night to get through. One more night and the King’s Shield would dock in the port of Lut Gholein.

  One more night and Kara would be alone in the strange land, alone save for her two grotesque companions.

  She had returned with her evening meal just as before and eaten it under the watchful eyes of the two undead. Fauztin had remained standing in the corner, the dour Vizjerei looking like some macabre statue, but of late Sadun Tryst had edged closer, the more talkative of the two ghouls now seated on a bench built into the wall nearest her bed. The wiry ghoul even tried to make conversation with her on occasion, something that the necromancer could have done well without.

  Yet, one subject interested her enough to force her to speak with him for a time and that subject concerned the ever elusive Norrec Vizharan. Kara had noticed something odd about the way Tryst spoke of his former comrade. His words seemed to hold no malice at all for his murderer. Most of the time, he simply regaled her with tales of their adventures together. Tryst even seemed to feel some remorse for the veteran soldier despite the horrible acts Norrec had committed.

  “He saved . . . my life . . . three times and more . . .” the ghoul concluded, after being coaxed once more into speaking of his treacherous friend. “Never a war . . . as bad as . . . that one.”

  “You traveled with him from then on?” The war mentioned by Tryst had apparently taken place in the Western Kingdoms some nine years before. For men such as these to stick together for so very long showed a powerful bond of some sort.

  “Aye . . . save during . . . Norrec’s sickness . . . he left us . . . for three months . . . and caught up after . . .” The rotting figure looked to the Vizjerei. “Remember . . . Fauztin?”

  The sorcerer nodded his head ever so slightly. Kara had expected him to somehow forbid Sadun from going on with such stories, but Fauztin, too, seemed caught up in them. In life, both men had clearly respected Norrec highly and, from what she had heard so far, so now did the necromancer.

  Yet this same Norrec Vizharan had brutally murdered the pair and revenants did not exist if not fueled by a sense of revenge and justice that went beyond mortal comprehension. These two should have harbored only thoughts of retribution, of the rending of Vizharan’s flesh and the sending of his damned soul to the underworld. That they still felt anything at all other than that struck her quite strange. Sadun Tryst and Fauztin did not act at all like the revenants of which legends had spoken.

  “What will you do when you find him?” She had asked this question but once before and received no clear answer.

  “We’ll do . . . what must be . . . done.”

  Again, a response that did not satisfy her. Why shield Kara from the truth? “After what he did, even your past friendship must mean little. How could Norrec commit so terrible a crime?”

  “He did . . . what had to be . . . done.” With that equally enigmatic reply, Tryst’s smile stretched, revealing more of the yellowed teeth and the gums already receding. Each day, despite their all-consuming quest, the revenants grew less and less human in appearance. They would never completely decay, but their link to their former humanity would continue to shrivel. “You’re very beautiful . . .”

  “What?” Kara Nightshadow blinked, not certain that she had heard correctly.

  “Very beautiful . . . and fresh . . . alive.” The ghoul suddenly reached forward, caught a lock of her long, ravencolored hair. “Life’s beautiful . . . more so than . . . ever . . .”

  She hid a shudder. Sadun Tryst had made his intent quite clear. He still recalled too well the pleasures of life. One of those, food, had sorely disappointed him already. Now, hidden in this tiny cabin for the past couple of days in the constant company of a living woman, he seemed ready to try to relive a different pleasure—and Kara did not know how she could prevent him from trying.

  Without warning, Sadun Tryst suddenly turned and glared at his friend. Although Kara had noticed nothing, clearly some communication had passed between the two, communication that did not please the wiry ghoul in the least.

  “Leave me . . . at least . . . the illusion . . .”

  Fauztin said nothing, his only reaction being to blink once. However, that alone seemed to quell his comrade some.

  “I wouldn’t have . . . touched her . . . much . . .” Tryst looked her over once before meeting her eyes. “I just—”

  A heavy knocking on the door sent him hurrying to the far corner. Kara could not believe her eyes each time the ghoul moved so. She had always read that swiftness could not be termed one of the skills of the undead. In its place, they had persistence, an unholy patience.

  Ensconced next to the Vizjerei, he muttered, “Answer.”

  She did, already suspecting that she knew who it would be. Only two men dared come to her door, one Captain Jeronnan, whom she had just spoken with but a short time before, the other—

  “Yes, Mister Drayko?” the sorceress asked, keeping the door open only a crack.

  He looked uncomfortable. “My Lady Kara, I realize that you’ve requested absolute privacy, but . . . but I wondered whether you might join me on the deck for a few minutes.”

  “Thank you, Mister Drayko, but, as I have said before to the captain, I have much to do before we make landfall.” She started to close the door. “Thank you for asking—”

  “Not even for a little fresh air?”

  Something in his tone puzzled her, but the necromancer had no time to think about it. Tryst had made it very clear that she should spend no more time outside than needed to retrieve her food from the mess. The revenants wanted their living puppet where they could see her. “I am sorry, no.”

  “I thought as much.” He turned to leave—then threw his shoulder to the door with such force that the door knocked Kara back onto the bed. The blow did not stun her, but she lay there for a moment, completely bewildered by his actions.

  Drayko fell to a kneeling position just inside. He looked up, saw the ghouls, and blanched. “By the King of the Depths!”

  A dagger suddenly materialized in Tryst’s hand.

  The mariner reached for his own
knife, which Kara saw lay by his side. Drayko had clearly been holding it all along, concealing its presence while he had spoken inanities with the dark mage. All along he had acted with the knowledge that something seemed amiss in the cabin— although likely even Drayko had never imagined the sight before him.

  As Sadun Tryst raised his arm, a second figure charged into the tiny room. Ceremonial blade held ready, Captain Hanos Jeronnan shielded his officer from harm. Unlike Drayko, he seemed only mildly surprised at the horrendous figures but a short distance from him. In fact, Jeronnan almost looked pleased to see the two ghouls.

  “I won’t let it happen again . . .” he murmured. “You’ll not take this one . . .”

  Kara immediately understood the captain’s words. In his mind, the undead represented that invisible monster that had not only taken his daughter from him, but had turned her into a vile creature he had been forced to destroy. Now he thought to wreak his vengeance on them.

  And with the silver-plated sword, he had the potential to do just that.

  Tryst threw his dagger, again moving with a speed his decrepit form belied. The smaller blade sank into Jeronnan’s sword arm, sending the captain staggering. However, the former naval commander did not retreat. Blood dripping down, the ghoul’s weapon still halfburied in his flesh, Captain Jeronnan attacked, slicing at his unliving adversary.

  His macabre smile seeming to mock, Sadun Tryst reached for the blade, clearly intending to grab it in his hand. As one beyond death, no normal blade could touch him.

  The edge of the captain’s weapon severed off the lower two fingers.

  Pure agony abruptly coursed through Kara, the pain so great that she doubled over, nearly collapsing.

  With a hiss, Tryst pulled his maimed hand back. Glaring at Jeronnan, he gasped to his partner, “Do something . . . while I still have . . . a head on my . . . shoulders . . .”

  Her eyes blurry from tears, the necromancer nonetheless saw Fauztin blink once.

  “Look out!” she managed to cry.

  A wall of force erupted from her ceremonial dagger, sending both Jeronnan and Drayko flying against the opposite wall. At the same time, the Vizjerei put his other hand on the wall behind him.

  A blue haze spread behind the ghouls, a blue haze that grew rapidly in both height and width.

  The two mariners struggled to their feet. Mister Drayko started forward, but Jeronnan pushed him back. “Nay! The only weapon that’s good for them is this one! I swear I’ll slice them both into fish bait—that is, if even the fish’ll take something so rotten! You see to the girl!”

  The officer obeyed instantly, hurrying to the Kara’s side. “Can you stand?”

  With help, Kara found that she could. Although the pain did not leave her, at least it subsided enough for the enchantress to think—and realize what had happened.

  Through the dagger, Fauztin had tied her life to the revenants’ continued existence. The blow that Jeronnan had landed had not been felt by Sadun Tryst, who had been long past such mortal weaknesses. However, each successful strike against them would, so it appeared, be suffered by her .

  And so, with a sword gilded in silver, Captain Jeronnan had the capability of not only slicing the undead into the bait he had mentioned, but also in the process slaying the very one he sought to save.

  She had to warn him. “Drayko! Jeronnan must stop!”

  “It’s all right, my lady! The captain knows what he does! His silver blade’s just right for dealing with the likes of those! In such close quarters, he’ll make quick work of them before the one can cast another spell!” Drayko wrinkled his nose. “Gods, what a stench in here! After you started acting so strangely, Captain Jeronnan finally recalled what had happened to you back in Gea Kul and felt certain that something was up! He summoned me to his cabin after dinner, related his suspicions, then told me to come with him and be prepared for Hell itself—although how close to the truth he meant that even I didn’t know!”

  The necromancer tried again. “Listen! They’ve cast an enchantment on me—”

  “Which is why you couldn’t say anything, aye!” He started to pull her toward the open doorway, where several of Jeronnan’s men had gathered. Some had their weapons drawn, but none had yet dared enter, far more fearful of facing the undead than either the captain or his second. “Come on! Let’s get you away from them!”

  “But that’s not the—” Kara stopped as her body suddenly twisted free of its own accord from the officer.

  He reached for her arm. “Not that way! You’d better—”

  To her dismay, the necromancer’s hand folded into a fist—then struck her protector hard in the stomach.

  While not that harsh a blow, it nevertheless caught Drayko completely by surprise. Jeronnan’s second fell back, more startled than injured.

  Kara turned toward the undead . . . and saw the grim Vizjerei beckoning her to join them.

  Her limbs obeyed despite her best attempts to counter his summons. Behind the ghouls the blue haze had spread to encompass most of the wall. Discovered by the living, the undead now sought to retreat—but with them, they hoped to take their prize.

  Kara tried to resist, knowing not only that she had no desire to go with the duo, but that the only thing beyond that wall lay the dark sea. Tryst and his companion did not need to breathe, but Kara surely did.

  Come to me, necromancer . . . she suddenly heard in her head. The eyes of Fauztin stared unblinking into her own, drowning out her own thoughts.

  Unable to control herself any longer, Kara ran toward the undead.

  “Lass, no!” Captain Jeronnan seized her arm, but his wound kept his grip from tightening much. She tore herself free, then reached forth to take Sadun Tryst’s mutilated hand.

  “I . . . have her!” the smiling ghoul gasped.

  Fauztin grabbed his companion by the shoulder, then purposely fell backwards—vanishing through the blue haze and pulling Tryst with him.

  And with Tryst went Kara.

  “Grab hold of her!” the captain shouted. Drayko called out something, possibly her name, but by then they were both too late to do anything.

  The dark mage fell through the haze—and into the suffocating embrace of the sea.

  Thirteen

  The tomb of Horazon . . . the Arcane Sanctuary . . . Norrec Vizharan struggled through a thick, gray webbing, forcing his way down a winding, confusing arrangement of corridors.

  Horazon . . .

  Ancient statues lined the wall, each the face of someone familiar to him. He recognized Attis Zuun, his fool of an instructor. Korbia, the far too innocent acolyte he had later sacrificed for his goals. Merendi, the council leader who had fallen prey to his well-crafted words of admiration. Jeslyn Kataro, the friend who he had betrayed. Buried behind the webs he found everyone he had ever known—except one.

  Everyone except his brother, Horazon.

  “Where are you?” Norrec shouted. “Where are you?”

  Suddenly, he stood in a darkened chamber, a vast crypt before him. Skeletons in the garb of Vizjerei sorcerers stood at attention in a series of alcoves lining the right and left walls of the room. The symbol of the clan, a dragon bent over a crescent moon, had been carved in the center of the great sarcophagus directly before the armored intruder.

  “Horazon!” Norrec cried. “Horazon!”

  The name echoed throughout the crypt, seeming to mock him. Angered, he marched up to the stone coffin and reached for the heavy lid.

  As he touched it, a moaning arose from the skeletons on each side of him. Norrec almost shrank back, but fury and determination won out over all other emotions. Ignoring the warnings of the dead, the soldier wrenched the lid from the sarcophagus and let it drop to the floor, where it shattered in a thousand pieces.

  Within the coffin, Norrec beheld a shrouded form. Sensing victory, he reached to tear the cloth from the face, to see the withered and failing countenance of his cursed brother.

  A hand covered with rotting fles
h and burrowing maggots seized his own at the wrist.

  He struggled, but the monstrous fingers would not release him. Worse, to Norrec’s horror, the corpse began to sink deeper and deeper into the coffin, as if the bottom had suddenly given way to an endless abyss. Try as he might, Norrec could not keep from being pulled into the sarcophagus, into the pit of darkness below.

  He screamed as the world of the dead closed in around him—

  “Awaken.”

  Norrec shook, his gauntleted hands reaching to fend off nightmares. He blinked, gradually realizing that he still sat in the old chair in Drognan’s sanctum. The dream about his brother’s crypt—no, Bartuc’s brother—had seemed so real, so horribly real.

  “You slept. You dreamed,” the elderly Vizjerei commented.

  “Yes . . .” Unlike most dreams, however, the veteran recalled this one quite vividly. In fact, he doubted that he would ever be able to forget it. “I’m sorry about falling asleep . . .”

  “No need to apologize. After all, I am the one who, with the aid of some wine, made you sleep . . . and dream as well.”

  Sudden anger made Norrec try to leap up from the chair—only to have Drognan stop him in his tracks with but a warning hand. “You will sit back down.”

  “What did you do? How long have I been out?”

  “I placed you under shortly after you sat down. As for how long you slept . . . nearly a day. The night has come and gone.” The sorcerer came closer, the spell staff now used as a cane. Norrec, however, did not read Drognan’s use of it as any sign of weakness. “As for why I did it, let us just say that I have taken the first step toward both our goals, my friend.” He smiled expectantly. “Now, tell me, what did you see in the dream?”

  “Shouldn’t you know?”

  “I made you dream; I did not decide what you dreamed of.”

  “Are you saying I made up that nightmare myself?”

  The ancient mage stroked his silver beard. “Perhaps I had some influence on the choice of subjects . . . but the results were yours alone. Now tell me what you dreamed.”