Diablo® The Sin War

by Richard A. Knaak

  As he started to turn his gaze back…what felt like a hand pushed him deeper into the cemetery. Stumbling several steps, Mendeln glanced over his shoulder. He immediately swallowed. Naturally, there was no one there.

  The farmer glanced down at the first of the graves. A crescent-shaped stone marked the spot. The grave had been dug so long ago that it was infested with generations of weeds and grass and had even sunken in a bit. Mendeln started to look away again, then eyed the marker one more time.

  Barely legible in the odd, gray shadows, was the same script that he had seen on the stone near Seram.

  Despite himself, Mendeln grew fascinated by the revelation. Keeping respectful to the grave, he knelt to the side, then leaned toward the stone. Up close, Mendeln was able to verify what he had seen. Many of the very same symbols ran along the crescent, but in patterns that he did not recognize.

  Without hesitation, he ran his fingers over the first line. Immediately, he sensed some sort of power emanating from the symbols. Mendeln had heard of words of power, such as the mage clans supposedly used at times, and he could only surmise that these were such.

  Looking up, Uldyssian’s brother surveyed the seemingly endless field of stones. The graves were marked in a variety of manners. In addition to the crescents, there were star-shaped slaps, squat rectangular ones, and more. Surveying the landscape ahead, Mendeln even spotted one overlooked by a towering, winged statue bearing a weapon in one hand.

  Drawn by that statue, he slipped among the graves in order to get a better look. Fascination replaced dread. He had to learn more. Was this some repository for the dead of the mage clans? If so, did they have some tie to what was happening to him…and to Uldyssian, for that matter? Until now, he would have doubted it, what little he had gleaned from merchants indicating that the once-powerful clans had all but shut themselves off from the world as they continued their arcane duels of wit against one another. They would hardly have the time to bother themselves with a pair of farmers far from the city.

  Although the statue stood deep in the cemetery, it seemed that Mendeln had barely begun toward it when suddenly it loomed over him. He paused, trying to understand what it was supposed to be. A winged being, with a face hooded save for glimpses of the mouth and some cascading hair. It wore a robe and breastplate somewhat akin to that of the Cathedral’s Inquisitors, but sculpted to resemble some finer material. The breastplate also had script upon it, more words in the same mysterious language.

  Mendeln glanced at the wings again, realizing that they were different from those of birds. What he had taken for feathering looked, when studied closer, more of an artist’s rendition of flame. Mendeln had never heard legends of any creature or spirit with such wings, not even in the stories his mother had told him when he had been a very young child.

  In the giant figure’s left hand it held a great sword whose tip rested on the base beneath the statue. The other hand pointed down, not merely, it seemed to Mendeln, indicating the grave beneath, but also those around it. He had the distinct impression that this was supposed to mean something to him, but what, Uldyssian’s brother could not say.

  And so, despite his situation, Mendeln grew frustrated beyond belief. He was a patient man in general, but someone appeared to be trying—very successfully—to draw him past his limits.

  “All right, then!” he shouted, his voice echoing over and over and over in the silence. “If you want something from me, then tell me what it is! Tell me, I demand it!”

  The moment that he finished, a grating sound filled his ears. Swallowing, Mendeln watched in horror as the statue’s pointing hand turned enough so that it now indicated what was written on the base.

  Mendeln waited for it to do something else, but the winged guardian froze once more. Slowly, he built up the nerve to look down at what was below.

  The same ancient script greeted him. He had hardly expected otherwise, but still this added to his frustration.

  “But I cannot read it!” he muttered. “I do not know what any of it says!” Squinting, Mendeln attempted to recall the words that had come unbidden to him that frightening time when the demon had caught him alone in the woods. He remembered the images in his head and the sounds of those words, but they were still not enough to help Mendeln with what now lay before him.

  Weary of the futility of this nightmare, Mendeln finally dared lean on the grave as he studied each mark. His mouth formed shapes, but that was all. Nothing, absolutely nothing, made sense.

  “What does it say?” he growled under his breath. “What does it say?”

  The Dragon has chosen you…

  Mendeln jerked to his feet. He had heard a voice like that once before, back in Seram. It was akin to the voice of Cyrus…

  Cyrus, after he had been killed.

  Part of him wanted to scream for this new one to get out of his head, but another part fixed on what had been said. The Dragon has chosen you…

  He stared at the ancient script and read it anew. “The Dragon has chosen me—you…the…Dragon…has…chosen…you…”

  And suddenly, Uldyssian’s brother could read that line. More important, other symbols now made more sense. Mendeln felt that he was now on the verge of discovering the meanings of all of them and, in doing so, discovering the truth about what was happening.

  But what did the phrase actually relate to? Kneeling close again, Mendeln studied the symbol representing the most important word…Dragon. A loop twisting into itself, a thing without beginning or end. Mendeln knew what a dragon was from legends; why would this mark represent such a creature? And why such a creature at all?

  “What happened?” Mendeln quietly asked…then frowned when he noted how he had phrased the question. He had meant to ask what is happening. Why would he—

  The dirt beneath his hand suddenly shifted…as if something beneath was seeking to dig its way out.

  Eyes round, Mendeln scrambled back. In doing so, he inadvertently threw himself atop another of the graves, where, to his further dismay, something also began to stir beneath.

  Worse, it began to register on him that graves everywhere were shifting, stirring. Mounds of upturned dirt decorated many already and Mendeln’s imagination pictured skeletal figures readying to emerge.

  But just as it seemed that his imagination would become a monstrous reality, there formed in the shadow of the winged statue a figure entirely shrouded in black. Mendeln had a momentary glimpse of a face not unlike his own in that it was studious in nature, but otherwise very, very different. It had an unreal handsomeness to it, as only a sculpture or a painting could achieve.

  The figure drew a single symbol in the air, a daggerlike mark that for a single blink flared a bright white. What sounded like a great sigh swept through the cemetery—

  The graves stilled. The cloaked form vanished…and, at that point, Mendeln’s surroundings changed.

  He was still in Partha, that much even his jolted mind would have guessed, but Uldyssian’s brother no longer stood within the cemetery. Instead, Mendeln was poised at its gateway, the gargoyle’s grinning maw seeming to mock his sanity. The cemetery no longer looked ancient and overrun, but well-kept, as one would have expected in Partha.

  But no matter how hard he squinted, Mendeln could see no winged statue.

  Something touched his shoulder, causing him to yelp like a kicked hound. Strong fingers grasped Mendeln and turned him around.

  To his relief, it was Achilios, not some fiend from the dead.

  “Mendeln! Are you all right! What are you doing here?” The hunter looked almost as pale as Uldyssian’s brother felt. Achilios’s eyes darted past Mendeln to study the cemetery with utter loathing. “Did you go in there?”

  “I—No.” It seemed best to Mendeln not to try to explain, since he himself was not quite certain just what had taken place. A delusion? A dream? Insanity?

  Instead, Mendeln focused on a new and intriguing question. “Achilios, my friend, why are you here? Did you follow me?
”

  This time, it was the archer who hesitated before replying with an equally suspicious “Yes. I did.” Achilios gave Mendeln a sudden grin, then slapped the farmer on the shoulder. “Don’t want you getting lost, eh, Mendeln? Town this size, lots of things to distract you, hmm?”

  Mendeln was not certain whether he was supposed to be insulted by such comments, but chose to ignore them for the sake of both men. Perhaps another time, he could share his secrets with Achilios and the hunter could do the same with him. Those secret, he believed, all focused on that fateful stone back home.

  “You need to come with me back to the square. Uldyssian—”

  It shamed Mendeln that he had not been concerned about his brother. Nervously rubbing his hands together, he blurted “Uldyssian! Is he all right?”

  “More than that,” replied Achilios. “But you’ll have to see to understand—” He happened to look down at Mendeln’s hands. His brow arched. “Your hands are covered in dirt! What—?”

  “I tripped in the street just before here and had to use my hands to keep from striking the stone with my face,” Mendeln quickly explained. “There was dirt there,” he added rather lamely.

  To his relief and surprise, the blond bowman took this answer at face value, too. “A fall in the street! You’re getting too absentminded for your own good! Here, let’s find something to wipe your hands off with and be on our way…”

  With nothing else around, Mendeln finally had to brush his hands against his garments. As a farmer, he was used to doing such, but felt a little embarrassed to be seen so in Partha. Yet, they could not very well return to Master Ethon’s home first. Mendeln dearly wanted to see what was happening in the square.

  He started to follow Achilios, only to falter but a few steps later. Making certain that his friend was not looking his way, Mendeln spun in a quick circle, searching.

  The ghosts who had been with him since the battle in the wild were nowhere to be found. It was as if that, when the shrouded figure had sent the spirits of the graves to their rest, it had also done the same for the shades of the Temple’s guards.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Did you say something?” asked the archer, pausing to let him catch up.

  “No…” Mendeln replied with a vigorous shake of his head. “No.”

  Achilios took this answer as he had the others, for which Uldyssian’s brother was grateful. Yet, as they hurried along, Mendeln’s mind stayed not with his sibling’s situation, but the unsettling, indeed, even sinister, episode through which he had just suffered.

  One thing about it haunted him most of all. Not what had happened, not exactly. No, it was a new question that the strange vision had raised…or rather, two new questions bound together.

  What was the Dragon…and why had it chosen him?

  Despite Achilios’s genial appearance, his mood was actually darker than when he had gone off in search of Mendeln. The archer had not at all expected to discover Uldyssian’s brother standing at the very entrance to such a place. It had brought back full-blown for a second time the horrific sensations that Achilios had suffered after touching the stone.

  He had tried to cover up his abrupt anguish immediately and was thankful that Mendeln had been so preoccupied that he had not noticed. Unfortunately, that preoccupation had drawn the hunter’s attention in turn…and was what ate away at Achilios even now.

  When asked if he had entered the cemetery, Mendeln had denied doing such a thing. Yet, Achilios did not have to have a master hunter’s honed senses to know that the dirt on the other’s hands was not what would have been found in the street. It had a drier consistency, an aged look, and there had been some bits of weed and grass mixed in, too.

  The sort of dirt that would have been more likely found—very easily—in a cemetery.

  That, in turn, caused Achilios to remember another time, back in Seram, when Brother Mikelius had wished to see the grave of the murdered missionary…and had proclaimed to the archer and the others there that someone had desecrated it. The Master Inquisitor had believed Uldyssian somehow responsible. Uldyssian or someone near to him.

  And now here was Mendeln at another cemetery, with dirt on his hands, Mendeln, who had been curiously absent during much of the events in the village.

  Mendeln…who in some ways was beginning to frighten Achilios even more than Uldyssian.

  THIRTEEN

  Day followed after day in Partha with no end to Uldyssian’s task. It was not that he could not sense the forces stirring within most of those who came to him, but that their progress beyond that did not leap forward—as his and even Lylia’s had done—mystified Uldyssian. He spoke of it with her as they lay in bed in the elegant quarters granted them by the generous Master Ethon, but Lylia seemed not at all bothered by the lack of results.

  “It shows that you are even more special, my love, as I already knew,” she cooed, her hand running over his chest. “But give it a few more days. I think you will begin to see what you desire.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” he returned morosely. “I also appreciate it more since I know you weren’t happy when we found ourselves here instead of nearly in Kehjan.”

  “I am, if nothing else, very adaptable, dear Uldyssian. I have been forced to be.”

  Uldyssian would have questioned her remark, but when he looked at her again, it was to discover that Lylia had just drifted off to sleep. A few minutes later, he fell asleep, too, for the next few hours happily relieved of his concerns.

  The noblewoman’s prediction came to pass barely two days later. By this time, Uldyssian had touched nearly everyone in the town. There were astonishingly few people hesitant about awakening the gift within themselves and fewer yet that he could deny.

  It was Master Ethon who suggested those who should be forbidden time with Uldyssian. They were criminals all, the most suspicious and untrustworthy. As lead justice of the Parthan tribunal, the merchant knew most of them by face. He made certain to stand by Uldyssian once he knew what was happening.

  “That man there,” Ethon had declared. “Be wary of giving him anything…” He then pointed to another. “He’s likely to slit your throat while you greet him, so watch that one, too.”

  In the beginning, Uldyssian had dutifully obeyed, but on this day, he saw again the first man in question, an unsavory, bearded soul by the name of Romus. A wicked scar ran across a good portion of his bald pate, a result, no doubt of his nefarious activities. The moment that Romus saw that he in turn was being observed, he started to leave. However, Uldyssian suddenly decided that he wanted to speak with the disreputable figure.

  “Romus! Romus! Come to me!”

  Hundreds of pairs of eyes fixed on Romus. He had no choice but to step forward despite scowls from the town Guard and many others.

  Master Ethon, too, was not pleased. “Uldyssian, I know you mean well, lad, but such as him would be more of a danger if given the gift—”

  Lylia put a soft hand on the merchant’s arm. “But dear Ethon! How do you know that some others like Romus have not already received Uldyssian’s aid? Can you claim to know every villain to walk Partha?”

  “No, my lady, but I know a damn lot—pardon my saying so—and this one’s among the worst!”

  She would not be dissuaded. “You have seen the faces of those who have been awakened. You yourself have experienced it, too. Look deep. Do you think that you could ever use it for ill?”

  Ethon faltered. “No…never…but…”

  “No one could,” Lylia insisted. “No one could.”

  Not bothering to wait to see what his host might say next, Uldyssian reached for Romus, who looked less like a threat and more like a frightened child. The bald man was surrounded by a good many townsfolk who considered Uldyssian something of a holy figure.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said Uldyssian. To the crowd, he added, “Give him some room. It’s all right.”

  As they obeyed, the son of Diomedes drew him closer. Rom
us frowned but let himself be guided.

  Still at Master Ethon’s side, Lylia leaned forward, her gaze intent.

  The rest of the townsfolk watched warily, Romus’s reputation apparently well known. They were ready to defend Uldyssian if anything happened.

  But Uldyssian himself had no such fears. The moment that he touched the other man’s hands, the force within him surged forth. Uldyssian immediately felt it stir something within Romus. The bald man gasped and a look of wonder spread across his face. It made him look like a completely different person, one whom Uldyssian would have trusted with his life.

  “It’s—It’s—” Romus stammered.

  “Yes, it is.”

  Uldyssian stepped back, as ever, giving the person a chance to come to grips with the change themselves. Romus chuckled like a child and a tear slid down his cheek. With both hands, he rubbed the top of his head as he tried to comprehend.

  As the hands came away, Lylia abruptly called, “Uldyssian! See what he’s done! Look at the scar!”

  Uldyssian could not look at it…for it no longer existed. The skin where once the jagged cut had lain was now as healthy and as pink as that on Jonas’s restored face.

  And it had not been because of any effort by Uldyssian.

  That was not immediately apparent to the townsfolk, who applauded this latest work as his. Quickly raising his hands high, Uldyssian waited for the crowd to quiet, then shouted, “What you see was none of my doing! None at all! What you see before you…the miracle you’ve witnessed…Romus did himself!” When cries of denial arose, he grew more stern. “I say this and I know this! Who here would call me false?”

  No one there could. Many began looking in amazement at Romus, who shook his head over and over, trying to deny the truth as much as his neighbors had a moment before.

  But Uldyssian would not let him. “Romus, come join me here by the fountain! Let the others see!”