Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Mercenary and tomb robber . . .” General Malevolyn chuckled. “Perhaps I should hire you on for your expertise. Certainly I should congratulate you for bringing to me at last the final step in my ascension to glory!”

  “You—want this suit?” The fool sounded incredulous, as if he, who had worn it so long, could not comprehend its majesty, appreciate its power . . .

  “Of course! I want nothing more!” The general tapped his helmet. He saw that Norrec Vizharan instantly recognized the link between them. “I am General Augustus Malevolyn, late of Westmarch, a land, from your looks, I think you know. As you see, I wear the helm, lost when Bartuc’s head and body were separated by the fools who by fluke managed to slay him. So fearful—and rightly so!—of his tremendous power, they placed body and head on opposite sides of the world, then secreted both in places from which they thought no one would be able to take them!”

  “They were wrong . . .” muttered the mercenary.

  “Of course! The spirit of the Warlord of Blood would not be denied! He called to his own, awaited those whose links to him would stir the powers to life, to new horizons!”

  “What do you mean?”

  Malevolyn sighed. He supposed he should have slain the fool out of hand, but the commander’s mood had grown so light that he decided to at least explain what Norrec had obviously never understood. Reaching up, General Malevolyn gently removed the helmet. He felt at some slight loss as it left his head, but assured himself that soon it would be back in place again.

  “I did not know its secret then, but I know now . . . for the artifact itself revealed it to me. Even you, I daresay, do not know the full truth, friend Xazax.”

  The mantis performed a mock bow. “This one would be delighted to be enlightened, warlord . . .”

  “And you shall!” He grinned at Norrec. “I would wager to say that many died in the tomb before you came along, eh?”

  Vizharan’s expression darkened. “Too many . . . some of them were friends.”

  “You’ll be joining them soon, have no fear . . .” The ebony-clad officer let Norrec get a better view of the helmet. “I daresay it was the same with this. The same fate for every minor tomb robber until one—one with a very special, inherent trait that gave him just enough of an advantage.” Malevolyn’s hands suddenly began to shake slightly. Quickly but still with an air of casualness, he replaced the helm. An instant feeling of relief washed over him, although he made certain not to let either the man or the demon know. “Can you guess what you and he had in common?”

  “A cursed life?”

  “More a magnificent heritage. In both of you, the blood of greatness flowed, albeit in quite a watered state.”

  This explanation only made Norrec frown. “He and I— were related?”

  “Yes, although in his case that bloodline had become even more diluted. It gave him the right to take the helmet, but he proved too weak to be of use and so it let him be slain. With his death, it grew dormant again, waiting for one more worthy . . .” The general proudly indicated himself. “And it finally found me, as you see.”

  “You share the same blood, too?”

  “Very good. Yes, I do. Far less tainted than that which flowed through that fool and, I have no doubt, far less tainted than you. Yes, Norrec Vizharan, you might say that you and I and he who discovered the head and helm are all cousins —several times removed, of course.”

  “But who—” the soldier’s eyes widened, truth at last dawning. “That’s not possible !”

  Xazax said nothing, but clearly he still did not understand. Demons did not always comprehend human mating and the result of it. True, some of their kind knew the process and, indeed, bred rapidly at times through its use, but they bred as animals, without any concern for bloodlines.

  “Oh, yes, cousin.” Malevolyn smiled broadly. “we are all the progeny of the grand and noble Bartuc himself!”

  The mantis clacked his mandibles together, rightly impressed. He looked even more pleased with himself, likely because he had chosen rightly in joining forces with Augustus Malevolyn.

  As for Norrec, he took no evident pleasure in the revelation, like so many lesser mortals not at all understanding what Bartuc had nearly accomplished. How many men had earned the respect and fear of not only their fellows, but Heaven and Hell, too? It disappointed the general slightly, for, as he had said, the two were indeed cousins of a sort. Of course, since Norrec only had a few moments left to his life, the disappointment was not all that great. A fool removed was still a fool removed, always a plus in the world.

  “Blood calls to blood . . .” Norrec muttered, staring down at the sand. “Blood to blood, she said . . .”

  “Indeed! And that was why with you, the armor could act as it could not for so many centuries. Great power lay dormant within it, but power without life. In you flowed the life that had given that sorcery a spark. It was as if two halves, separated for so long, came together to create the whole!”

  “Bartuc’s blood . . .”

  Augustus Malevolyn pursed his lips. “Yes, we’ve gone over that . . . you mentioned ‘she’? My Galeona, perhaps?”

  “A necromancer, warlord,” Xazax interjected. “Quite dead now.” He lifted one sickle limb up, indicating the cause. “But as for the witch—she is also no more.”

  “A pity, but I suppose it had to be, anyway.” Something occurred to the slim commander. “Excuse me a moment, will you?”

  He turned back to where his hellish warriors harassed Lut Gholein, picturing the demon who wore the face of Zako.

  In the distance, the ghoulish minion suddenly turned from his task at the lead catapult and rushed toward Malevolyn. The moment he reached the general, the demon went down on one knee. “Yes, warlord—” Asharp intake of breath escaped the false Zako as he suddenly noticed Norrec and the armor. “Your—your command?”

  “The city has no more value. It is yours to play with.”

  A savage, toothy grin spread an impossible distance across the dead man’s features. “You’re very gracious, warlord . . .”

  General Malevolyn nodded, then waved him off. “Go! Let no life be spared. Lut Gholein will serve as notice of what hope any other kingdom, any other power, has against me.”

  The thing with Zako’s face rushed off, fairly bouncing up and down with glee as he hurried to tell the others. The horde would ravage the city, leave nothing standing. In many ways, it would assuage the warlord for what had happened at Vin-Jun.

  Vin-Jun. Malevolyn’s chest swelled with anticipation. Now that he had the armor, even Kehjistan, legendary home of the Vizjerei, would fall to him.

  His hand traced the fox and swords crest on his own breastplate. Long ago, after he had slain his birth father and burned down the house that had never acknowl edged him, Augustus Malevolyn had decided to bear the symbol of that house on his armor in order to remind himself that what he wanted he would always be able to take. Now, though, the time had come to set aside that symbol for a better one. The bloodred suit of Bartuc.

  He turned back to Xazax and the mercenary. “Well, shall we begin?”

  Xazax prodded Norrec forward. The man stumbled, then dared to glare at the demon. Malevolyn’s opinion of his distant cousin rose a notch. At least the buffoon had some nerve.

  But the words spat bitterly from Norrec’s mouth did not at all please the new warlord. “I can’t give it to you.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “It won’t come off. I’ve tried again and again and it won’t come off, not even the boots! I’ve no control over the armor whatsoever! I thought I did, but it was all a trick! What I do, where I go—the armor always decides!”

  His tragic situation amused General Malevolyn. “Sounds almost like a comic opera! Is there any truth to this, Xazax?”

  “This one would have to say the fool speaks the truth, warlord. He could not even move to save the necromancer . . .”

  “How fascinating. Still, a problem not at all diffic
ult to solve.” He raised a hand toward Norrec. “Not with the power now at my command.”

  The spell summoned from memories other than his own should have enabled Malevolyn to desiccate the soldier within the very armor, leaving but a dried husk easily removed. Bartuc had used the spell and used it well during his reign and never once had it failed him.

  But now it did. Norrec Vizharan stood wide-eyed but untouched. He looked as if he had truly expected to die, which made the failure of so strong a spell all the more puzzling.

  Xazax it was who suggested the reason. “Your spell encompasses the entire body, warlord. Perhaps the suit reacts instantly as if attacked itself.”

  “A good point. Then we shall just have to do something a little more personal.” He stretched out his hand— and the demon blade appeared in it. “Beheading him should sever the armor’s link. It needs a live host, not a corpse.”

  As he approached, the general noted the mercenary struggling within the suit, trying desperately to make it move. Malevolyn took the lack of reaction by Bartuc’s armor as a sign that he had chosen the right method this time. One swift slash would do it. In some ways, Vizharan should have considered himself honored. Had not the first great warlord perished much the same way? Perhaps Malevolyn would keep the man’s head for a trophy, a reminder of this wondrous day.

  “I shall remember you always, Norrec, my cousin. Remember you for all you have given me.”

  General Augustus Malevolyn readied the ebony sword, taking expert aim at his target’s throat. Yes . . . one swift slash. Much more elegant than simply hacking away until the head fell off.

  Smiling, he performed the killing stroke—

  —-only to have his blade resound off an identical one now held in Norrec’s left hand.

  “What in the name of Hell?”

  The mercenary looked as startled as him. Behind Norrec Vizharan, the monstrous demon clacked and chittered in open consternation.

  Norrec—or rather the armor —shifted into a combat stance, the other black blade ready for any attack by the general.

  A peculiar expression spread across the soldier’s countenance, an expression both bewildered and bemused. After a moment’s hesitation, he even dared speak to Malevolyn. “I guess it might not think you’re the right choice for it, general. I guess we’ll be forced to fight over it. I’m sorry, believe me, I am.”

  Malevolyn fought back his growing rage. He could ill afford to lose his temper now. In a calm tone, he returned, “Then fight we shall, Vizharan—and when I claim the armor, the victory will be that much the sweeter for this battle!”

  He swung at Norrec.

  Xazax feared that he had made a terrible error. Now before him stood two mortals clad in pieces of Bartuc’s armor, two mortals who both seemed capable of wielding to some extent the warlord’s ancient sorcery. Yet, the mantis had thrown in his lot with Malevolyn, who had, until now, seemed the destined successor. The suit of armor, however, clearly saw matters differently, choosing to defend its quite unwilling host.

  The demon had worked hard to convince his infernal lord, Belial, to sacrifice so many hellish minions to this effort. Belial had only agreed because he, too, had thought that a new Bartuc could give him the edge he needed not only against his rival, but the possible return of any of the three Prime Evils. If Xazax had assumed wrongly, if Norrec Vizharan somehow managed to win, it would look as if Belial’s lieutenant had completely mismanaged the entire affair. Belial did not suffer incompetence in his servants.

  Now, watching the two prepare for the struggle, he also felt certain that the suit had played him in particular for a fool. It had come with him as if docile, as if it only wished to reunite itself with the helmet, then join the demon’s cause. However, now the mantis believed that it sought the helmet only—and after that intended to turn upon him .

  It must have known that Xazax had been the one who had brought the aquatic behemoth to the mortal plane and, who, after questioning the dying mariner, had sent that monster to attack the ship. At the time, Xazax had thought he could quicken matters, take the armor before it ever reached dry land. Galeona had guided him to a fair approximation of where Norrec Vizharan could be found. It should have been a simple matter for the hellish beast to rip the puny wooden vessel apart, then strip the armor from the dead man’s body . . .

  Only . . . only the armor had not only fended off the titanic creature, it had slain the demon with hardly any effort. The result had been so startling that it had sent Xazax fleeing in panic. He had never expected the enchanted armor to unleash such overwhelming power . . .

  The mantis fixed his gaze on the back of the mercenary, his decision made. With Malevolyn as the warlord, Xazax had something spectacular to show his master, an ally with whom they could crush Azmodan and, if necessary, the three . However, with Norrec Vizharan the unwilling host, Belial would surely not be nearly so pleased.

  And when his master was displeased . . . those who failed him suffered much for it.

  The demon raised one sickle, biding his time. In the heat of combat, it would take only one strike. The general might complain about his loss of glory, but he would soon come around. Then, they could return to the ravaging of Lut Gholein.

  And from there . . . the rest of the mortal realm.

  Norrec did not even feel a fraction of the confidence he tried to portray to General Malevolyn. While his words concerning the suit’s reluctance to part from him had been true, that did not mean that he trusted in the ability of the enchanted armor to defeat the helmed officer. In truth, Malevolyn looked as if the link between him and the helmet far surpassed the questionable alliance Norrec suffered. Not only did Malevolyn share in the knowledge and skills of the Warlord of Blood, but the general also had his own not inconsiderable abilities. In combination with what the helmet offered, even the armor would likely not be able to stand long against the dedicated commander.

  The general came at him, attacking with such fury that the suit had to step back in order to save Norrec. Again and again the fiery blades clashed, each time sending plumes of flame flying. Had they fought in any other domain save the sandy desert, the odds of a fire starting would have been quite likely. Norrec himself worried that some stray spark would land on his hair or blind him in one eye. Bad enough already that he had to participate in the desperate struggle without having any choice as to defense or attack, for, from what he quickly saw, the armor had some gaps in its knowledge of swordplay. True, it countered Malevolyn’s strikes, but Norrec watched at least one evident opening go wasted. Had not the bloody warlord learned how to properly handle a blade?

  “A bit like fighting one’s self, isn’t it?” sneered his adversary. Augustus Malevolyn seemed to be enjoying himself, so certain of victory did he no doubt feel.

  Norrec said nothing in return, wishing that, even if he had to die, it would be through his own efforts, not the failures of the enchanted armor.

  Malevolyn’s blade passed within inches of his head. Norrec swore, muttering quietly to the armor, “If you can’t do better than that, I should be the one leading!”

  “Do you really think so?” retorted the general, expression no longer amused. “You think a simpleton like you worthier to bear the title, carry on the legacy, than I would be?”

  The suit suddenly had to defend against a series of lightning-swift attacks by Malevolyn. Norrec silently cursed the general’s exceptional hearing; the man believed that the mercenary had mocked him.

  He had served under many a skilled officer, battled many a talented foe, but Norrec could not recall any with the adaptability of Augustus Malevolyn. Only the fact that the general fought as much with Bartuc’s skills as his own enabled the suit to anticipate most of his moves. Even then, if not for the other protections of the armor, Norrec would have already been dead twice.

  “You are fortunate that the enchantments protect you so well.” The slim commander said as he momentarily backed away. “Else this matter would have been settled alr
eady.”

  “But if I’d died so quickly, it would’ve meant that the armor wasn’t as special as you hoped.”

  Malevolyn chuckled. “True! You have some wits about you after all. Shall we see what they look like spilled out on the sand?”

  Again he thrust up, over, and around Norrec’s guard. Twice Bartuc’s plate nearly failed the soldier. Norrec gritted his teeth; the ancient warlord had been a good swordsman, but his methods were those of the Vizjerei. After so many years in the company of Fauztin—who could handle a sword well despite being a mage—the veteran fighter probably knew more about the advantages and disadvantages of their fighting style than even the general here. Malevolyn appeared to have accepted that melding his skills with those of Bartuc only meant the better, yet, if Norrec himself had been combatting the man, he could have possibly threatened Malevolyn’s life at least twice.

  He suddenly screamed, his right ear feeling as if it had burst into flames. General Malevolyn had finally landed a blow, albeit a glancing one. Unfortunately, with the magical swords even that meant an agonizing injury. Norrec’s entire ear throbbed, but fortunately, despite the wound, he could still hear with it. Yet, one more strike like that . . .

  If only he could enter the fight himself. If only the suit could understand that he had a better chance. He knew the weaknesses, knew also the western styles the general used. There were some tricks that Norrec doubted that even the helmed commander had learned. As a mercenary, one picked up such tricks to make up for deficiencies in formal training—and more than once they had saved the veteran.

  Let me fight . . . or at least let me fight alongside you!

  The suit ignored him. It deflected Malevolyn’s latest attack, then tried countering with a move recognizable to the veteran from some of Fauztin’s own occasional sessions of sword practice. However, Norrec also knew that the Vizjerei people had also developed a countermove to that attack—and a moment later Malevolyn proved him right by using it to keep the armor from succeeding.