Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  Again, the ceiling. “What was done with it? Ah, yes, no wonder I don’t remember.”

  Feeling as if she might as well have been talking to the ceiling herself, Kara had pressed, “Listen to me, Horazon! Someone managed to steal his enchanted armor from the tomb. I’ve followed them all the way here! He may even be in Lut Gholein at this moment! We need to find him, to take the armor back! There’s no telling what evil still lurks within it!”

  “Evil?” His eyes had taken on a wide, animalistic look. “Evil? Here?”

  Kara had bitten back a curse. She had stirred him up again.

  “So much evil about! I must be careful!” Acondemning finger had pointed at her. “You must go!”

  “Horazon, I—-”

  It had been at that moment that something had happened, something that passed between the wizard and his lair. Seconds later, she had felt the entire sanctum shiver, a shiver more that of a living thing, not simply a structure caught in some shockwave.

  “No, no, no! I must hide! I must hide!” Horazon had looked completely panic stricken. He might have even fled from the chamber, but the room again transformed. The sorcerer’s tables of equipment and chemicals receded from the two and from the floor a gigantic, crystalline sphere arose to eye level, a huge hand formed from the stone below keeping it there.

  In the center of the sphere, a vision had coalesced, a vision of a man whom Kara Nightshadow had never truly seen but had still been able to identify immediately—thanks to the crimson armor he wore.

  “It’s him! Norrec Vizharan! He has the armor!”

  “Bartuc!” her mad companion had snapped. “No! Bartuc’s come for me!”

  She had seized him by the arm, daring death in the hopes of finally bringing a conclusion to this dangerous quest. “Horazon! Where is he? Is that part of the sanctuary, too?”

  In the sphere, Norrec Vizharan and a dark-skinned woman had rushed through a web-enshrouded corridor filled with ancient statues carved in the fashion of the Vizjerei. Norrec had carried a monstrous black sword and had looked ready to use it. Kara had wondered then if Sadun Tryst had spoken too well of his former friend. Here had looked a man who had seemed very capable of the outrageous murders.

  Regardless of the answer to that, Kara had known she could not come this close and fail. “Answer me! Is that part of the sanctuary? It must be!”

  “Yes, it is! Now leave me be!” He had torn free from her, headed to the door—only to be stopped there by hands sprouting from the floor and walls, hands that had kept him from abandoning the necromancer.

  “What—-?” She had been able to say no more, startled by what seemed the vehemence in the hands’ actions. Horazon’s very stronghold had seemed in rebellion, forcing him to return to Kara.

  “Let me go, let me go!” the mad sorcerer had cried out to the ceiling. “It’s the evil! I mustn’t let it get me!” As the raven-tressed woman had watched, a sullen expression had finally crossed Horazon’s wrinkled face. “All right . . . all right . . .”

  And so he had returned to the sphere, pointed at the image. By this time, Norrec had confronted one of the statues, shouted something in anger that the crystal did not relay, then raised the black blade as if prepared to strike.

  At the same time, Horazon cried, “Greikos Dominius est Buar! Greiko Dominius Mortu!”

  Chaos had erupted in the scene with walls, floors, and stairs shifting, materializing, or disappearing. In the midst of the madness, the two figures had struggled to survive. However, Norrec Vizharan had been unable to save himself, falling near an edge and then being unable to rise because of the constant motion all around him. The woman—a witch, in Kara’s mind—had completely abandoned the helpless fighter, choosing instead to head toward what seemed a fairly stable set of stairs.

  “Greiko Dominius Mortu!” her companion snapped.

  Something in his tone had made Kara look at Horazon and in his eyes she had read nothing but death for the pair. So, this had been how it would end. Not by the hands of the revenants nor through her own sorcery, but by the fatal spells of Bartuc’s own crazed brother. For the witch she had felt nothing, but because of Tryst’s tales of the veteran fighter, a spark of sadness had still touched her. Perhaps there had been a good man there once.

  But not at that moment. The scene had revealed Norrec determined to slay his wayward partner. He had pointed one gauntleted hand at her, shouted something—-

  Only then had Kara noticed the look of horror and regret on his face. No satisfaction, no dark intent, only fear for what he would do to the fleeing woman.

  But that had made no sense, unless . . .

  “What did he say, Horazon? Do you know what he said? I need to know!”

  From the crystalline sphere had suddenly burst a man’s fearful voice. “Damn it! I won’t!” Then, “ No! Run! Hurry! Get out of here!”

  Not the bitter shouts of a vengeful murderer and yet the image had still shown him ready to strike down his fleeing companion. However, his expression had continued to belie that notion. Norrec Vizharan had actually appeared as if he battled for control of himself or—or—

  Of course! “Horazon! You must stop this! You must help them!”

  “Help them? No, no! Destroy them and I destroy the evil at last! Yes, at last!”

  Kara had glanced at the sphere again—just in time to witness not only the witch’s awful demise, but the woman’s own last attack on the fighter. Norrec’s cries had filled Horazon’s chamber, the sphere apparently still fulfilling the necromancer’s previous request.

  “Listen to me! The evil is in the armor, not the man! Don’t you see? His death would be a travesty, a tipping of the balance!” Frustrated at Horazon’s unyielding expression, she had glared up at the ceiling. The wizard seemed to consult some power up there, some power that did not merely exist in his mind. To it she had cried, “Bartuc was the monster, not the one clad in his armor and only Bartuc would take a life so!” Once more gazing at the mad mage, she concluded, “Or is Horazon just like his brother?”

  The reaction to her desperate declarations had startled even Kara. From every wall, from even the ceiling and the floor, mouths had formed in the stone. Only one word had issued from each, the same word over and over,

  “No . . . no . . . no . . . “

  The crystalline sphere had suddenly expanded and, even more startling, opened up. Within it had arisen a stairway, which Kara had imagined had to lead somehow—as impossible as it had seemed—directly to the struggling Norrec.

  Horazon had refused to aid her, but the Arcane Sanctuary had not.

  The necromancer had immediately rushed to the crystal, pausing only when she came to the first step. Despite having offered her this path, the enchanted sanctum had continued to assault Norrec, making rescue difficult. Momentarily uncertain, Kara had initially chosen to call to the fighter, to see if he could perhaps make it to her without her having to enter the chaos.

  He had responded to the second call—by shouting Horazon’s name. Confused, Kara had withdrawn the hand she had offered, a symbolic gesture intended to let him know she had meant only help. As she had done that, he, in turn, had reacted oddly, moving as if he intended not to come to the necromancer—but to slay her.

  “The evil awakens . . .” a voice had muttered behind her.

  Horazon. She had not realized that he had stepped into sight. Kara had assumed that the mad mage had stayed far from the danger. She had known then why Norrec— or rather the armor —had reacted so. The enchanted armor had yet sought to fulfill its creator’s greatest desire, to slay the accursed brother.

  But before it had been able to strike, the sanctuary had chosen once more to take command of the situation. Norrec and his surroundings had regressed, pulling farther and farther back, almost vanishing from sight. Kara had seen the walls there begin to converge, as if the astonishing edifice had sought to box its adversary in . . . and worse. It had occurred to her only at the last that, with the armor seeking Horazon�
��s imminent destruction, the best choice for the Arcane Sanctuary had been to end this once and for all, even if it meant, after all, the death of an innocent. Better to destroy both the armor and Norrec Vizharan than give Bartuc’s legacy another chance to succeed.

  But such a death went against the balance that Kara Nightshadow had been trained to preserve. Now, with Norrec’s doom looming, the necromancer leapt into the chaos within the crystalline sphere, hoping that Horazon’s apparently sentient domain would do for her what it would not for the hapless fighter.

  Hoping that it would not decide that Kara, too, was expendable.

  Eighteen

  Norrec could not move, could not even breathe. It felt as if a giant hand had taken hold of him and sought to crush his entire body to a tiny pulp. In some ways he welcomed it, for with his death would at least end his guilt. No one else would die because he had sought to rob a tomb and instead unearthed a nightmare.

  Then, just as he prepared himself to die, a tremendous force threw him upward. Norrec flew hard, almost as if he had been fired off by a catapult. So, instead of a crushing death, he would eventually fall to his doom. Unlike the short drop aboard the Hawksfire , Norrec felt certain that this time he would not survive.

  But something—no, someone —caught him by one arm, slowing his flight. Norrec tried to see who it might be, but turning his head toward his would-be rescuer brought about an overwhelming sensation of vertigo. He lost all sense of direction, no longer even able to tell up from down.

  Without warning, Norrec struck the ground, the sand doing very little to prevent the jolt from knocking him nearly senseless.

  For some time, the battered veteran lay there, cursing the fact that he seemed to end up in such a position more often than necessary. His body ached to his bones and his vision revealed nothing to him but blurs. Yet, despite all that, he at least felt less pain. Whatever spell Galeona had cast before her death had at some point ceased and with it had also gone the crushing suffocation.

  He heard thunder and knew from the general grayness his unfocused eyes could make out that he had returned to the storm-swept desert near Lut Gholein. Norrec also sensed that he had not come here alone, that even now, someone stood over him.

  “Can you stand?” a familiar female voice asked gently.

  He almost told her that he had no desire to, but instead forced himself as best he could to a sitting position. Doing so made his head spin, but at least Norrec felt some pride at accomplishing the simple task by himself.

  His vision finally cleared enough for him to see who had spoken. It proved to be the dark-haired woman he had not only seen just before the walls had closed in, but also now recalled as one of the faces on the statues he had passed during his second sojourn into the dream version of Horazon’s tomb.

  Horazon. Thinking of Bartuc’s brother made him recall who he had seen standing near the pale woman. Horazon—still alive after centuries .

  She mistook his momentary shaking as a part of a possible injury. “Be careful. You have been through much. We do not know how it may have affected you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Kara Nightshadow,” she replied, kneeling so as to get a better look at his face. One slim hand gently touched his cheek. “Does that hurt you?”

  In truth, her hand felt good, but he knew better than to tell her so. “No. Are you a healer?”

  “Not exactly. I am a follower of Rathma.”

  “A necromancer?” Surprisingly, the admission did not shock him as much as it once might have. Everything around Norrec of late had concerned death—or worse. A necromancer certainly fit well into the pattern, although he had to admit he had never seen an attractive one before. The few others of her faith that he had come across had been dour figures little different from the dead with whom they communed.

  He realized that although she had told him her name he had not introduced himself. “My name’s Norrec—”

  “Yes. Norrec Vizharan. I know.”

  “How?” He recalled that she had used his name earlier, yet the two had never actually met as far as he knew. Certainly he would have remembered.

  “I have been hunting for you ever since you left Bartuc’s tomb with the armor.”

  “You? But why?”

  She leaned back, apparently satisfied that he had not suffered much from their ouster from Horazon’s bizarre domain. “Along with the Vizjerei, my people took the responsibility for hiding the warlord’s ensorcelled remains. We could not destroy either the body or the armor at that time, but we could keep them from those who might find a use—either corrupted mages or deadly demons.”

  Norrec remembered the monstrous creature in the sea. “Why demons?”

  “Bartuc started out as a pawn of theirs, but even you must know that by the time of his death, even the lords of Hell looked in awe at his power. Although only a portion of his total might, what remains in the armor itself would be enough to entirely upset the delicate balance of life and death in the world . . . and even, perhaps, beyond.”

  After all that he had seen, he had little trouble believing her. Norrec struggled to his feet, Kara assisting him. He looked down at her, thinking back to what had just happened. “You saved me.”

  She looked away, almost seeming embarrassed. “I had some part in it.”

  “I would’ve died otherwise, right?”

  “Very likely.”

  “Then you saved me—but why did you do it? Why not simply let me die? If I had, the armor would’ve been left with no host. It would’ve been powerless!”

  Kara stared him in the eyes. “You did not choose to wear Bartuc’s accursed armor, Norrec Vizharan. It chose you, although I do not know why. Whatever it has done, whatever foul deeds it has performed, I felt you innocent of them—and therefore deserving of a chance of life.”

  “But more might die because of that!” The bitterness must have shown in his expression, for the necromancer withdrew slightly. “My friends, the men at the inn, the Hawksfire ’s crew, and just now that witch! How many more must perish—and most before my eyes?”

  She put a hand on his own. Norrec feared for her, but the suit did nothing. Perhaps whatever fueled its evil task lay dormant for a time—or perhaps it simply awaited the best moment to strike. “There is a way to end this,” Kara replied. “We must remove the armor.”

  Norrec burst out laughing. He laughed long and hard—and with no hope. “Woman, don’t you think I’ve tried? Don’t you think the first chance I had I pulled at both gloves, attempted to peel off every bit of plate? I couldn’t even remove the damned boots . They’re all sealed to my body, as if a very part of my flesh! The only way you’ll be able to remove the suit is if you take my skin off with it!”

  “I understand the trouble. I understand also that, under most circumstances, no spellcaster would have the power to undo what the armor has done—”

  “Then what could you possibly hope to accomplish?” the frustrated soldier snapped. “You should’ve let me die just now! It would’ve been better for all!”

  Despite his outburst, the raven-haired woman remained calm. She glanced around before answering, as if looking for someone or something. “He did not follow. I should have known.”

  “Who . . . Horazon?”

  Kara nodded. “So you recognized him, too?”

  Exhaling, Norrec explained, “My memories . . . my memories are confused. Some of them I know are mine, but others . . .” He hesitated, certain she would find him mad for what he believed. “ . . . the others belonged to Bartuc, I think.”

  “Yes, very likely they did.”

  “That doesn’t surprise you?”

  “In legend, the warlord and his crimson suit seemed as one. Over time, he imbued it with one mighty enchantment after another, transforming it into more than simply pieces of metal. By the time of his death, it had been said that the armor acted as if a loyal dog, its own magic protecting and fighting for Bartuc as hard as he himself would. Sma
ll wonder that his life has been imprinted upon it . . . and that some of those vile memories have seeped into your own mind.”

  The weary veteran shuddered. “And the longer I wear it, the more I’ll succumb. There’s been times I actually thought I was Bartuc!”

  “Which is why we must remove it.” She frowned. “We must try to convince Horazon to do it. I feel he is the only one who has the capability.”

  Norrec did not exactly like that notion. The last time he and the bearded elder had seen one another, the armor had reacted instantly and with clear malice. “That may stir up the suit again. It may even be why it’s being so quiet now.” Something suddenly struck him. “It wants him. It wants Horazon. All this damn distance, all the things it’s put me through—it’s all been because it wants to slay Bartuc’s brother!”

  Her expression indicated that she had come to much the same conclusion. “Yes. Blood calls to blood, as they say, even if the blood between two is bad. Horazon helped slay his brother at the battle of Viz-jun and the armor must have preserved that memory within it. Now, after all this time, it has risen and seeks to repay the deed—even though Horazon should have been dead centuries ago.”

  “But he isn’t. Blood calls to blood, you said. It must’ve known he was still alive.” Norrec shook his head. “Which doesn’t explain why it waited so long. Gods! It’s all insane!”

  Kara took him by the arm. “Horazon must have the answer. Somehow we must find our way back to him. I feel that he is the only hope by which we can put an end to the warlord’s curse.”

  “Put an end to it, someone says?” rasped a voice of no human origin. “No . . . no. . . .This one desires otherwise, he does . . .”

  Kara stared past Norrec, who immediately began to turn.

  “Look—-” was as far as the necromancer got.

  What resembled a sharp, needlelike lance darted down toward him. It would have caught Norrec through the head, but at the last, Kara pushed him aside. Unfortunately for both of them, the wicked lance continued its downward thrust unabated—and buried itself in the woman’s chest.