Diablo: The Sin War Box Set: Birthright, Scales of the Serpent, and The Veiled Prophet

by Richard A. Knaak

  “I wrote also to the Procurator General in Kehjan,” Dorius replied, trying to regain control of the situation. “I haven’t heard word, but surely he’ll be sending a proper authority—”

  Brother Mikelius shook his head. “Through the Prophet, blessed be him, I carry the proper authority myself for this situation! The Procurator General will rely on my good word…”

  And from the Master Inquisitor’s tone, thought Uldyssian, Dorius and the rest were to rely on it, also, whether they liked the fact or not. The farmer grimaced. Considering how Brother Mikelius had so far handled the matter, Uldyssian also doubted that he would be allowed to say very much at his own defense…unless he chose to confess.

  “There is also the matter of the Triune,” Dorius added. “As one of their own was also a victim—”

  “The Cathedral is here; the Temple is not. If the Triune is sloth in seeking justice for its children, it is their own failing.”

  Defeated, the headman quieted. Uldyssian bit back an epithet. Brother Mikelius would not be denied.

  Uldyssian tried to console himself with the fact that at least Lylia had not been drawn into things. That, the farmer could not have stood for. She had already suffered too much at both sects’ hands—

  Even as he thought that, out of the corner of his eye, the telltale emerald green flashed. The farmer shook with dismay. Without meaning to, Uldyssian glanced in that direction.

  Unfortunately, so did the Master Inquisitor.

  Lylia stood like an animal caught in a trap. She appeared to have crept from around the back of the Boar’s Head to watch things unfold and no doubt her fear for Uldyssian had made her forget his warning.

  Brother Mikelius could obviously see that she was not a local. That in itself might not have mattered, but there was that in his gaze which, when it met hers, seemed to Uldyssian to register some recognition.

  The robed figure thrust a condemning finger at the noblewoman. “You there! You—”

  The sky thundered, this time with such vehemence that several people, including Brother Mikelius, had to cover their ears.

  The wind suddenly rose up, howling like a hungry wolf. People were thrust back by the intensity, even several of the Inquisitor guards unable to keep their positions. Only three figures remained unmoved—at least momentarily—by the fearsome gale.

  Brother Mikelius, Lylia, and Uldyssian.

  But the Master Inquisitor had to struggle to maintain his place. He tore his eyes from Lylia, returning them to the prisoner.

  Brother Mikelius’s expression was terrible to behold. He eyed the farmer with what seemed both fury and…fear. “By the Prophet! What are—”

  A savage bolt of lightning struck the village center…and the Master Inquisitor.

  He had no time to scream. A sickening, burning stench filled the air, spread quickly by the wind. The bolt left barely a charred mass. Uldyssian had seen the results of other strikes, but none with the intensity of this.

  A second bolt hit near the first. Someone let out a cry. People began scattering in every direction. The wind continued to howl through Seram, bowling over those not holding on to something solid.

  Uldyssian looked for Lylia, but she was nowhere to be found. A piece of rubbish flew up at his face and the farmer instinctively blocked it with his arm.

  Only then did he notice that he was again free. The cuffs dangled loosely on one wrist and when he tugged at them, the remaining one unlatched as if never locked.

  Not wasting time questioning the carelessness of his guards, Uldyssian focused on what to do next. However, Brother Mikelius’s escort decided matters for him by trying to reach the freed prisoner despite the terrible wind. Three of them were already nearly in weapon range, with a fourth not far behind.

  But as the foremost reached him, from out of the gale flew a thick wooden bench that Uldyssian belatedly recognized as usually sitting in front of the tavern. Almost unerringly, the bench collided with the guards, sending one sprawling and the other flying off with the makeshift missile.

  Some distance behind the sprawling figures, Lylia reappeared. Holding on to the corner of the smithy with one hand, she waved for Uldyssian to come to her with the other.

  Without hesitation, the stunned farmer ran toward the noblewoman. All around him, loose objects darted through the air. People scurried into buildings. Another bolt struck near the village well, tearing apart most of the surrounding stone wall.

  Despite the many threats, though, Uldyssian made it to Lylia unscathed. Other than a few loose strands of golden hair, the woman, too, appeared untouched.

  Concern for her overwhelmed all other thought. “Lylia! You need to find shelter—”

  She seized his arm, but instead of coming with him to the smithy entrance, Lylia tugged Uldyssian toward the woods. Her strength was surprising, and rather than risk a struggle that would leave both of them out in the open for much too long, the farmer allowed her to guide them both beyond Seram. He knew that common sense better dictated that they hide in some building, but Uldyssian still somehow convinced himself that they would surely find just as safe a location in the wild.

  Indeed, the wind seemed to lessen as they rushed deeper into the woods. Refuse still swept past them, but, miraculously, nothing greater than a leaf ever touched them.

  From the direction of Seram came a now-familiar crackling sound. The sky momentarily lit up as if the sun had suddenly burst through the cloud cover. Uldyssian started to look over his shoulder, but Lylia tugged him forward.

  Thunder continued to rumble as if the horses of a thousand riders trampled over the land. That made the farmer think of the Inquisitors and the unfortunate Brother Mikelius. The guards would surely be after Uldyssian once the weather settled, especially after the unsettling death of their superior. While Uldyssian blamed the cleric’s horrific end on the mercurial aspects of nature—even though never in his life had the farmer witnessed such a bizarre and deadly shift—he did not doubt that somehow Brother Mikelius’s fate would somehow be tied to him, no matter how ridiculous that might seem.

  “Keep running!” Lylia called, gazing over her shoulder at him. “Keep running!”

  But in her concern for him, the noblewoman did not pay attention to her own path. Uldyssian saw the dip in the landscape just before her foot settled into it. He tried to give warning, but by then his companion was already flailing.

  Her grip on Uldyssian slipped. A short-lived cry escaping her lips, Lylia tumbled forward. As she landed, she twisted around.

  Stumbling, Uldyssian went to her side. Lylia lay there, her eyes open but momentarily unseeing.

  “Lylia!” All fear of the unnerving weather or the Inquisitor guards vanished utterly. All that mattered to the farmer was the figure sprawled before him.

  To his great relief, the noblewoman blinked. Her eyes focused again. She looked up at Uldyssian and her expression made him redden.

  Trying to cover up his embarrassment, Uldyssian gave her a hand. However, as Lylia tried to stand, she let out a moan and her right ankle buckled.

  “I think…I think it may be twisted,” she managed. “Could you see?”

  He wanted to refuse, but knew that he could not leave her in pain. Mumbling an apology, Uldyssian pushed the long skirt away just enough to reveal the ankle.

  It was black and blue and already a bit swollen. When the farmer put a gentle hand to it, Lylia gasped again.

  “I need to bring you to a healer,” he muttered.

  “No! If you do, then you’ll be captured again! I won’t let them do that!”

  Uldyssian frowned. What had she expected to eventually happen? He could not very well just run off. This was his home. His family had lived in Seram for generations, possibly even since its beginning. More to the point, there were those he could not leave behind, especially Mendeln. Mendeln would surely pay if his brother could not be found. There was also Achilios, known to be Uldyssian’s best friend, and even Serenthia possibly risked being involv
ed.

  But at the same time, how could he return? The Inquisitors might eventually leave, but Tiberius would assume it his duty to arrest Uldyssian on the spot if the farmer reappeared. There was also the possibility of the Peace Warders of the Temple also still arriving to make their own judgment of the murders.

  Uldyssian knelt there, the hand over the ankle forgotten as he tried to think about what to do. Lylia’s fate concerned him as well and at least matters would have been a little easier if her ankle had not been injured—

  “Uldyssian…”

  He paid her no mind, still caught up in his concerns. Perhaps he could carry her back to the farm, then from there send her by horse to a neighboring settlement. She could get the aid she needed in one of the larger ones, then be on her way. At least then the noblewoman would be out of risk.

  As for Uldyssian himself, that was another—

  “Uldyssian!”

  Although Lylia kept her voice low, there was no mistaking the sharp emphasis in it this time. Uldyssian glanced around, certain that they had been discovered. However, there was no sign of anyone else, especially the Inquisitors or the Guard.

  “Uldyssian,” she repeated. “Not that. My ankle…the pain is gone.”

  Her hopeful words only fueled his worries. If she felt no pain, it was likely that the ankle had gone numb, not a good sign. He pulled his hand aside, fearful of what he would see—

  And finding instead that the ankle now looked perfectly healthy.

  “But—” Uldyssian stared at the limb, certain that he saw wrong. At the very least, the ankle had been bruised badly…and now was not.

  He looked to Lylia, and the way in which she gazed at him only made Uldyssian more uncomfortable. There was awe, incredible awe, and what almost seemed…worship?

  “You turned away…” the noblewoman murmured. “But you left your hand near my ankle. I knew…I knew you were not touching it, but I suddenly…I felt a wonderful warmth and the pain…it just went away…”

  “That’s not possible…there must be a reasonable explanation! An injury like that doesn’t just heal.”

  “You did it.”

  At first he thought that he had not heard Lylia correctly. Then, when her words at last registered with him, Uldyssian could scarcely believe that the noblewoman would even consider something so outrageous.

  “I’m no mage or witch!” he insisted, taken aback. “Your ankle was obviously not hurt after all! That’s the only answer!”

  She shook her head, eyes filled with something that should have gladdened his soul but only unnerved him more. Adoration. “No. I know the pain I felt. I know what I sensed from your hand…and I know that all the pain then disappeared as if it had never been.”

  Uldyssian stepped back from her. “But I didn’t do it!”

  The blond woman rose, then stepped toward him. Lylia moved without the least hint of injury.

  “Then who? Who performed such a miracle?”

  The last word sent shivers through him. He would not hear her. “We’ve no time for such foolishness!” He looked up. The sky seemed calmer, at least by them. Thunder yet roiled in the direction of Seram. Another bolt flashed over the village. “The storm—” Uldyssian had no other word for the peculiar weather. “—seems to be stalled. Praise be for that bit of luck!”

  “I do not think it was luck,” the noblewoman murmured.

  “Then what—” The farmer cut off, his face now blanching. “No, Lylia…don’t even jest—”

  “But do you not see, Uldyssian? How timely was that wind! How righteous was that bolt that struck the arrogant Brother Mikelius just before he could condemn you for murders you did not commit—”

  “And now you’d claim I’ve powers that did slay a man! Think of that, woman!” For the first time since he had met her, Uldyssian wanted to be nowhere near Lylia. It was not that he did not still find her desirable, but surely she suffered from some dementia. Perhaps the strain caused by her family’s misfortune had finally taken its toll. That had to be the explanation for her behavior…

  But what explained the injury that Uldyssian had seen? He did not consider himself of an imaginative nature. How, then, could his mind have conjured up such an elaborate delusion?

  “No!” the farmer snapped at himself. If he followed such reasoning, he would find himself believing Lylia’s outlandish suggestion. If that happened, it would be better for Uldyssian to turn himself in to the Inquisitors or the Guard before he truly did endanger someone else.

  A soft, warm touch on his hand stirred him back to the moment. Lylia stood barely an inch from him. “I know it was you who healed me, Uldyssian…and I believe that it is you who summoned the wind and the lightning in our time of need.”

  “Lylia, please! Listen to the absurdity of what you say!”

  Her flawless face filled his vision. “You want me to believe otherwise? Then prove me wrong.” The noblewoman gently took him by the chin and turned his gaze so that it fell upon the direction of Seram. “The lightning still falls, bringing justice and retribution with it. The sky still roars its anger at the false accusations made against you. The wind howls at the presumption of those who would judge you when they themselves are guilty!”

  “Stop it, Lylia!”

  But she would not. In a firm, even defiant voice, Lylia said, “Prove me wrong, dear Uldyssian! Will with all your might for the sky to quiet—nay, even clear—and if it does not, then I will gladly admit that I was sorely deluded.” Her lower lip stiffened. “Gladly…”

  Uldyssian could not believe that Lylia was so deluded that she could even imagine that something like she suggested was possible. Still, if the noblewoman meant what she said, it was the quickest and easiest way to snap her back to reality.

  Without another word, the farmer turned toward the turbulent heavens. Although he could have simply looked at them and pretended to be concentrating, Uldyssian somehow felt that doing so would be a betrayal to his companion even if he knew nothing would happen.

  And so, the son of Diomedes squinted and thought. He wished the violent weather to vanish and the clouds to clear away. He tried to take the situation as seriously as he could, even if only for Lylia’s sake.

  But he was not surprised when everything remained as it was.

  Certain that he had given Lylia’s delusion as much chance as anyone could have, the farmer wearily turned back to her. He expected the noblewoman to be distraught, but Lylia instead looked only patient.

  “I did what you asked and you saw what happened…or didn’t,” he said soothingly. “Now let me take you away from here, Lylia. We’ve got to find a place where you—where we can rest and compose our minds…”

  Unfortunately, instead of agreeing, Lylia continued to stare past him expectantly.

  Uldyssian’s own patience finally came to an end. Lylia had swept his heart up the moment that he had first seen her, but he could not tolerate her delusion any longer just because of that. It was for her own good, if nothing else. “Lylia, you’ve got to pull yourself together! I did what you asked and—”

  “And it came to pass…” she murmured, her face suddenly glowing with renewed adoration. Lylia gently took hold of the farmer by his arms and turned him back toward the village.

  Uldyssian, about to reprimand her further, stopped. His mouth hung open.

  The sun shone over Seram.

  The Grand Temple of the Triune—located two days’ ride south of Kehjan—was a sprawling, triangular edifice with three high towers, each situated at one of the points. The pinnacles themselves were three-sided, with each face marked by one of the holy orders. Triangular windows lined the towers from bottom to the top.

  Nearly all things concerning the structure were of a similar triple nature. To reach the entrance—which faced Kehjan—pilgrims needed to ascend three levels, with each level consisting of thirty-three steps. At the entrance itself, three massive bronze doors—also triangular—allowed the faithful into the vast welcoming hall with
in.

  Worshippers were, naturally, greeted within by glorious effigies of the three guiding spirits. Bala the Creator loomed on the left, the androgynous figure clad in the robe of its order. In Bala’s hands were a mystical hammer and a bag, which the clerics preached contained the seeds of all life. Both nature and the architectural triumphs of Humanity were under the auspices of this spirit.

  Dialon hovered to the right, the marble statue much akin to the first save that this figure held to its breast the Tablets of Order. Dialon brought purpose to Humanity, and the tablets taught how to achieve blessedness. As with Bala, Dialon wore the colors associated with those following the principles of Determination.

  And in the center stood Mefis, who carried nothing but cupped its hands as if cradling the most tender of infants. Without Love, Creation and Determination could not thrive, so taught the Grand Priest—the Primus—who some said surely had to be the child of Mefis, so caring was he of his flock.

  Under each of the giants, another bronze door gave way to the grand chambers of the various orders. Pilgrims and novices who found one preferable over the other would enter through these and listen to the words of that particular high priest. Peace Warders, cowled guards in leather who wore the symbols of all three orders on their chest, guided newcomers to their most likely choice. Within each chamber, several hundred could kneel in prayer at one time.

  And when the Primus himself made an appearance, the walls between the three orders—walls which, although they had the facade of stone, were made of wood—were slid back into hidden niches so that all could bask in the Grand Priest’s noble presence. Upon an elevated dais before his followers, the leader of the Triune would bring forth the word of the Three.

  Today, however, the faithful came to make their own prayers, for the Primus was in council with his three most beloved, the high priests of each order. Chief among them was the tall, athletic Malic, senior of those of his rank. He had risen from an eager acolyte to his venerable role through determination, creative thinking, and devotion to his master.