“All right,” he growled. “Listen to me! I need water! I need it now!”
His left hand tingled, twitched slightly, as if the armor wanted to take control—but sought permission .
“Do it. I order you!”
The glove pointed to the ground. Norrec knelt, allowed his index finger to draw a circle in the sand. It then drew a looping pattern around that circle, with small crosses in each loop.
Words of power erupted from his lips, but this time Norrec welcomed them.
The entire pattern suddenly crackled, miniature arcs of lightning playing between one end of the design and the other. A tiny fissure opened in the center . . .
Clear, sparkling water bubbled to the surface.
Norrec eagerly bent down, sipping his fill. The water felt cool, sweet, almost as if instead he drank wine. The thirsty fighter savored each swallow until at last he could sip no more.
Leaning back, he took a handful and spilled it on his face. The soothing moisture trickled down his chin, his neck, and into his hot garments.
“That’ll be enough,” he finally said.
His hand waved over the tiny spring. Immediately the ground healed itself, sealing the fissure and cutting off the flow of water. What remained on the sand quickly sank out of sight.
A feeling of jubilation washed over Norrec, causing him to laugh loud. Twice now, the armor had served him. Twice now, he had been the master, not the slave.
Spirits lifted, he headed again for the hill. Now Norrec no longer worried about whether he would survive the desert. What could he not survive, if the enchantments obeyed him? For that matter, what could he not accomplish? No one had seen such might as the armor wielded since the days of Bartuc! With it, Norrec could make of himself a commander instead of a foot soldier, a leader instead of a follower . . .
A king instead of a peasant?
The image enticed him. King Norrec, ruler of all he surveyed. Knights would bow before him; ladies of the court would seek his favor. Lands would come under his control. Riches beyond belief would be his to spend . . .
“King Norrec . . . ,” he whispered. A smile once again spread across his face, a smile not at all like any Norrec Vizharan had evinced before in his life. In fact, although he could not know it, Norrec’s smile resembled almost exactly the smile of another man, one who had lived long, long before the former mercenary.
A man named Bartuc.
Fifteen
Night enshrouded Aranoch and with its coming also returned the demon Xazax to Augustus Malevolyn. The general had been waiting most anxiously for the past hour, pacing back and forth inside his tent. He had dismissed all his officers and ordered that even his guards depart from the vicinity of his quarters. As an added precaution, he had also not permitted any tents within hearing distance. What transpired between Malevolyn and the mantis would be for their ears alone. Even Galeona had been forbidden to set up her abode nearby, but she had protested little when he had told her. The general had not given that lack of protest much thought, more concerned with the offer made by his new ally. As far as he was concerned, the witch could now pack her things back up and ride off. If she did not, he would likely have to have her slain. Some sort of animosity existed between Xazax and her and, at the moment, Malevolyn needed the demon far more than he needed a very mortal sorceress, whatever her other charms.
Women could be easily replaced; moments of immortality generally could not be.
By Malevolyn’s choice, only a single lamp lit the tent. He did not know if the demon cast shadows, but, if so, the less chance of one of his men noticing, the better for the general. Had they known what he and the mantis wished to discuss, they would have all likely fled into the dark desert heedless of the dangers lurking out there.
A flickering movement caught his attention. Augustus Malevolyn turned, noticing that one shadow moved in defiance of the lamp’s flame.
“You are here, aren’t you?” he murmured.
“This one has come as promised, oh great one . . .”
The shadow deepened, grew substantial. In moments, the hideous form of the hellish mantis loomed over the human. Yet despite the presence of a creature who looked capable of ripping him apart limb by limb, General Malevolyn felt only anticipation. In Xazax, he saw the first of many such monsters who would eventually serve him in every way.
“Lut Gholein lies little more than a day from you now, warlord. Have you changed your mind?”
Changed his mind about gaining the armor? Changed his mind about his destiny? “You waste my time on useless prattle, Xazax. I am firm in my choice.”
The bulbous, yellow orbs flared. The mantis’s head twisted slightly, as if the demon tried to peer through the closed tent flap. “We spoke briefly of the witch, great warlord. This one has considered that matter much since then and believes still that she must not be part of this . . . or perhaps anything else.”
Augustus Malevolyn pretended to brood over this. “She’s been of value to me for some time. I would hate to lose her assets.”
“She would not agree with what this one has proposed to you, warlord. You may trust this one on that . . .”
The general had not missed Xazax’s continual use of the new title and while it pleased Malevolyn to hear it, the demon in no way succeeded in playing to his ego. Malevolyn still considered each detail by its own worth, even Galeona. “What lies between you and her?”
“An agreement made foolishly—and one this one wishes to break.”
Not the most clear of answers, but enough to give the general what he needed. He had a possible bargaining chip. “You will give me all I demand? All we discussed?”
“All—and gladly, warlord.”
“Then you may have her now, if you wish. I will wait here while you do what you must.”
If the demon could possibly ever looked disconcerted, then he did so now. “This one most graciously declines your kind offer, warlord . . . and suggests that perhaps you take the honor yourself at some point soon.”
The mantis would not or could not touch Galeona, just as Malevolyn had expected. Still, to him the matter seemed moot. It would not change his other decision, not in the least. “I will send a detachment to her tent to see that she remains under control. That will at least prevent her from causing any disturbance during our efforts. Perhaps after, I will decide what to do about her. In the meantime, unless there is something else you need to tell me—I would like to begin.”
The eyes of the demon flashed again, this time in what seemed immense satisfaction. In that voice that reminded the general of a dying swarm of flies, Xazax replied, “Then . . . you will need this, warlord . . .”
In the two skeletal hands, the hellish mantis held a large, twin-bladed dagger made of a black metal, a dagger with runes etched not only in the handle but along the flat sides of the blades. Also in the handle had been embedded two stones, the larger as red as blood, the other as pale as bone. Both stones had a slight gleam to them that came from no outside source.
“Take it . . .” urged the demon.
Augustus Malevolyn did so with eagerness, hefting the massive knife and noting its fine balance.
“What must I do with it?”
“Prick the skin. Let a few drops of blood flow.” The mantis cocked his head. “A simple matter . . .”
Dagger in hand, the general hurried to the flap of the tent. He shouted for one of his officers, then glanced over his shoulder at Xazax. “You’d better fade back into—-”
But the demon had already anticipated his request, Xazax melting once more into shadow.
Athin, mustached soldier with silver tabs on his shoulders appeared out of the darkness. He rushed up to the tent, then saluted his commander. “Yes, general?”
“Zako.” One of his more competent aides. Malevolyn would miss him, but the potential glories outweighed any concern for a single person. “The witch is to be placed under protective arrest. She is not to be allowed to touch any of her belonging
s nor is she to even so much as raise a finger until I say so.”
Agrim smile crossed the other soldier’s face. Like most of Malevolyn’s officers, Zako had no love for this sorceress who had, up until now, influenced their leader so much. “Aye, general! I’ll do that, all right!”
Something occurred to the commander. “But first . . . but first bring the guards chosen for this task here. Be quick about it!”
With a swift salute, Zako vanished into the dark, only to return a short time later with four sturdy-looking warriors. Zako ushered them into Malevolyn’s tent, then took up his place at the forefront.
“All present, general!” he called out, snapping to attention.
“Very good.” Malevolyn gave the small troop a brief inspection, then faced them. “You have all served me loyally time and time again.” His fingers stroked the hilt of the dagger, to which none of the five had so far paid much attention. “You have sworn your lives to me more than once . . . and for that I thank you. However, with a prize such as the one awaiting us, I must ask of you one last show of your willingness to serve me unto death . . .”
To one side, General Malevolyn noticed a shadow move. Xazax no doubt grew impatient, not understanding the need for the short speech. These men would be the first; therefore, from them would spread word of why their leader now demanded this new proof from them.
“Tomorrow begins a day of glory, a day of destiny, and each of you shall play an integral part! I ask now, my friends, that you verify my faith in you, my hopes in you, with this one last oath!” He held up the dagger for all of them to see. A couple of the guards blinked, but no one otherwise reacted. “Zako! I give you the honor of being the first! Show me your bravery!”
Without hesitation, the mustached officer stepped up and thrust out his ungloved hand. This had not been the first time he had sworn a blood oath to his commander and, of the five, only he no doubt thought that he understood why Malevolyn desired to reemphasize to the men the loyalty they owed the general.
“Palm up.” After Zako had obeyed, Malevolyn held the dagger points-down over the fleshiest part—then jabbed his officer’s palm.
Zako stifled a gasp, the man keeping his eyes straight ahead, as had been expected of him. Because of that, he did not notice something strange about both the knife and where it had punctured his skin. The two gems in the hilt briefly flashed the moment the points pierced his hand. More curious, although blood flowed from the tiny wounds, little of it actually spread over the palm, most of it seeming drawn toward the black blade—where it then disappeared.
“Have yourself a sip of wine, Zako,” Malevolyn offered, pulling back the dagger. As his aide stepped away, the general signaled to the next man, upon whom he repeated the same process.
After all five had been bled, Augustus Malevolyn saluted them. “You have given me your lives. I promise to treat them as the valuable gifts they are. You are dismissed.” As the soldiers departed, he called to Zako, “Before you deal with the witch, have Captain Lyconius bring every man under his command to my tent, will you?”
“Aye, general!”
When the others had gone, the voice of Xazax drifted from the shadows. “This goes too slow, warlord. It will take days at this rate.”
“No, now it will go much faster. These five have been given an honor, so they see it. Zako will tell Lyconius and he, in turn, will tell his men and so on. I will order the officers to give a ration of drink to each soldier who shows them he has once more sworn his life to my cause. The pace will quicken incredibly, I promise you.”
A few seconds later, Lyconius, a thin, fair-haired man older than the general, asked to be admitted. Outside, every soldier under his command awaited. Malevolyn bled the captain first, then had him line the men up. The mention of a ration of drink afterward made each fighter all the more eager to be there.
However, only a few of Lyconius’s men had been dealt with when Zako, looking much perturbed, burst into the tent. He knelt on one knee before the commander, head down in shame.
Somewhat irritated at this costly interruption, General Malevolyn barked, “Speak! What is it?”
“General! The witch—she is nowhere to be found!”
Malevolyn tried to conceal his annoyance. “Her belongings; are they still in the tent?”
“Aye, general, but her horse is missing.”
Even Galeona would not ride out into the vast desert at night. Taking a casual glance over his shoulder, Malevolyn noticed the shadow of the demon shift. No doubt Xazax did not find this news pleasant either, but at the moment neither man nor demon could afford to waste time on her. If the sorceress had somehow learned of their intention and had chosen to flee, it truly mattered little in the long run to her former lover. What harm could she do? Perhaps, once he wore the armor, he would hunt her down, but now Malevolyn had more important concerns.
“Never mind her, Zako. Return to your normal duties.”
Relief in his voice, the aide thanked him, then hurried from the tent. General Malevolyn turned back to his task, bleeding the next man, then commending him for his bravery.
The pace did indeed quicken, just as he had told the mantis it would. The combination of honor and drink caused a line to spread throughout the entire encampment, each man anxious to prove his worth to his master and his fellows. Tomorrow, they felt, the general would lead them to a glorious victory and riches beyond their wildest dreams. That they might be too few to take a stronghold such as Lut Gholein did not occur to them; General Malevolyn would not have made the sudden decision—so they assumed—if he did not already have some battle plan ensuring success.
And deep into the night, the last man proved his loyalty, hand out, the dagger already pricking his palm.
The final soldier and the officer who had guided him in both departed after saluting their trusted leader. From without, Augustus Malevolyn could already hear the sounds of celebration, as each of his men savored their ration of drink and toasted their future good fortunes.
“It is done,” rasped Xazax, emerging from the shadowy corners. “Each and every one has tasted the dagger’s bite and of each and every one the dagger has sipped . . .”
Turning the ceremonial weapon over and over in his hands, the general commented, “Not a single drop, not the tiniest stain. Where did all the blood go?”
“Each to its own, warlord. Each to the one it must go. This one promised you an army against whom even Lut Gholein could not defend long, remember?”
“I recall . . .” He touched the helmet, which he had not taken off once since camp had been made. It seemed so much a part of him now that he swore it would never leave his side, that he would only remove it for necessity’s sake. “And I say again, I accept the consequences of our deal.”
The mantis’s body dipped in what might have been an acknowledging bow. “Then, there is no reason not to proceed immediately . . .”
“Tell me what must be done.”
“In the sand at your feet, you must draw this symbol.” Using one of the skeletal hands, Xazax traced the mark in the air. The general’s eyes widened slightly as the demon’s gaunt finger left a fiery, orange trail behind, highlighting the symbol.
“Why don’t you just do it?”
“It must be done by he who will command. Would you prefer it to be this humble one, warlord?”
Seeing Xazax’s point, Malevolyn bent down and drew the mark as it had appeared in the air. To his surprise, as he completed it, strange words suddenly burst from his lips.
“Do not hesitate!” urged the mantis eagerly. “The words were known to him; they will be known to you!”
His words . . . Bartuc’s words. Augustus Malevolyn let them flow, savoring the power he felt from their use.
“Hold the dagger over the center.” When the general had done that, the demon added, “Now . . . speak the name of my infernal lord! Speak the name of Belial!”
Belial? “Who is Belial? I know of Baal and Mephisto and Diablo, but not of
this Belial. Do you mean Baa—”
“Speak not that name again!” Xazax nervously chittered. The mantis twisted his horrific head left and right as if he feared discovery by someone. Evidently finding nothing upon which to base that fear, the demon finally responded in calmer tones, “There is no master in Hell save Belial . It is he who offers you this wondrous gift! Recall this always!”
More familiar with the magic arts than the mantis might think him, Malevolyn knew that Hell had once been described as being ruled by the Three Prime Evils. Yet, he also knew of legends which had told of the three brothers cast up onto the mortal plane, their rule over Hell a thing of the past. In fact . . . one of the more obscure legends mentioned Lut Gholein as the possible location of Baal’s tomb, although even the general doubted the veracity of such a fantastic tale. Who would build a city on top of a demon lord’s tomb?
“As you say, Xazax. Belial, it is. I simply wanted to get the name correct.”
“Begin again!” the monstrous insect snapped.
Once more the words spilled from Malevolyn’s tongue. Once more he held the vampiric dagger high above the center of the symbol—Belial’s symbol, the general now realized. At the end of the incantation, the eager commander called out the demon lord’s name . . .
“Plunge the dagger into the center—exactly!”
General Malevolyn drove the twin-tipped blade deep into the sand, catching the center of the image perfectly.
Nothing happened. He looked up at the looming horror.
“Step back,” Xazax suggested.
And as the would-be conqueror did, a grim, black haze arose around the dagger. While the two watched, the haze rapidly grew, first expanding above the weapon, then finally spreading toward the tent flap. As it drifted outside with what seemed definite purpose to Malevolyn’s trained eye, the foreboding haze took on the shape of what looked to be a huge, clawed hand.
“It will not be long now, warlord.”
Unconcerned, Malevolyn sought out a goblet of his finest wine. For this night, he chose a new bottle, one that had been packed carefully for countless journeys over desperate landscapes. The general opened it, sniffed the contents, and, with much approval, poured himself a full cup.
Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood Page 23