Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  “What’s the point of it?”

  All friendliness faded from Drognan’s tone. “The point is your life.”

  Aware that he had no true choice in the matter, Norrec finally gave in and told the sorcerer what he wanted to know. In nearly perfect detail, the soldier described the scene, the events, and even the faces and names of the statues. Drognan nodded, quite interested in all of it. He asked questions, dredging up minor details that Norrec had initially forgotten to mention. Nothing seemed too insignificant to the listening mage.

  And when it came time to relate the horrifying events taking place in the crypt, the Vizjerei paid very close attention. Drognan seemed to take special delight in having Norrec describe the skeletal mages and the opening of the sarcophagus. Even when Norrec began to shake in recollection of his descent into the abyss, the sorcerer pushed him to continue, to not leave out the most minute bit of information.

  “So fascinating!” Drognan burst out when Norrec had finished, completely oblivious to the agony he had just forced the veteran to relive. “So vivid! It must be truth!”

  “What . . . must be?”

  “You actually saw the tomb! The true Arcane Sanctuary! I’m certain of it!”

  If he expected Norrec to share in his delight, the wrinkled mage had to have been disappointed. Not only did the soldier not believe that what he had seen could be real . . . but if such a place could exist, Norrec wanted no part of it. After Bartuc’s lair, the notion of entering the crypt of his hated brother chilled the otherwise steadfast fighter. He had suffered nothing but misery and terror since this had all begun; Norrec only desired to be free of the enchanted armor.

  He said as much to Drognan, who replied, “You will have that chance, Vizharan . . . if you are willing to face the nightmare one more time.”

  Somehow, Norrec found himself not at all surprised that this would be the sorcerer’s response. Both Bartuc and Drognan shared the history of a culture focused much on ambition regardless of the consequences. The Empire of Kehjistan had been founded on that principle and the Vizjerei, its backbone, had delved into demon summoning as a method by which to garner power over all others. Only when those demons had turned upon them had they willingly given up that course—and even these days there existed stories of corrupt Vizjerei who had turned again to the forces of Hell for their might.

  Even Fauztin had, at times, hinted of a willingness to take steps beyond what his craft would have deemed safe. However, Norrec liked to believe that his friend would have been less inclined than Drognan to force another to suffer such horrific nightmares not once, but twice—and all for simple gain.

  Yet, what choice did the soldier have now? Only Drognan kept the cursed suit from running off with Norrec to who knew what new monstrous destiny . . .

  He gazed around at the multitude of books and scrolls gathered over the years by the elderly Vizjerei. Norrec suspected that they represented only a part of Drognan’s storehouse of knowledge. The sorcerer had kept him to this one chamber, but surely hid some of his other secrets from the fighter. Truly, if anyone could free him, the Vizjerei could—but only if Norrec proved willing to pay the price.

  Again, what other choice did he have?

  “All right! Do what you must . . . and do it soon! I want an end to this!” Yet, even as he said it, Norrec knew that there would never be an end to the horrible guilt he felt.

  “Of course.” Drognan turned from him, reaching for another massive tome. He perused the pages for a few moments, nodded to himself, then shut the book. “Yes, that should do it.”

  “Do what?”

  Replacing the book, the mage answered, “Despite the enmities between them, Bartuc and Horazon are forever bound together, even in death. That the suit has brought you here to Lut Gholein shows that bond remains strong even after all this time.” He frowned. “And your bond with the armor is nearly as great. An unexpected plus, I might add, but one I find myself curious about. Perhaps after this is over, I shall make a study of it.”

  “You still haven’t told me what you want to do,” reminded the veteran, not wanting Drognan to become distracted again. He vaguely understood what the sorcerer had said about the bond between the brothers and how the suit had a link to that, but the rest made no sense to him and Norrec did not wish to pursue it any farther. His own connection with the armor had begun with entering Bartuc’s tomb and would end when Drognan helped him strip the metal from his body. After that, the Vizjerei could do what he wanted with the suit— preferably melting it down to make farm tools or some other such harmless items.

  “This time I will cast a spell that should enable us to find the actual physical location of the tomb, which I have always believed might very well be under the city!” Drognan’s eyes lit up at the possibility. “It will require you to go back into the dream . . . but this time you will do so in a waking state.”

  “How can I dream if I’m awake?”

  The mage rolled his eyes. “Preserve me from the uninitiated! Norrec Vizharan, you shall dream while awake because of my spell . Rest assured that you need to know nothing more.”

  With great reluctance, the weary fighter nodded. “All right, then! Let’s get it done!”

  “The preparations will take but a few moments . . .”

  Coming closer, the elderly Vizjerei used the tip of his staff to draw a circle around the chair. At first Norrec saw nothing of interest in this, but the moment Drognan completed the circle, it suddenly flared to life, glowing a furious yellow and pulsating over and over. Again, the fighter would have jumped out of the chair if not for the warning glance his host gave him. In an attempt to calm down, Norrec reminded himself of the ultimate goal of all of this—freedom. Surely he could face whatever Drognan might put him through for that.

  The sorcerer muttered something, then reached out with his left hand to touch Norrec’s forehead. The soldier felt a slight jolt, but nothing more.

  With his finger, Drognan began drawing symbols in the air, symbols that flashed into and out of existence each time he finished one. Norrec caught only glances of each, although at least one reminded him of one of the wards he had seen in Bartuc’s tomb. That made him more wary again, but the time for retreat had already passed and he knew that he had to face whatever resulted from the spellcasting.

  “Shazari . . . Shazari Tomei . . .”

  Norrec’s entire body stiffened, almost as if the armor had once more taken control. However, the veteran soldier knew that it could not be that, for Drognan had long ago proven his mastery over the enchanted suit. No, it had to be just another part of the spell.

  “Tomei!” the silver-haired mage cried, raising his spell staff high above his head. Despite his advanced years, he looked more terrible, more powerful, than any man Norrec had ever met, even on the battlefield. A white, crackling aura surrounded the Vizjerei, causing Drognan’s beard and hair to fluttered about almost as if with a life of their own. “Shazari Saruphi!”

  Norrec gasped as his body shook violently. A force pushed him hard against the chair. The mage’s sanctum suddenly receded from him with such speed it made the fighter dizzy. Norrec felt as if he floated, although neither his arms nor his legs could move at all.

  An emerald haze formed before him, a haze with a vaguely circular shape to it. Far, far away, Norrec heard Drognan shout something else, but it seemed drawn out and unintelligible, as if for the Vizjerei time had slowed to a crawl and even sound could move no swifter than a snail.

  The haze refined itself, forming a perfect circle now. The emerald mist within that circle then dissipated—and as it did, an image, a place, formed within.

  The crypt.

  But something about its appearance immediately troubled Norrec. Details seemed altered, incorrect in many ways. The Vizjerei skeletons now wore elaborate armor instead of robes and appeared not to be true dead, but rather cleverly carved from stone. The massive cobwebs gave way instead to tattered tapestries depicting magical creatures such as dra
gons, rocs, and more. Even the symbol of the brothers’ clan had transformed, now a vast bird clutching in its talons the sun.

  Norrec tried to say something, but his voice did not work. Once more, though, he heard the painfully belabored words of Drognan. The mage sounded farther away than before.

  Suddenly, the image of the crypt receded. Faster and faster it rushed away from Norrec. Although he still sat in the chair, it felt to the fighter as if he ran backwards through the musty corridors leading to Horazon’s tomb. Row upon row of statue darted in front of Norrec, vanishing as quickly as the crypt had. Although most faces appeared as little more than blurs, some few he recognized, but not as those from the warlord’s dark past. Instead, they were faces from Norrec’s own life—Sadun Tryst, Fauztin, Norrec’s first commander, some of the women he had loved, and even Captain Casco. A few he did not recognize at all, including a pale but attractive young woman with hair the color of night and eyes so arresting not only for their exotic curve, but for the simple fact that they gleamed silver.

  But even the statues finally receded from sight. Now he saw but earth and rock, all tumbling about him as if he burrowed in reverse. Drognan called out something, but he might as well have been silent for all Norrec understood him.

  At last, the earth and rock gave way to a more powdery substance . . . sand , he belatedly realized. A glimmer of light, perhaps the light of day, spread around the edges of the images.

  Norrec!

  The veteran shook his head, certain that he had imagined someone calling his name.

  Norrec! Vizharan!

  It sounded like Drognan, but Drognan as he had never heard the sorcerer. The Vizjerei sounded almost anxious, possibly even fearful.

  Vizharan! Fight it!

  Something within Norrec stirred, a fear for his very soul . . .

  His left hand rose of its own accord.

  “No!” he shouted, his own voice seeming distant, disconnected from him.

  His other hand rose, his entire body following suit.

  He had barely left the chair when a physical force suddenly attempted to halt his unwilling progress. Norrec saw the distorted form of Drognan, staff in both hands, trying to drive the soldier back, away from the vision of the Arcane Sanctuary. He also saw his own gauntleted hands meet those of the Vizjerei, Norrec gripping the staff as if he sought to rip it free.

  The staff crackled with energy where the two men held it tight, brilliant yellow bursts where Drognan touched, bloody crimson flashes where Norrec’s fingers sought a hold. Norrec could feel powerful sorceries flowing through his very being—

  -Fight it, Vizharan! called Drognan from somewhere. His mouth never seemed to move, but his expression matched the stress in the words in Norrec’s head. The armor is stronger than I believed! We have been tricked all along!

  No more need have been said. He understood exactly what the mage meant. The enchanted armor had obviously never been under the Vizjerei’s control; the suit had simply bided its time, waiting for Drognan to discover that for it which it had so very long sought.

  The location of Horazon’s tomb.

  In some things, then, Drognan had been correct. He had said that Bartuc and his hated brother remained linked forever. So now did Norrec see why the armor had dragged him from one side of the world to the other. Something pulled it toward the final resting place of Horazon, something so powerful that even death had been unable to stop the quest.

  The armor had a mind of sorts; certainly it had shown far more cleverness than either Norrec or anyone else he had so far met. Likely when the Hawksfire had approached Lut Gholein it had even sensed Drognan’s spellwork . . . and somehow knew that it could make use of the Vizjerei in order to further its own sinister goals.

  Incredible, unbelievable, improbable—but more than likely the absolute truth.

  Energy sizzled between Norrec’s gauntlets. Drognan let out a cry and fell back, not dead but obviously stunned. The gloves released their hold on the spell staff, then the right reached for the image before Norrec.

  However, as it did, the vision began to shift, to pull away, as if some other force now sought to defeat the suit’s evil purpose. The image faded, twisted—

  Undeterred, the armor placed the right gauntlet into the very center. A crimson aura appeared around the hand.

  “Shazari Giovox!”

  As the undesired words fell from his lips, Norrec’s body lost all substance. He cried out, but nothing would stop the process. As if a creature of smoke, his form stretched, contorted—and finally poured into the dwindling vision.

  Not until both Norrec and the magical circle had both vanished did his screaming stop.

  This day they had lost one man to sand maggots and another to the heat of the desert itself, yet Galeona noticed that, if anything, Augustus Malevolyn acted more and more cheerful, almost as if he already had not only the armor of Bartuc but the power and glory he dreamed it would give him. That bothered the witch, bothered her more than she would have thought it could. Such a display was hardly like the general. If his disposition had lightened so much, he surely had good reason for it.

  Galeona suspected that reason had something to do with Xazax. She had not seen much of the demon of late and that never meant anything good. In fact, since the other night, when Malevolyn had evidently lost his common sense and taken a walk alone in the dark desert, the mantis had acted distant. Twice when the sorceress had found excuses to separate herself from the party and talk with him about their plans, Xazax had remained suspiciously remote in his comments. It almost seemed as if everything for which they had worked together no longer mattered.

  Xazax wants the armor , she considered. But he can’t make use of its enchantments himself.

  Yet, if he could not, surely a human dupe could . . . and Augustus presented a quite a distinct possibility there. Already the witch had suspected Xazax of trying to manipulate her lover. Now she felt certain that she had underestimated the mantis.

  Galeona had to regain her influence over the general. If not, she risked losing more than her station—the sorceress risked losing her head.

  Malevolyn had called for a rest. They had made surprisingly good time and had overall suffered scant losses to their harsh surroundings. A pack of leapers— monstrous, hopping terrors somewhat reptilian in appearance and with spikes along their spines—had harried them for a time, but never had the troops allowed the creatures to come near enough to make use of their long claws and savage teeth. Slaying one had left the others fighting over the carcass. Like most desert creatures, the easy meal, even if it happened to be one of their own, ever won out over battling with something that battled back.

  If anything, the sand and heat continued to be their greatest nemesis, which had been why the general had finally relented. Had the choice been solely his, he would have kept going, even if it meant riding his mount to death and then walking on from there.

  “I can almost see it,” he remarked as she rode up next to him. Malevolyn had taken his horse and moved on a short distance ahead of the column. Now he sat in the saddle, surveying the emptiness ahead. “I can almost taste it. . . .”

  She edged her own mount nearer, then extended one hand in order to touch his. General Malevolyn, Bartuc’s bloody helm still in place, did not so much as look at her, not a good sign at all.

  “And well deserved,” she cooed, trying to garner his interest. “Imagine how you’ll look when you bear down on Lut Gholein clad in the crimson helm of the warlord! They’ll think you to be him come back to life!”

  She regretted the words almost at once, recalling how his memories and those of the helmet had earlier melded together. He had not suffered another bout since that last, sinister event, but Galeona still wore the burning reminder of that time on her finger.

  Fortunately, Augustus appeared to have his own mind for the moment. He finally looked Galeona’s way, sounding pleased with what the sorceress had said. “Yes, that will be a wondrous sight—the
last one they will ever behold! I can almost picture it now . . . the cries of fear, the looks of horror as they realize their doom and who it is who delivers it.”

  Perhaps now she had the opportunity for which she had been looking. “You know, my love, while if we still have time, I can cast another search spell for you. With the helmet, it wouldn’t be—-”

  “No.” As simple as that. His gaze leaving her, Malevolyn added, “No. That will not be necessary.”

  He did not see the shiver that coursed through her. With those few words, he had verified her deepest fears. The general had even been adamant about taking any opportunity they could to seek out with sorcery the rest of Bartuc’s legendary garb. When the helmet had fallen into his hands in an act even she would have called providential, he had spared no effort in letting her use the artifact to aid in hunting for the suit. Even when they had discovered that this Norrec now walked the earth clad in Malevolyn’s prize, he had insisted she still use the helmet at regular intervals to keep track of the wanderer’s route.

  Now he talked as if he hardly cared, as if he had become so certain of the inevitability of retrieving the armor that he no longer even needed to maintain a magical eye on it. This did not at all sound like the Augustus she had known so inside and out, and Galeona felt it did not entirely have to do with the influence of the helmet. Surely the enchanted artifact had already solidified its hold over him enough to survive a few moments’ separation.

  And that brought her back to Xazax.

  “As you wish,” Galeona finally replied. “How soon before we move on again, my love?”

  He glanced up in the direction of the sun. “A quarter hour. No more. I will be ready to meet my destiny at the proper time.”

  She did not ask him to elaborate. Aquarter hour would suffice for her work. “I shall leave you to your thoughts, then, my general.”

  That he did not even nod in dismissal did not surprise her in the least. Yes, Xazax had definitely made his move, likely had even contacted the commander directly. By doing so, the demon had taken the first step toward not only severing his pact with the witch, but seeing her dead .