Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  Overall the architecture remained consistent, with the lower floors of buildings a smooth, rectangular shape while quite often the tops tended toward small towers resembling minarets. A peculiar design, especially to one born and raised among the high, turreted castles of lords and the lowly, thatched domiciles of the peasantry, but one with an exotic quality that caused Norrec to marvel over it again and again. No two buildings were exactly the same, either, some being broader, even squat, while others appeared to be making up for the lack of space on the ground by stretching thinner and higher.

  A horn sounded and the street around Norrec suddenly emptied of people. Following suit, he narrowly missed being run over by a mounted patrol clad in the same turbaned helms and breastplates he had seen earlier. A lively, active city Lut Gholein might be, but, as Sadun had said, it also looked to be well policed. That made it all the more curious that no one had stopped Norrec on the docks for at least some questioning. Most major seaports kept security strong day and night, but he had seen no one. Despite Lut Gholein’s open reputation, it puzzled him.

  Hunger and thirst slowly crept up on him as he wandered along. He had eaten some food aboard the Hawksfire, but his interest in reaching the docks had kept him from taking his fill. Besides, it had been Norrec’s secret hope to find something in the city rather than stomach yet another portion of Casco’s unsettling concoctions.

  The armor had provided funds before and so with some confidence the veteran looked around. Several taverns and inns of various demeanor dotted the area, but one in particular instantly caught Norrec’s eye.

  Best one’s Atma ’s! Tell ’em Captain Meshif said to treat ye well! That same tavern stood but a few yards from the soldier, the wooden sign with its bleary-orbed mascot hanging directly over the entrance. A hardy, weathered place, but one still honest enough in looks for him to risk without worry. With as much determination as he could still muster, Norrec headed toward it, hoping against hope that the armor would not suddenly turn him elsewhere.

  He entered in peace and of his own free will, something which, along with his new surroundings, raised Norrec’s hopes further. Despite the early hour, Atma ’s had a good business going, most of its customers seamen, but a few merchants, tourists, and military figures partaking of its offerings as well. Not wanting to draw too much attention to himself, Norrec chose a booth in one corner and sat down.

  A slip of a girl, likely too young to be working in any such establishment, came up to take his order. Norrec’s nostrils had already pinpointed something cooking in the back and so he risked ordering whatever it might be, plus a mug of ale to rinse it down. The girl curtsied, then hurried off, giving him the opportunity to look around.

  He had spent far too much of his life in taverns and inns, but at least this one did not look as if the cooks would be broiling whatever they could catch in their floor traps. The servers kept the tables and floors relatively clean of refuse and none of the customers had so far choked on either their meals or drinks. Overall, Atma ’s verified his opinion of Lut Gholein as a kingdom in the midst of tremendous prosperity, where everyone appeared to be benefiting, even the lower castes.

  The girl returned with his food, which actually looked as good as it smelled. She smiled at him, asking for what seemed to him reasonable coin. Norrec eyed his gloved hand, waiting.

  Nothing happened. The gauntlet did not slam down on the table, leaving the proper amount. Norrec tried not to show his sudden anxiety. Had the armor let him trap himself? If he could not pay, at the very least they would throw him out. He glanced toward the door, where two brawny enforcers who had not bothered to look at him on his way in now seemed more than interested in his discussion with the serving girl.

  She repeated the amount, this time a less friendly expression on her face. Norrec glared at the glove, thinking, Come on, damn you! All I want is a good meal! You can do that, can’t you?

  Still nothing.

  “Is there something wrong?” the girl asked, her expression indicating that she thought she already knew the answer.

  Norrec did not reply, closing and opening his hand in the fading hope that some coins would magically appear.

  With one glance toward the two enforcers, the young server began to back away. “Excuse me, sir, I . . . I’ve other tables . . .”

  The soldier looked past her, where the muscular pair had begun to move in his direction. The girl’s actions had been a clear signal for them to do their work.

  He rose, planting his hands on the table. “Wait! It’s not what you—”

  Under his palm, he heard the tinkle of coins as they struck the table.

  She heard them, too, and the smile suddenly returned. Norrec sat back down, indicating the tiny pile now before him. “I’m sorry for the confusion. I’ve not been to Lut Gholein before and had to think whether I had the right amount. Is this enough?”

  Her expression told him all he needed to really know.

  “Aye, sir! Enough and much more!”

  Over her shoulder, he saw the burly pair hesitate. The larger of the duo tapped his companion on the arm and the two men returned to their posts. “Take what you need for food and drink,” he told the girl, feeling much relieved. After she had done that, Norrec added, “And the largest coin left for yourself.”

  “Thank you, sir, thank you!”

  She nearly floated back to the counter, from the looks of things having received the largest tip of her life from him. The sight cheered Norrec briefly. At least some little good had come of the cursed armor.

  He stared at the gauntlets, well aware of what had just happened. The suit had let him understand without words that it and not he controlled the entire situation. Norrec lived his life through its sufferance. To think otherwise was to play the fool.

  Regardless of the reality of his dilemma, Norrec managed to enjoy his meal. Compared to Captain Casco’s fare, it tasted of Heaven. Thinking of that mystical realm, the soldier pondered his next move. The armor kept a close rein on him, but surely there had to be a way to get past its guard. In a realm as vibrant as Lut Gholein, not only sorcerers but priests had to be found in abundance. Even if the former could do nothing for Norrec, then perhaps a servant of Heaven might. Surely a priest had links to forces far more powerful than the enchanted suit.

  But how to speak with one? Norrec wondered if the armor could withstand being on holy ground. Could it be so simple as walking past a church and then throwing himself onto its steps? Would he be able to do even that much?

  For a desperate man, it seemed worth the try. The armor needed him alive and relatively well; that alone might give him just enough of an opportunity. At the very least, Norrec had to try for the sake of not only his life, but his soul, too.

  He finished his meal, then quickly downed what remained of the ale. During that time, the serving girl came back more than once to see if he needed anything, a clear sign that he had been very generous in his tipping. Norrec gave her one of the smaller coins remaining to him, which caused her smile to somehow grow even wider than before, then he casually asked her about some of the sights of the city.

  “There’s the arena, of course,” the girl, Miram, replied quickly, no doubt having been asked this question more than once by newcomers. “And the palace, too! You must see the palace!” Her eyes took on a dreaming look. “Jerhyn, the sultan, lives there . . .”

  This Jerhyn evidently had to be a handsome and fairly young man judging from Miram’s rapt expression. While the sultan’s palace surely had to be an intriguing sight, it had not been what he had been searching for. “And besides that?”

  “There’s also the Aragos Theater near the square with the Cathedral of Tomas the Repentant across from it, but the Zakarum priests only allow visitors at midday and the theater is being repaired. Oh! There’s the races on the far north side of the city, horses and dogs—”

  Norrec ceased listening, the information he had needed now his. If holy ground or Heaven had any power over the d
emonic legacy of Bartuc, then this cathedral offered the best hope. The Zakarum Church represented the most powerful order on either side of the Twin Seas.

  “—and some old folk and scholars like the ruins of the Vizjerei temple outside the city walls, though there’s not much to see any more after the Great Sandstorm . . .”

  “Thank you, Miram. That’s good enough.” He prepared to leave, already trying to think of some roundabout method by which to approach the vicinity of the Zakarum site.

  Four figures in the now familiar garb of Lut Gholein’s Guard stepped into Atma ’s, but their interest in the tavern had nothing to do with drink. Instead, they looked directly at Norrec, their countenances darkening. He could almost swear that they knew exactly who he was.

  With military precision that Norrec would have at other times admired, the foursome spread out, eliminating any hope of bypassing them on the way to the front entrance. Although they had not yet drawn their long, curved swords, each guard kept a hand near the hilt. One wrong action by Norrec and all four blades would come flying out, ready to cut him down.

  Pretending to be not at all concerned, the wary fighter turned back to the serving girl, asking, “There’s a friend I need to meet in a place located in the street behind this tavern. Do you have another exit in the back?”

  “There’s one that way.” She started to point, but he gently took her hand, dropping another coin in it.

  “Thank you, Miram.” Gently pushing past her, Norrec moved as if heading toward the counter for one last drink. The four guards hesitated.

  Halfway to the counter, he veered toward the back doorway.

  Although he could not see them now, Norrec felt certain that the men knew his intentions. He picked up his pace, hoping to reach the exit as quickly as possible. Once out, he could try to lose himself among the growing throngs.

  Norrec pushed the door wide, immediately darting through—

  —and came to an abrupt halt as rough, strong hands seized him by both arms, holding him fast.

  “Resist and it will go the worse for you, westerner!” snapped a swarthy guard with gold tabs on his cloak. He peered past Norrec, saying, “You have done your work well! This is the one! We will take it from here!”

  The four who had pursued Norrec from inside stepped past the prisoner, pausing only to salute the officer in charge before wandering off. Norrec grimaced, realizing that he had walked into the most basic of traps.

  He had no idea as to the intentions of his captors, but at the moment, they interested him far less than the question as to why Bartuc’s armor had not reacted. Surely this situation called for something from it, but so far it seemed unwilling to try to free its host. Why?

  “Pay attention, westerner!” the officer came close to slapping Norrec, but finally lowered his hand. “Come peacefully and you will not be mistreated! Resist . . .” The man’s hand now slipped to the hilt of his curved sword, his meaning quite clear.

  Norrec nodded his understanding. If the armor chose not to resist, he certainly had no intention of trying to fight himself free of this armed patrol.

  His captors formed a square of sorts, with their leader in front and Norrec, of course, in the middle. The party headed down the street, away from the larger crowds. Several curious folk watched the procession, but no one seemed at all sympathetic to the foreigner’s troubles. Likely they figured that there were always more outsiders, so what difference the loss of one?

  No one had as of yet explained exactly for what reason Norrec had been arrested, but he had to assume it had something to do with the Hawksfire ’s arrival. Perhaps he had been wrong when he had thought that no watch had been set at the port. Perhaps Lut Gholein kept a more wary eye on those who arrived by ship than appearances had suggested. It also remained possible that Captain Casco had, after all, reported the goings-on aboard his vessel and the one responsible for the loss of his crew.

  The lead guard suddenly veered toward a narrow side street, the rest of the group following close behind. Norrec frowned, no longer thinking of Casco and the Hawksfire . His captors now journeyed through lessfrequented, more disreputable-looking avenues into which even the brightest day would have had trouble shedding light. The soldier tensed, sensing something suddenly awry with the situation.

  They journeyed a little farther, then turned into an alley nearly as dark as night. The band proceeded a few yards into it, then the guards came to an abrupt halt.

  His captors stood at attention, seeming to barely even breathe. In fact, the four guards stood at attention with such stillness that Norrec could not help but think that they resembled nothing more than puppets whose master had ceased pulling their strings.

  And as if to verify that notion, a portion of the shadows separated from the rest, shaping itself into an elderly, wrinkled man with long, silver hair and beard and clad in an elegant, broad-shouldered robe clearly fashioned in the style worn by someone Norrec had known so very well . . . Fauztin. However, this figure, this Vizjerei, had not only lived for far longer than Norrec’s unfortunate friend, but by being here evidenced quite well the fact that his abilities far outstripped those of the dead mage.

  “Leave us . . .” he ordered the guards, his voice strong, commanding, despite his advanced years.

  The officer and his men obediently turned, marching back the way they had come.

  “They will recall nothing,” the Vizjerei commented. “As the others who aided them will recall nothing . . . just as I desire . . .” When Norrec attempted to speak, the silver-haired figure cut him off with but a singular glance. “And if you hope to live, westerner . . . you, too, will do as I desire . . . exactly as I desire.”

  Eleven

  “Are you not feeling well, then, lass?” Captain Jeronnan asked. “You’ve come out of your cabin only to gather your meals, then returned there for the rest of the time.” Kara looked him directly in the eye. “I am well, captain. With the King’s Shield nearing Lut Gholein, I must prepare for my journey from that point on. There is much for me to consider. I apologize if I appear unfriendly to you and your crew.”

  “Not unfriendly . . . just more distant.” He sighed. “Well, if you need anything, just let me know.”

  She needed quite a lot, but nothing with which the good captain could help her. “Thank you . . . for everything.”

  The necromancer felt his eyes on her as she headed for her cabin. Jeronnan would likely have done anything he could for Kara regardless of the situation and she much appreciated that fact. Unfortunately, any aid he might have offered would not have at all helped the enchantress in her present predicament.

  As she entered the cabin, Kara saw the two undead standing in the far corner, waiting with the proverbial patience of their kind. Fauztin held the gleaming dagger ready, the Vizjerei’s spell upon it ensuring that the necromancer could do nothing against the pair. The yellowed eyes of the mage stared unblinking at her. Kara could never be certain what Fauztin thought, for his expression varied little.

  Not so with Sadun Tryst. The other revenant continually smiled, as if he had some jest he wished to share. Kara also found herself constantly desiring to straighten his head, which ever leaned a little too far to one side or another.

  The stench of death surrounded them, but so far as she could tell it had not pervaded any part of the ship beyond her cabin. As a necromancer, the foul smell bothered Kara less than most, but she still would have preferred to do without it. Her studies and her faith had ensured that Kara had dealt almost daily with the realm of the dead, but those encounters had ever been on her own terms. Never before had the tables been turned, that the dead made her come at their beck and call.

  “The good captain . . . leaves you to . . . your self still . . . I hope,” Tryst gasped.

  “He is concerned for me; that is all.”

  The wiry ghoul chuckled, a sound like an animal choking on a bone. Perhaps when the man’s neck had been broken, a part of the bone there had lodged in his wind pipe. I
t would explain the way he talked. Even though Sadun Tryst did not need to breathe, he needed air in order to speak.

  Of course, with a gaping hole in his throat, Tryst’s companion, the Vizjerei, would forever be silent.

  “Let us hope . . . that his concern . . . remains distant . . . from this room.”

  Fauztin pointed to the edge of the bed, a wordless order the dark mage readily understood. Her food held tight in one hand, she perched there, awaiting whatever new command they had of her. So long as the Vizjerei held the dagger, his magic kept Kara Nightshadow in thrall.

  Tryst’s eyes blinked once, a conscious effort on the part of the corpse. Unlike Fauztin, he worked to pretend that some life remained within his decaying husk. As a mage, the gaunt Vizjerei no doubt saw the situation in more practical, realistic terms. The fighter, on the other hand, appeared to have been a man much in love with all the aspects of life. Behind the smile Kara suspected that this ungodly predicament enraged him more than it did his companion.

  “Eat . . .”

  Under their unwavering gazes she did. All the while, though, the necromancer rummaged through her memory, trying to recall some bit of knowledge she might use to free herself from all this. That they had not so far touched Kara, much less harmed her in any manner, did not assuage her concerns in the least. The revenants had one goal in mind—to reach their friend, this Norrec Vizharan. If, at some point, it seemed necessary to sacrifice her for the culmination of that goal, Kara felt certain that they would do so without regret.