DIABLO: DEMONSBANE

by Robert B. Marks

  “I noticed you had lost your cloak during the fighting,” Sarnakyle said. “So I got you a new one. If I can find the shopkeeper, I will pay him for it.”

  Siggard nodded wearily and pulled on his new black cloak, wrapping it about himself like a second skin. He looked around to see a large group of milling people, people from every age, craft, and discipline. They stood behind a cluster of hills that Siggard surmised must be large enough to hide them from the sight of any watcher from Brennor.

  Siggard climbed the hill and peered over the rocky tor. As he looked toward the distant town, his eyes widened. The walls of Brennor were no more, lying in a crumbled heap. The castle still stood, surrounded by the abandoned town, and the windows of the keep shone with an unearthly red light.

  When he came down, Tilgar smiled in grim satisfaction. “The final orders of the city guard were to bring down the walls. One of Brennor’s great secrets is that any enemy who takes the place will only gain a small fortress. The King of Entsteig has never allowed one of his own towns to be used against him.”

  Tilgar turned to a housecarl, asking if Wulfgar still lived. When the answer came back as a negative, the earl shook his head sadly and began to give marching orders.

  “Siggard, I would be grateful if you would stay with us,” Tilgar said, placing his hand on the warrior’s shoulder. “Your sword arm would be a great help.”

  Siggard shook his head. “I’m going to rest here, and then go back to Brennor at nightfall.”

  Sarnakyle startled. “Are you mad, my friend? What can you possibly hope to accomplish against a demonic horde?”

  “I’m going to kill Assur,” Siggard replied coldly.

  “You know what that glyph means,” Sarnakyle insisted. “Assur is invincible.”

  Siggard smiled grimly. “The murderer of my family is in Brennor, so I will seek him out and destroy him if I can. I know he can’t possibly expect me.”

  “If you do this, you will probably die, Siggard,” Tilgar said. “Are you certain that’s what you want?”

  Siggard affixed the earl with a cold stare. “Everything I love is already dead. If I must perish trying to avenge it, then so be it. But one way or another, I swear that Assur will die at my hands by daybreak.”

  11

  RECKONINGS

  While an army can accomplish more than one man, there are times when an individual can achieve that which a legion cannot.

  —Tobarius of Kehjistan, Philosophies

  Siggard strode through the night, his hand resting on Guthbreoht’s hilt under his black cloak. He was careful not to walk too fast, lest he attract unwanted attention from the castle of Brennor.

  The refugees had left around midday, Earl Tilgar giving Siggard explicit instructions of where they would be going, and to find them if he survived. Sarnakyle had offered to help, but Siggard had refused. The last thing he wanted to do was endanger the wizard’s life, particularly when Earl Tilgar would have a far greater need of magic protection than he.

  After the refugees had departed, Siggard had cleaned the caked blood and gore from his sword and mail-coat, checking both for rust. He had oiled the sword, and blackened the mail with coal, removing as much of the shine as he could. Then he had waited for sunset.

  Siggard finally reached what was left of the gates of Brennor. The wall truly had crumbled, and the air reeked of death. From the faint light of the castle windows, he made out bodies lying throughout the rubble. No doubt the crows and carrion eaters had eaten their fill during the day.

  He made sure his cowl properly covered his face, and began to walk through the town. Most of the buildings he passed were scarred and hollowed out from the last of the fighting, and the corpses of guardsmen lay sprawled over the street. He slowly picked his way across the carnage, careful not to disturb anything.

  A flickering fire caught his attention, and he stepped back into the shadows. Two of the goat creatures passed by, one carrying a torch, the other a severed head. As they passed, Guthbreoht’s song became insistent, but Siggard held back. “Soon,” he whispered. “Soon there will be vengeance.”

  He waited for another moment, and then took to the street again, carefully keeping in the darkness. He was certain that there would be guards at the castle door, but an idea was beginning to form in his mind. A vision of Tylwulf returned to the forefront of his memory, and he smiled grimly. The traitor would be helpful, after all.

  But he still had to get into the castle.

  He wound his way through the rubble of the town, sliding again into the shadows as he came to a campfire in the middle of one of the town squares. Several demons sat by the blaze, chortling and speaking in some guttural tongue. One of them held up a severed human arm and gnawed on the flesh.

  Siggard forced down a wave of nausea and turned aside, slipping farther into the darkness. The reckoning would come soon enough. He wrapped his cloak tighter about him and began to wind his way around the group at the fire, hoping he wouldn’t attract their attention.

  Finally, the fire lay in the distance, and he walked onward through the maze of crumbling streets, keeping the castle firmly in sight.

  Before he could react, one of the dog creatures rounded the corner ahead of him. The creature rose to its full height of four feet and glared.

  “What you want?” it demanded.

  “Go away,” Siggard growled, standing perfectly still.

  “You tell me what you want or me call guards!” the creature shrilled. “Now what you want?”

  “I’ve come to serve lord Assur,” Siggard answered gruffly. “Now are you going to get out of my way, or am I going to have to hurt you?”

  “You come with me,” the dog-man said. “Me take you to others.”

  Siggard rolled his eyes theatrically. “Very well.”

  “Baron Assur need many men,” the creature rambled, leading him to the castle door. “He need to call more demons, need more power. You give body, you give soul, you give power!”

  The door appeared unguarded, but as they approached, two Hiddens emerged from the darkness, one on each side of the way. The dog-man spoke a few words, and they moved aside. Siggard followed the creature into the castle courtyard, taking careful note of where the Hiddens had placed themselves.

  “You serve Baron Assur well!” the demon crooned, leading him past another pair of dog-men guarding the entrance to the keep. “You give him good soul!”

  Siggard tried to ignore the creature’s demented grumblings as he followed it through the passageways. As he walked, his hand flexed on Guthbreoht’s leather hilt.

  “Where is Lord Assur?” Siggard demanded.

  “He in room with many maps,” the dog-man said. “You no go there. Overseer take care of you.”

  Siggard stopped and looked down the corridor. It was empty on both sides, as far as the eye could see.

  “Why you stopping?! You follow me!”

  Siggard smiled coldly and struck. Guthbreoht flashed in the darkness as he drew and slashed in a single stroke, sending the dog-man’s head thudding against the wall. Siggard began to walk purposefully down the corridor, hiding his sword under his cloak. He knew exactly where the war room was from here.

  He made his way through the corridor, passing several demons who appeared to think that since he had gotten in, he must have some legitimate business. He smiled inwardly as he came to the door of the war room, a red light flowing from the crack between the hinges. It was seemingly unguarded, but Siggard knew better.

  As quickly as he could, he slashed the air with his sword, and the heads of two Hiddens fell to the ground, the bodies appearing and crumpling shortly afterwards. He looked around again to ensure that there were no other demons in sight, and then opened the door and stepped in.

  The huge form of Assur loomed before him, but the archdemon’s back was turned. A second shadowy thing turned toward him, however, as if realizing he was not possessed, and charged, talons outstretched. As lithe as a cat, Siggard disemboweled t
he monster, and the creature faded, screaming in agony. Guthbreoht’s song began to grow in strength.

  Assur turned, fixing Siggard with angry black eyes. The archdemon drew a giant sword of his own from a sheath at the side of his loincloth.

  “You are foolish, mortal,” Assur rumbled. “No weapon wielded by the living can harm me, not even a sword of Velund.”

  Siggard held up Guthbreoht and began to speak, every word filling him with rage. “I am Siggard of Bear’s Hill, whose family and village you slaughtered. Know now that I died inside the day my wife did, and my soul is empty of all but a lust for revenge. I will have my vengeance upon you, for you fight a dead man this day!”

  Siggard roared in fury and attacked, his assault pushing the demon back. The two swords clashed with incredible speed, crying out with a ringing of tormented steel. Assur’s face was a mask of amusement, but it quickly turned to anger as the onslaught continued.

  “Die in truth, mortal!” Assur bellowed, counterattacking. He raised his blade and brought it down with all his might, Siggard barely blocking the deadly stroke. He thrust forward, forcing Siggard to dive out of the way. Snarling, Assur rounded on him, attacking again. The power of the blows drove Siggard back, every parry numbing his arm until he thought that it would take superhuman strength to defeat the demon.

  Then Guthbreoht’s song filled his spirit, and Siggard began to laugh. With an ancient battle cry, he lunged forward, striking the sword from Assur’s hand. As the demon recoiled in shock, Siggard thrust, impaling the glyph and driving the steel deep into the monster’s flesh.

  Assur screamed, a cry of rage, fear, and pain. Blood poured from the wound as Siggard wrenched his sword, bringing the archdemon to its knees. With a cruel yank, Siggard freed his blade.

  “Now it is over,” he said, and with a great sweeping blow struck Assur’s head off. It flew across the room, thudding against the wall and falling to the floor. As Siggard watched, the demonic face melted into the visage of a middle-aged man, a look of horror painted across his face. Siggard turned to the body to watch it topple to the ground. Silently, it changed into a human corpse in tattered robes.

  He walked from the war room and strode down the corridors, exhausted. A pair of demons approached him, but even as he turned they gave a shrill cry of agony and exploded into flames. He stepped over to one of the windows and looked out across the ruins of the town. Brennor was alive with small blazes, dancing fires running around like creatures in torment and then vanishing.

  “You slew our master!” came a cry behind him. He spun, sword at the ready, to find a guardsmen with mad bloodshot eyes lunging at him. Siggard sidestepped casually and slashed, cutting the possessed man down. Then he continued on his way out of the castle. If there were still some demonic forces in the town, so be it; he had his revenge at last.

  Siggard sat on a hill near the crumbled walls of Brennor, watching the sunrise. He shook his head, trying to understand why he still felt empty and unfulfilled. His family had been avenged; surely that was enough to give him some peace, wasn’t it?

  And there were some other things that he had only just begun to think about. Little aspects of the last few days that had been nagging him, but he hadn’t had time to consider. Horrible things, that could only lead to one terrifying conclusion.

  “You’ve done surprising well,” a familiar voice said.

  “Tyrael,” Siggard said, raising his head to gaze upon the placid face of the gray-clad archangel. “I thought you would come.”

  Tyrael nodded. “After Brennor fell and you stayed behind, I had to see what you would do. You should be proud; you’ve rid the world of a great evil.”

  Siggard tried to smile, but he found he just couldn’t feel happy. “I’ve been thinking about some things. My missing days, my lack of appetite, how I was untroubled by wounds during the battle, those sorts of things.”

  Tyrael sat down on a rock and pursed his lips. “And?”

  “Assur’s glyph was absolute, wasn’t it? No living hand could slay him.”

  “That is true.”

  Siggard wrapped his cloak around him and tried to stave off a chill. “When did I die, then?”

  “At Blackmarch,” Tyrael replied. “You were stabbed in the back by a Hidden during the last crush of the battle. The blade sheared through your mail-coat and slew you.”

  “And Heaven brought me back,” Siggard added.

  Tyrael shook his head. “No, we didn’t. You did that all by yourself.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Tyrael leaned forward. “Very rarely, perhaps but twice in ten millennia, there is a soul so full of life that death cannot claim it. I have seen it only once before. All I did was direct you to where you could do some good. Your timing, I am pleased to say, was excellent.”

  “Am I a ghost then, or a ghoul?”

  “No,” Tyrael replied thoughtfully. “It is difficult to say what you are. Death cannot claim you, but neither can life. You are trapped in between, until you find some way to rest your incredible vitality. And then, perhaps, death will find you.”

  “I suppose now that I’ve avenged my family, I can rest,” Siggard said. “That’s the way the ghost stories go, isn’t it?”

  Tyrael shook his head sadly. “You will not find your rest through revenge, no matter how hard you try. Vengeance is an act of hatred, and hatred never brings peace. No, if you are to discover some peace, you must do it through an act of love. I think you will find it, although it may take you centuries.”

  “Lovely,” Siggard grumbled.

  “Do not feel too badly about it,” Tyrael said. “The way I see it, you have a choice. You can search for some act of love that will bring you peace, or wander the earth and help us in our fight against Hell.” The archangel leaned back and regarded Siggard warmly. “You have quite a gift, you know. The only hand that could possibly still your heart is your own. This was but one battle in a much larger war. The Prime Evils now want dominion over the mortal realms, and they will continue to seek it. You would be an ideal soldier against them.”

  “It is a great deal to think about,” Siggard said.

  Tyrael smiled and began to fade away. “Do not worry,” his voice echoed. “You have all the time in the world. May the light go with you, my friend.”

  Siggard sat for a while, considering. Then he stood, stretched, and began to walk back towards Earl Tilgar and his men. He had a long road ahead of him, but at least he knew his first destination.

  EPILOGUE

  Who can see the plans of Heaven or Hell?

  Do not seek to know the unknowable, for fate will

  reveal all when the time is right.

  —Gesinius of Kehjistan, Tenets of Zakarum

  The destruction of the archdemon Assur at Brennor in the year 302 would prove to be one of the most significant early victories of the Sin War, and the lands of Entsteig remained untroubled by the forces of Hell for at least two centuries afterwards.

  Earl Tilgar reclaimed the town and destroyed the few demonic forces that had survived Assur’s death. In the following years, after weathering a devastating famine that cost many lives, he founded the dynasty that ruled Entsteig until the capture and binding of the Prime Evils themselves, some six hundred years later.

  Sarnakyle traveled in the western lands for another five years, finally returning to Kehjistan and leading the Vizjerei back into the practice of elemental magic. His death is not recorded, as twenty years after returning to his homeland, he again began to wander, and never returned. He was remembered as “the Red Wizard,” and to this day the Vizjerei believe that in a time of great troubles he will come back to lead them.

  Siggard remained with Earl Tilgar for several years to help rebuild Brennor. He then began to roam the world, fighting in many of the battles of the Sin War. It was said that he fought in battle after battle over the centuries, although what is truth and what is the bards’ fiction is impossible to tell. After some five hundred years, howeve
r, he disappears from the sagas and epics. Whether Siggard finally found his peace or just grew tired of the conflict, none can say.

  However, it is still held among the Entsteigians that if one goes to the ruins of a certain village on the Night of Souls, one will see a lonely figure standing a silent vigil in the mist, seeking a glimpse of loved ones long gone to dust.

  AFTERWORD

  This has been a very involved book, and I could not have done it alone. There are dozens of people to thank, from composers and authors who have provided inspiration over the years to the editor and agent who have helped me secure this opportunity. There are eight people who deserve special mention, however: Marco Palmieri, the editor at Pocket Books who gave me the chance, Jennifer Jackson, the agent who took me on, and the six tolerant souls who read the pre-submission draft and gave me some very helpful comments—Frances Maxwell, Trudy A. Goold, Arlene Marks, Gordon Brown, David Marks, and Dennis McKiernan.

  Somehow, though, I never figured that I’d start my professional writing career with a Diablo book. But here I am, and proud to be here.

  The world of Diablo is one of those magical places that grabs you. The game itself was a dungeon romp, with some nice side-quests to keep things interesting. When everybody was playing cooperatively, the multiplayer game was the best I’d ever seen. But it wasn’t even the multiplayer game play that stood out the most; rather, it was the incredible and vast mythology behind the world.

  The Diablo mythos is an epic one. It is a world where the forces of Heaven and Hell war on the mortal plane, and where mankind stands with them is never entirely clear. It is a deeply religious mythology, based on the war between Satan and God in the Anglo-Saxon book of Genesis. And, as such, it is a background where one can deal with moral, philosophical, and theological issues.