Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  So far, the battle had been all the general’s. It could not go on much longer. Bartuc’s plate might desire Norrec as its simple, malleable host, but if matters continued as they presently did, it would soon have to bow to the skill and might of General Malevolyn and his own enchanted helmet.

  Caught up in his darkening thoughts, Norrec barely noticed his foe suddenly thrust toward his face. The veteran fighter immediately raised his own sword, barely pushing Malevolyn’s blade aside. Had he failed to do so, the general’s weapon would have cut right through Norrec’s skull, coming out the back.

  And then it came to Norrec that he and not the armor had just defended against the nearly fatal assault.

  He had no time to mull over the sudden shift, for Malevolyn did not slow his advance. The would-be warlord cut again and again at Norrec, forcing him backward in the direction of the watching Xazax.

  Yet, despite the precariousness of his situation, Norrec’s hopes rose. If he died, he would die his own man.

  Augustus Malevolyn tried a move the soldier recognized from one of his first forays as a mercenary. The maneuver took skill and cunning and oft times succeeded, but from a willing commander Norrec had learned how it could be turned to the opponent’s advantage . . .

  “What?” Malevo lyn’s gaping expression enthused Norrec Vizharan as he turned what should have been a near-mortal blow by the general into a sudden counterattack that forced the veteran’s foe to retreat or lose his own head.

  Wasting no time, Norrec sought to push the general back until the soft sand made the man stumble or even fall, but at the last moment, Malevolyn succeeded in turning the duel back into a stalemate.

  “Well,” the helmed figure gasped. “Seems that the suit can learn like a man. Interesting. I wouldn’t have thought it would’ve known that last move.”

  Norrec refrained from telling him the truth. Any advantage he had, however small, he would use. Yet, he could not help keep a slight, grim smile from briefly crossing his weary visage.

  “You smile? You think it learning a trick or two enough? Then let’s see how it and you fare if we change the rules a little . . .”

  Malevolyn’s free hand suddenly came up—and a brilliant sunburst exploded in Norrec’s eyes.

  He swung wildly, managing twice to parry the general—then a tremendous force ripped the sword from his grip. Norrec stepped back, lost his footing—and tumbled back onto the sand.

  Through vision still suffering the aftereffects of Malevolyn’s treacherous spell, the fallen fighter saw the murky form of his triumphant opponent loom over him. In each hand General Malevolyn held a black sword.

  “The battle is done. I will say well fought, cousin. It only occurred to me at the last that you seemed a bit more eager than earlier—as if you had joined the duel yourself. So you finally thought that working with the armor would save you? A good notion, but clearly decided upon much too late.”

  “Waste no time!” snapped Xazax from somewhere behind Norrec. “Strike! Strike!”

  Ignoring the demon, Malevolyn hefted the two swords, admiring them. “Perfect balance in each. I can wield both with no fear of crossing myself up. Interesting, too, that yours still exists. I would have thought it would have faded away once out of your hands, but I suppose that since I immediately grabbed it, that made all the difference. Bartuc’s enchantments are full of surprises, are they not?”

  Still trying to focus better, Norrec suddenly felt his left hand tingle. He knew the sensation, had experienced it before. The suit intended some ploy, but exactly what ploy the fighter did not know—

  Yes, he did know. The knowledge filled Norrec’s head, instantly enabling him not only to understand the enchanted armor’s part in this, but the man’s as well. For this to succeed, both would have to work together. Neither alone stood a chance of success.

  Norrec fought back a grin. Instead, he satisfied himself with answering his adversary. “Yes . . . they are.”

  The left gauntlet flared.

  Norrec’s lost sword transformed into an inky shadow swarming over Malevolyn’s arm and head.

  Swearing, the general released his grip on his own weapon and gestured toward the hungering shadow. From his mouth came ancient words, Vizjerei words. A green luminescence radiated from his fingertips, eating away in turn at the shadow.

  Yet, as Malevolyn focused his attention on this new menace, Norrec leapt up at him—just as the armor had desired. As the shadow faded away under the brunt of the general’s own spell, Norrec seized Malevolyn by the hands and the two wrestled. This close, neither dared use Bartuc’s sorcery unless certain.

  “The battle’s even again, general!” murmured Norrec, for the first time feeling as if he, not anyone else, had command of the situation. The armor and he had a common goal at last—triumph over this foul foe. Exhilaration filled him as he grappled, exhilaration at the thought of Malevolyn lying dead at his feet.

  And the fact that much of that newfound determination and confidence might possibly have come from a source other than himself did not enter his mind. Nor did it occur to Norrec that, if he did slay the one who wore the crimson helm—then he had as good as cursed himself to the fate that Bartuc’s armor had long chosen for him.

  Xazax watched the sudden turn of events with great dismay. The shifting tide in the battle had caught even him unaware and now the mortal with whom he had chosen to ally himself risked defeat. Xazax could not take that risk; he had to ensure that this duel ended with Malevolyn as the victor.

  The giant mantis poised to strike—

  Twenty

  Kara stepped over the winding dune—and into yet another nightmare.

  In the distance, black armored warriors battered at Lut Gholein’s gates, shouting with a murderous glee almost inhuman. The defenders above continuously fired down at them, but curiously their many arrows had no visible effect whatsoever as far as she could see, almost as if the invaders had somehow made themselves invulnerable to mortal weapons. Judging by what else she could see, the necromancer felt fairly certain that the straining gates would soon crash inward, gaining this savage force entrance.

  However, the terrible struggle there paled in her mind in comparison to the duel taking place not far from her right. She had found Norrec again, yet with him she had also found not only the demon, but a furious figure clad in armor akin to the men attacking Lut Gholein—akin, that is, save for his crimson helmet.

  The necromancer immediately recognized Bartuc’s helm. Now matters made more sense. The armor of the warlord sought to reunite, but it had two hosts with which to contend and only one who could end up with the prize. Unfortunately for Norrec, he stood to lose everything no matter what the outcome of the combat. Slay his foe and he became the armor’s puppet; fail in the struggle and he died at the feet of the new Warlord of Blood.

  Kara eyed the trio for several moments, trying to consider what best to do. Unable to come up with a satisfying answer, she turned back to her decaying companions. “They’re locked together and the demon’s only a few yards behind him! What do you—”

  She talked to the air. Both Tryst and Fauztin had completely vanished, the sand revealing no trace of their path. It was as if they had simply flown into the air and vanished.

  Regrettably, that left the necromancer’s decision completely up to her and time looked to be rapidly running out. Norrec had brought the battle to a more even level again, but as Kara watched, the hellish mantis began to move toward the combatants. Kara could think of only one reason why he would do so at such a juncture.

  Knowing that she had no other option remaining, the dark mage leapt forward, racing for the back of the imposing demon. If she could get near enough, she had a chance.

  The mantis raised one wicked limb high, awaiting the ideal moment to strike . . .

  Kara realized that she would not make it—unless, of course, she took a desperate gamble. In her hand the necromancer already held her ceremonial dagger, which Sadun Tryst had suggest
ed she might need. Until now, though, her fear of possibly losing it again had kept Kara from considering such an act. The weapon was a part of her calling, a part of her very being .

  And the only way she could possibly save Norrec.

  Without hesitation, she took aim at the foul creature—

  Now! Xazax thought. Now!

  But just as the mantis chose to attack, fire burst within him, coursing through his entire body with astonishing swiftness. The monstrous insect stumbled, nearly falling on top of the two fighting figures. Xazax swiveled his head so as to see the cause of his agony and found in his back a gleaming dagger made of something other than metal. He recognized quickly the intricate runes in the protruding handle and knew then why such a minuscule weapon could cause him so much pain.

  A necromancer’s ceremonial dagger . . . but the only such being Xazax had come across he had quickly murdered, so surely it could not be—

  But there she came, hurtling toward him despite the fact that she should have been dead. The mantis knew where he had struck her, knew that no human could have rightly survived the blow, not even those who dealt in life and death such as she.

  “You cannot be!” he demanded of her, a sense of dread building quickly within. For all their chaotic origins, demons had a very set sense of how things worked. Humans were fragile; rip, stab, cut, or tear them apart in certain ways and they would die. Once dead, they stayed so unless summoned back in the form of some ghoulish servant. This female defied the rules . . . “Dead you were and dead you should stay!”

  “The balance dictates the terms of life and death, demon, hardly you.” She made her right hand into a fist and pointed at him.

  An incredible weakness spread through the demon. Xazax teetered, then caught himself. The necromancer’s spell should not have affected him so thoroughly, but with her dagger in him, he became far more susceptible to anything she cast.

  That situation could not be allowed to continue long.

  Summoning what reserves he had, the mantis used his upper appendages to stir up the sand, then send it flying into the face of the enchantress. As she fought to regain her sight, Xazax’s middle limbs bent back in a most impossible manner and sought out the treacherous dagger.

  It burned, burned terribly, but he forced himself to seize the hilt and try to pull it free. The demon roared as he tugged at the enchanted blade, so great did the pain grow.

  He would rend her into bloody gobbets for this abominable act. He would pinion her, then peel away every layer of skin, every bit of muscle—all while her heart still beat.

  But just as the monstrous insect felt the blade begin to loosen, the necromancer uttered her final spell.

  And before Xazax’s eyes materialized a luminescent being so glorious his very presence burned the eyes of the demonic mantis. He looked manlike, but with all imperfections washed away. His hair flowed golden and the beauty of his countenance affected even the demon. However, even overwhelmed by the robed figure’s presence, Xazax did not fail to notice the majestic, gleaming sword that the vision wielded with expert grace . . .

  “Angel!!”

  Xazax knew that what he saw had to be an hallucination. Necromancers had reputations for being able to cast such terrifying illusions directly into the minds of their enemies—and yet even that knowledge could not keep the primal fear from drowning the demon’s senses. In the end, Xazax only knew that one of Heaven’s imperious warriors now came for him .

  With an inhuman cry, the cowardly mantis turned from Kara and fled. As he did, the dagger slipped from his wound, causing the escaping demon to leave a steady stream of thick, black ichor trailing behind him in the sand.

  Kara Nightshadow watched as her adversary disappeared into the wastes of Aranoch. She would have preferred a more final conclusion to her encounter with the mantis, but in her present state of exhaustion, that conclusion could have just as well gone against her. The spell would keep him from any foul play for some time, at least long enough, so Kara hoped, to deal with the unholy threat of the armor.

  She picked up her dagger and turned to where Norrec and his own foe still battled. The necromancer frowned. If the helmed stranger won, her course would be quick and clear. The dagger would see to a swift end to the second coming of the Warlord of Blood.

  And if Norrec won?

  Kara had no choice there, even. Without a host, the armor could cause no more harm. Whoever won between them—she would have to make certain that the victor did not live long enough to draw another breath.

  Neither Norrec nor his adversary noticed the battle taking place beside them, so desperate had their own struggle become. The gauntleted hands of the two flared again and again as dark sorceries burst into life and immediately died. Although Malevolyn did not wear the armored suit of Bartuc, the helm alone gave him strength and power matching that now wielded by a willing Norrec. Because of that, the fight continued to be a stalemate, although both men knew that eventually the end would come for one.

  “I am destined to take his place!” snarled Augustus Malevolyn. “I am more than just his blood! I am his kindred spirit, his will reborn! I am Bartuc come back to the mortal plane to reclaim his rightful place!”

  “You’re no more his successor than I am,” returned Norrec, not at all aware that his own expression matched that of the arrogant commander. “His blood is mine as well! The armor chose me! Maybe you should think about that!”

  “I will not be denied!” The general slipped one boot under the soldier’s leg, forcing Norrec off balance.

  They tumbled to the ground, Malevolyn on top. The sand softened some of the blow when Norrec’s head hit, but still the veteran fighter lay momentarily dazed. Taking advantage of the situation, General Malevolyn forced his hand toward his rival’s visage.

  “I will remove your face, your entire head,” he hissed at Norrec. “Let us see then who the armor thinks more worthy . . .”

  The general’s red and black gauntlet blazed with wild magic, Malevolyn’s fingers only an inch or two from making good his dire promise. One hand pinned by his foe’s own and the other trapped between their armored bodies, Norrec had little hope of preventing the sadistic general from accomplishing what he desired . . .

  At that moment, though, Norrec sensed movement behind him, as if a third person had joined the fray. Malevolyn looked up at the newcomer—and the triumphant sneer on his countenance switched to an expression of utter bafflement.

  “You—” he managed to blurt.

  Something within Norrec urged him to take advantage. He slipped the one hand free from the general’s, then immediately struck Malevolyn hard in the chin. A brief burst of raw magical energy accompanied Norrec’s strike, sending the helmed figure flying back as if pulled by a string attached to his head. Malevolyn dropped to the sand some distance away with a harsh thud, the general too stunned at first to rise.

  Focused only on victory now, the veteran fighter rose and charged toward his fallen foe. In his growing certainty that he had been meant all along to triumph, Norrec nearly threw himself on top of the general—an action which would have cost him his life.

  In Malevolyn’s hand materialized one of the black blades. Norrec barely had time to twist out of its deadly reach, dropping to the sand just beside the other fighter. General Malevolyn rolled away, ending up in a crouched position. He kept the sword between them, his mocking expression quite evident even within the bloodred helmet.

  “I have you now!”

  Leaping forward, he thrust .

  The tip of the ebony blade sank deep . . . deep into the chest of General Augustus Malevolyn .

  The sinister noble’s resummoning of his enchanted sword had immediately reminded Norrec that he, too, could call his own weapon back into play. In his haste to at last be done with the mercenary, Malevolyn had evidently not considered that last part. As his sword came at Norrec, Norrec rolled forward, at the same time thinking his own demonic blade into existence.

  Augustus
Malevolyn’s thrust had come within a hair of slicing the veteran’s skull in half.

  Norrec’s had materialized already a third of the way through his adversary’s torso.

  Malevolyn gaped at his wound, the blade having skewered him so quickly that his body had not quite yet registered that death was upon it. The general dropped his own weapon, which instantly faded away.

  In past battles, Norrec Vizharan had taken no pleasure in the deaths of his foes. He had been paid for a task and he had performed that task, but war had never been a pleasure for him. Now, however, he felt a chill run up and down his spine, a chill that stirred him, made him desire more of such bloodshed . . .

  He stood up, and walked over to the gaping general, who only now slipped to his knees.

  “You don’t need this any more, cousin .”

  With great force, Norrec tore the crimson helmet from Augustus Malevolyn’s head. Malevolyn screamed when he did, although not from any physical pain. Norrec understood what so troubled the man more than even the lethal thrust, understood because at that moment he would have felt the same if someone had tried to rip the armor from his body. The power inherent in Bartuc’s suit seduced both of them, but in Malevolyn’s case, he had lost the duel and, therefore, lost all right to that power.

  Laying the helmet to the side, Norrec took hold of the hilt of his sword. With easy effort, he pulled it free, then inspected the blade itself. No blood stained it. Truly a marvel. It had served him well here, served him as grandly as it had done at Viz-jun . . .

  Agauntleted hand grabbed at him. General Malevolyn, a manic look on his face, tried desperately to grapple with Norrec.

  Norrec shoved him back and grinned. “The war’s over, general.” He readied the sword. “Time to retire.”

  One easy sweep left General Augustus Malevolyn’s head rolling in the sand. The headless torso joined it a moment later.