Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Row, damn you!” Kalkos roared. “Row!”

  “I told you he wouldn’t let us go! I told you!”

  “Be quiet, Bragga! Be—”

  A vast wave washed over them, throwing one shouting man overboard. Next to the tiny vessel, an array of tentacles rose from the water, surrounding Kalkos’s companions on all sides and reaching hungrily for each.

  “At ’em with your blades! It’s the only—”

  Yet although the men managed to parry the assaults of a few of the demonic arms, one by one they were picked off the boat, screaming—until only Kalkos, one oar used as a weapon . . . remained.

  Kara felt a chill as wet tentacles seized her legs, grabbed her arms. She felt the suction cups attach to her body . . . No! This had all happened in the past! This had happened to Kalkos, not her!

  Despite recalling that, however, she still felt the mariner’s own horror as a new and terrible thing happened. Even despite his clothing, Kalkos felt weaker, drawn—as if the very life were being sucked from his body. His flesh wrinkled, dried despite the wetness all around him. He felt like a water sack whose contents were being swiftly drained . . .

  And then, just as all life seemed stolen from him, when his body felt like no more than a dry husk, the tentacles suddenly dropped Kalkos back into the boat. Too late for the sailor to survive, Kalkos already knew that, but better to spend his last few moments of life back in the boat rather than in the gullet of such a hellish beast.

  Only when talons dug into his arms and dragged him to a standing position did he come back from the brink enough to register that someone else had joined him in the lifeboat.

  No—not someone—but some thing.

  It spoke in a voice reminiscent of a thousand buzzing insects in agony; although Kara strained to make its form out clearly, the eyes of Kalkos no longer saw well. The enchantress could only perceive a terrifying, emerald and red shape looming over the dying sailor, a shape that did not conform to any human standard. Oversized eyes of deep yellow that seemed to have no pupils fixed on the unfortunate Kalkos.

  “Death is not your pleasure yet,” it chittered. “This one has things it must know! Where is the fool? Where is the armor?”

  “I . . .” the mariner coughed. His body felt so very dry, even to Kara. “What . . . ?”

  His inhuman inquisitor shook him. A pair of needle-tipped spears came from nowhere, pressing against Kalkos’s chest. “This one has no time, human. Can offer you much pain before life flees. Speak!”

  From somewhere within, Kalkos found the strength to obey. “The s-stranger . . . armored . . . blood . . . still on . . . Hawksfire!”

  “Which way?”

  The mariner managed to point.

  The demon, for Kara knew it to be one, chittered to itself, then demanded, “Why flee? Why run?”

  “He—demons on ship.”

  The murky creature made a sound unlike any Kara would have expected from one of his kind, a sound that she recognized instantly as a sign of consternation. “Impossible! You lie!”

  The sailor did not answer. Kara felt him slipping away. His last attempt to respond to the monstrous figure had drained him of what little he had left of life.

  The half-seen creature dropped Kalkos, a jolt of pain coursing through the necromancer as the body struck. She heard the demon chitter again, then spout one comprehendible word.

  “Impossible!”

  Kara had a lone brief glimpse of the inner side of the lifeboat and the sailor’s fingers twitching—and with that, the vision faded.

  Inhaling, Kara clutched herself tight, eyes still fixed on the corpse’s own.

  She felt the nearby presence of Captain Jeronnan. The former naval officer put comforting hands on her shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  “How long?” the necromancer murmured. “How long?”

  “Since you started whatever you’ve been doing? A minute, two maybe.”

  So short a time in the real world, but so long and violent in the memories of the dead. The necromancer had performed this spell before, but she had never faced a death time so horrible as what this Kalkos had suffered.

  The Hawksfire sailed a day or two ahead of them, no crew left to man the ship save the captain and this sorcerer, Norrec Vizharan. The last name should have warned her: “Servant of the Vizjerei”? More like one of the untrustworthy mages themselves! He had the armor, even had the audacity to wear it! Did he not understand the danger?

  Without a crew, even he would have trouble keeping the ship on course. Kara had a chance to catch him after all, provided that neither the revenants nor the demonic forces she had witnessed in Kalkos’s death time had not caught up with the murderer already.

  “So,” continued Jeronnan, helping her to her feet. “Did you find out anything?”

  “Little more,” she lied, hoping her eyes would not give her away. “About his death, nothing. However, the Hawksfire is definitely still afloat, both the captain and my quarry aboard.”

  “Then we should catch up to them soon enough. Two men can’t do much to keep a ship like that going.”

  “I believe it is only two days ahead at most.”

  He nodded, then glanced down at the corpse. “Are you done with him now, lass?”

  She forced herself not to shiver at the memories she had shared with the late Kalkos. “Yes. Give him a proper burial.”

  “He’ll get that . . . and then we’ll be on our way after the Hawksfire.”

  As he departed the cabin to summon a pair of hands, Kara Nightshadow pulled her cloak about her, her gaze still on the body, but her mind on to what she had just committed herself—herself and every man aboard the King’s Shield .

  “It must be done,” the necromancer muttered. “He must be caught and the armor returned to hiding. No matter what the cost . . . and no matter how many demons .”

  “Xazax!”

  Galeona waited, but the demon did not respond. She looked around, searching for the telltale shadow. Sometimes Xazax played games, games with dark intentions. The sorceress had no time for games, especially ones that occasionally proved fatal for others than her partner.

  “Xazax!”

  Still no reply. She snapped her fingers and the lamp blazed brighter—yet still the shadow of the demon did not reveal itself.

  Galeona did not care for that. Xazax in the tent, she understood. Xazax elsewhere generally spelled trouble. The mantis sometimes forgot who aided him in secretly walking the mortal plane.

  No matter. She had far too much to do. The darkskinned sorceress turned her fiery gaze on a massive chest positioned in one corner of the garish tent. Taken as it appeared, the chest, made of iron and good strong oak and standing on four stylized leonine paws, would have required two sturdy soldiers to drag it to her and that with much effort on their part. However, as with the demon, Galeona had no time to go searching for strong arms, especially when the enchantress knew that they were all busy packing up the rest of the camp. No, she could handle her own needs at this juncture.

  “Come!”

  The lower corners of the great chest shone. The metallic-paws twitched, the leonine toes spreading, stretching.

  The chest began walking.

  The massive box wended its way toward Galeona, looking almost like a hound summoned by its mistress. It finally paused within a few inches of the witch, awaiting her next command.

  “Open!”

  With a long, creaking noise, the lid swung up.

  Satisfied, Galeona turned and put her hand under one of the many pieces of her hanging collection. The piece unlatched itself, dropping gently into her waiting palm. The sorceress placed it in the chest, then went on with the next.

  One after another, she dropped the items inside. An onlooker who had observed the entire time would have begun to notice that, no matter how many things Galeona put in the chest, it never seemed to completely fill. Always the witch found room for the next and the next . . .

  But as she neared
completion of her task, a slight chill went up and down her spine. Galeona turned and, after some searching, found a shadow that had not been present before.

  “So! You finally come back! Where’ve you been?”

  The demon did not answer at first, his shadow sinking deeper into the folds of the tent.

  “Augustus has commanded that the entire camp be struck down. He desires we leave immediately after, whether preparations are completed in daylight or night.”

  Still Xazax did not answer. Galeona paused, not liking the silence. The mantis tended to babble, not hold his tongue. “What is it? What’s gotten into you?”

  “Where does the general seek to go?” the shadow abruptly asked.

  “You have to ask? Lut Gholein, of course.”

  The demon seemed to consider this. “Yes, this one would go to Lut Gholein. Yes . . . that might be best . . .”

  She took a step toward the shadow. “What’s the matter with you? Where’ve you been?” When he did not answer, the witch walked up to the corner of the tent, growing more furious by the moment. “Either answer me or—”

  “Away!”

  The demon burst forth from the shadow, his full monstrous form looming over the human. Galeona let out a gasp and stumbled backward, at last falling over the pillows still covering much of the floor.

  Death in the form of a hellish insect with burning yellow orbs and rapidly snapping mandibles hovered. Claws and sicklelike appendages came within an inch— no more—of Galeona’s face and form.

  “Cease your chattering and keep from this one! Lut Gholein is our agreed destination! We will talk no more until I choose!”

  With that . . . Xazax pulled back into the dark corner, his physical form fading, his shadow growing dimmer. In but a few seconds, the only sign of his continued presence remained just the hint of a monstrous shape among the folds of fabric.

  Galeona, however, did not move from where she had fallen until absolutely positive that the mantis would not leap out again. When the sorceress did finally rise, Galeona did so making certain that she rolled away from where the shadow lurked. She had come very close to death, very close to a lingering, agonizing death.

  Xazax made no more sound, no more movement. Galeona could not recall when she had ever seen the horrific demon act as he had just done. Despite the pact between them, he had been more than willing to slay her if she had not obeyed instantly—something she swore not to forget. The pact should have been impossible for either to break, the only reason they could tolerate one another on such a long-term basis. If Xazax had been willing to risk the consequences of doing away with both that pact and her, then it behooved Galeona more than ever to find a way to rid herself of him . . . which very well meant either the general or the fool. At least with men, she always knew she had some control.

  The sorceress turned back to the task of loading the contents of her tent into the chest, but her mind never left the demon’s actions. Besides the danger she now perceived in his willingness to risk the consequences of breaking their covenant, his near attack of her had left a question behind to which she dearly desired an answer. It alone would give reason not only for Xazax’s unnerving reaction, but also the revelation of an emotion she had never witnessed in him before.

  What, Galeona wondered, could possibly have frightened the demon so?

  Nine

  The agonizing pain coursing through Norrec Vizharan proved to be the first sign that he had not, after all, perished. That he could breathe also indicated immediately to him that he had not dropped into the sea and that, therefore, he had struck the deck. Why he had not snapped his neck nor broken several other bones, Norrec could only suspect had to be the fault of Bartuc’s cursed armor. It had already saved him from the demonic behemoth; a simple, short fall likely had been child’s play to it. Yet, in his heart, the veteran soldier half-wished that it had failed. At least then he would have been rid of the nightmares, the horrors.

  Norrec opened his eyes to see that he lay in his cabin. Outside, the storm raged unceasingly. Only two forces could have dragged him back in here, one being the suit. Yet, after what it had done to the tentacled monstrosity, it had seemed weaker, unable to perform any feat. Norrec himself felt so drained, he marveled that he could even move. The weakness felt so odd that the weary soldier wondered if either the armor or the beast had somehow sucked part of his life from him.

  At that moment, the door swung open, Captain Casco hobbling into the tiny cabin with a covered bowl in his hand. A scent that Norrec found both enticing and repulsive drifted from the bowl.

  “Awake? Good! No waste of food!” Without waiting for the soldier to rise, the cadaverous mariner handed him the bowl.

  Norrec managed to right himself enough to eat. “Thank you.”

  In return, the captain merely grunted.

  “How long have I been out?”

  Casco considered the question for a time, possibly wanting to make certain that he understood it. “Day. Little more.”

  “How’s the ship? Did the creature damage it much?”

  Again a pause. “Ship always damaged . . . but can still sail, yes.”

  “How can we possibly sail in a storm with no crew at all?”

  The captain scowled. Norrec suspected that he had finally asked the question for which Casco had no good answer. Of course, they could not sail without a crew. Likely the Hawksfire went around and around, tossed in random directions by the winds and waves. They might have survived the attack by the monster, but that did not mean that they would reach Lut Gholein.

  The monster . . . Norrec’s memory of what happened seemed so outrageous that he finally had to ask Casco if what he had seen had been truth.

  The captain shrugged. “Saw you fall . . . saw the Sea Witch fall.”

  The foreign mariner had evidently decided that what he had confronted had been the legendary behemoth mentioned by so many sailors. Norrec believed different, certain after his encounters with the imps and the winged creature at the inn that this had been yet another demonic force—but not one, this time, summoned by the enchanted armor.

  Legend spoke of Bartuc’s rise to dark glory, first as a pawn of hellish powers, then as a sorcerer both respected and feared by them, and how he had led a legion of demons in his quest to overwhelm all else. No one, though, ever spoke of how the greater demons might have felt about that usurping of their power. Had they now noted the armor’s escape from the tomb and so feared that the ghost of Bartuc sought to reestablish his hold over their kind?

  His head pounded at such outlandish thoughts. Best he concern himself with his own situation. If the Hawksfire remained unmanned, it would continue to meander over the Twin Seas, either sailing on long past the deaths of the only two aboard or finally sinking due to some aspect of the endless storm.

  “I’m no seaman,” he commented to Casco between bites of food. “But show me what I can do and I’ll help. We’ve got to get the ship back on course.”

  Now Casco snorted. “Done enough! What more? What more?”

  His attitude not only struck Norrec as peculiar, but it also stirred the fighter’s own ire. He knew that much of this situation could be blamed on him—or rather, the armor—but his offer to help the captain had been an honest one. Norrec doubted that the suit would prevent him from helping; after all, it had been the one that had truly wanted to reach Lut Gholein, not him.

  “Listen! We’ll die if we don’t get the Hawksfire under control! If the storm doesn’t take us, then we’ll either eventually starve when the supplies go bad or, more likely, strike some rocks and sink like a stone! Is that what you want for your ship?”

  The gaunt figure shook his head. “Fool! Fall crack skull?” He had the audacity to seize Norrec by the arm. “Come! Come!”

  Putting aside the nearly empty bowl, he followed Casco out into the storm. His legs took a few steps to again get used to the rocking of the ship, but the captain waited for him to catch up. Casco seemed caught between hatred
, respect, and fear when it came to his passenger. He did not offer any assistance, but neither did he try to force Norrec along faster than the weakened man could go.

  Reaching the open deck, the mariner let Norrec move past him. The veteran fighter held tight to what handrail remained, peering through the heavy rain and trying to see what it had been that Casco sought to show him. All Norrec could make out was the same empty scene he had confronted earlier. No sailors manned the ropes, no helmsman stood at the wheel.

  And yet . . . the wheel turned . Ropes no longer held it in place. Norrec squinted, certain that the wheel should have been spinning wildly, yet it barely moved, sometimes turning one direction, then adjusting to the other, as if some invisible sailor kept it under control.

  Amovement to the side caught his attention. Focusing, Norrec at first had the horrible fear that one of the main lines had suddenly untied, only to have it reloop itself before his very eyes, then tighten the new knot.

  And all around him he began to notice subtle shifts, subtle changes. Ropes adjusted according to the needs of the sails. The sails themselves adjusted as necessary. The wheel continued to counter the churning waves, fixing the Hawksfire on a particular route—one that Norrec expected would turn out to be almost directly west.

  No crew manned the vessel, but it seemed to the Hawksfire not to matter in the least.

  “What’s going on?” he shouted at the captain.

  Casco only gave him a knowing glance.

  The armor! Again its power astounded him. It had dealt with the gargantuan demon and now it ensured that its own journey would continue regardless of the mutiny of the crew. The Hawksfire would reach port one way or another.

  Norrec stumbled away, heading not for his cabin but down into the mess. Casco trailed behind, a captain with no purpose on this voyage. Both men shook off the rain. Casco dug into a chest, pulled out a dusty bottle whose contents he did not offer to his companion. Norrec thought of asking for a drink—he certainly needed one— but thought better of it. His head pounded enough at the moment and he preferred to try to let it clear.