Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  As he reached down to retrieve the fabled helmet, a feminine voice called out to the exhausted but also exhilarated veteran. “Norrec? Are you all right?”

  He turned to face Kara, pleased in more than one manner by her unexpected resurrection. In the short time since they had met, she had proven her loyalty to him by sacrificing her lesser existence for his. Had she remained dead, Norrec would have honored her memory, but now that she had somehow cheated Xazax’s murderous strike he instead considered her further uses. The necromancer had shown some skill and likely had more sense than the untrustworthy Galeona. Her not unpleasing face and form also made him consider her as possibly worthy of being his consort—and what sane woman would spurn the offer of becoming consort to the Warlord of Blood ?

  “I’m well, Kara Nightshadow . . . very well!” He opened his one hand and let the magical sword fall free. As the weapon vanished, Norrec took the helmet in both hands and raised it over his head. “In fact, I am far better than well!”

  “Wait!” The raven-tressed woman rushed up to him, concern in her almond-shaped eyes. Pretty eyes, the new warlord decided, eyes reminiscent of another woman he had briefly known during his apprenticeship in Kehjistan. “The helmet . . .”

  “Yes . . . it’s mine at last . . . I’m now complete.”

  She pressed against him, placing one hand on the breastplate. Her eyes seemed to implore. “Is this truly what you want, Norrec? After all we spoke of earlier, do you now really desire to wear the helmet, to give yourself up to Bartuc’s ghost?”

  “Give myself up? Woman, do you know who I am? I’m his own blood! Blood calls to blood, remember? In a way, I already am Bartuc; I just didn’t know it! Who better to carry on? Who better to bear the title, the legacy?”

  “Bartuc’s shade himself?” she countered. “There will not be any more Norrec Vizharan, not in mind and soul . . . and if the armor has its way, I daresay that even in form you will begin to resemble your predecessor. It will be Bartuc who wears the suit. Bartuc who reclaims his role. Bartuc who slaughters more innocents, just as he—not you—slaughtered your friends . . .”

  Friends. . . . The horrific images of the mangled, bloodsoaked bodies of Sadun Tryst and Fauztin blossomed once more in Norrec’s beleaguered mind. They had been brutally murdered and he had suffered terrible guilt for those murders for each waking moment since then. He recalled quite succinctly how the armor had slain each— and now Kara spoke of other deaths to come.

  He lowered the helmet slightly, battling with himself. “No, I can’t let that happen . . . I can’t . . .”

  His arms suddenly rose again, holding the helmet just above his head.

  “No!” Norrec roared, his denial aimed now at the enchanted suit. “She’s right, damn you! I won’t be a part of your bloody campaign—”

  But what foolishness . . . a voice so much like his own whispered in his mind. The power is yours . . . you can do with it what you wish . . . a world of order, where no kingdom wars, where no one is poor . . . that is the true legacy . . . that is all Bartuc sought . . .

  It sounded so very good. Simply place the helmet on his head and Norrec would be able to change the world to what it should be. The demons would even serve him in this monumental task, their wills subservient to the power of the warlord. He would create a perfect realm, one that even Heaven would envy .

  And all he had to do was put on the helmet, accept his destiny . . .

  He suddenly felt Kara shift—

  One hand slipped from the helmet, seizing the necromancer’s own in an iron grip that made Kara gasp. From her own hand slipped a gleaming blade of what looked like bone or ivory.

  She had been about to use it on him.

  “Stupid female . . . “ Norrec snapped, not noticing that his voice did not entirely sound as it should. He shoved her to the sand. “Stay put! I’ll deal with you in a moment!”

  Despite his warning, the dark mage tried to rise, but arms of sand arose from each side, pinning her to the ground. More sand flowed over her mouth, preventing her from casting any verbal spells.

  Eyes bright in anticipation, Norrec took hold of the helmet again—and placed it on his head.

  A world such as he had never known now lay open to him. He saw the might he wielded, the legions he could command. The destiny thwarted by his fellow Vizjerei could once more be attained.

  The Warlord of Blood lived again.

  But a warlord needed soldiers. Leaving Kara to struggle, Norrec climbed to the top of the dune and stared at Lut Gholein. With avid interest he watched the demonic warriors tear at the walls and gates. The city could not be more than a few moments from bloody destruction. He would let his horde have their fun, let them race through Lut Gholein slaying every man, woman, and child—then reveal to them his return to the mortal plane.

  He imagined the blood flowing everywhere, the blood of all those who feared and hated him. The blood of those who would perish at his command—

  The dune exploded around him, a pair of dark forms leaping up out of the sand. Two strong sets of hands seized his arms, twisting him back.

  “Hello . . . old friend . . .” a horrifyingly familiar voice whispered on one side of him. “It’s been . . . a lifetime . . . since we last . . . saw you . . .”

  The hold the armor had over Norrec shattered for the moment as recognition mixed with sudden terror. “ SSadun?”

  He turned in the direction of the voice—and stared close into the peeling, decaying visage of his dead companion.

  “You haven’t . . . forgotten us . . . how nice . . .” The ghoulish figure smiled, revealing the blackened gums and yellowed teeth.

  Unable to flee, Norrec turned his head the other way— only to find Fauztin there. The murdered Vizjerei’s collar had slipped, showing the tattered, crusted gap in his throat.

  “No . . . no . . . no . . .”

  They pulled him back down the dune, back toward where Kara still fought to free herself.

  “We tried to . . . see you on . . . the ship . . . Norrec,” Tryst went on. “But you certainly . . . didn’t seem . . . so willing to see . . . us . . .”

  Their eyes never blinked and the stench of death became apparent the longer they held him so near. Their very presence overwhelmed Norrec so much that even the armor could not demand control. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Sadun—Fauztin—I’m so sorry!”

  “He’s sorry . . . Fauztin,” commented the wiry undead. “Did you know . . . that?”

  Norrec glanced at the gaunt Vizjerei, who nodded solemnly.

  “We accept . . . your apology . . . but . . . I’m afraid . . . we’ve no choice . . . with what we . . . now do . . . my friend . . .”

  With remarkable speed and strength, Sadun Tryst tore the helmet from Norrec’s head.

  It felt as if the revenant had ripped the veteran’s skull off as well, so great did the pain of separation feel. Now Norrec truly understood how Malevolyn had felt. He cried out, pulling at his captors with a fury even they grew hard-pressed to combat.

  “Hold . . . him! Hold—”

  Both gauntlets flared a furious crimson. Even caught up in the intense agony coursing through him, Norrec noted the gloves and feared . . . feared for his friends who had already died once because of his inability to do anything to stop the armor’s damnable actions. That their troubled spirits had followed him, he understood completely. Such an injustice demanded retribution. Unfortunately, the armor had no intention of granting them that opportunity.

  The area around Norrec exploded, sending the two undead hurtling away and ripping through the dune from which they had just descended. He stared in horror at the two bodies, fearing that once more they had perished.

  “No! Not again! I won’t let you do it again!” The veteran fighter seized one hand in the other and although both struggled, this time his determination proved too great even for Bartuc’s legacy. Norrec tugged, using his own suffering to augment his strength . . .

  The right gauntlet came f
ree.

  Without hesitation he threw it as far away as he could. Immediately the suit tried to turn that way, seek after its lost member, but Norrec would no longer be denied. He forced the armor a different direction, that of Lut Gholein, now visible through the collapsing gap in the dune.

  How long he controlled the power and not the other way around, the soldier could not say. Norrec only knew that he had to try to make as much right as possible. So long as his outrage, his guilt, fueled his actions, he had the advantage—and Lut Gholein had little enough time.

  He raised the free hand toward the distant city. The demons had at last torn their way past one of the gates. Norrec could hesitate no longer.

  The words he spoke had never been taught to him. They had been Bartuc’s words, Bartuc’s magic. But Bartuc’s memories—his ancestor’s memories—had become just as much Norrec’s by this point. He knew what they could do, knew what they had to do, and so he willingly spoke them even though that part of him still in thrall to the armor struggled to prevent it from happening.

  Had he been witness to the wicked spellwork performed by Malevolyn and Xazax in the general’s tent, Norrec might have noted that what he said almost sounded like Malevolyn’s incantation, but chanted in reverse. As it was, he simply knew that if he did nothing, an entire city would become awash in the blood of its people.

  And at the end of that incantation, the descendent of the Warlord of Blood shouted out two last words. “Mortias Diablum! Mortias Diablum!”

  Within the gates of Lut Gholein, the defenders stood and fought, knowing already that they battled men with out souls, men who were not men but something far more monstrous. Yet, the sultan’s warriors braced themselves for death even as the citizens prepared to weather the dangerous storm waters and try to escape.

  The captains of the ships had little hope, though, already one of their vessels swamped and another shattered against the side of the docks. The waves roared inland, making it dangerous even to stand near the water. Three men had already been washed off as they had tried to prepare the vessels for refugees.

  But as all hope faded, a sight both unsettling and miraculous happened. Just within the city walls, the fiery-eyed soldiers in black stopped, turned their heads back in clear dismay—and then let loose with a chorus of unearthly, savage howls.

  Then, from out of the backs of each erupted hideous, spectral forms with grotesque, inhuman faces and limbs twisted and clawed. Those who witnessed the event would later say they saw both rage and despair on those demonic faces just before the specters, screaming piteously, were cast out into Aranoch in a thousand different directions.

  For a moment, the army of darkness stood at attention, weapons ready, suddenly empty eyes staring straight. Then, as if all within them had been drained away along with the phantoms, each of the monstrous soldiers began to collapse in on himself. One by one, then row by row, the invaders dropped—bones, faded flesh, and fragments of plate spilling into piles that left more than one of Lut Gholein’s defenders unable to hold onto the contents of their own stomachs.

  One of the commanders, the very one whom General Augustus Malevolyn had ordered to find Norrec Vizharan, became the first to mouth what everyone else thought. Stepping toward the nearest of the grisly sets of remains, the officer gingerly prodded it.

  “They’re dead . . .” he finally muttered, unable to believe he and the rest of his people would live after all. “They’re dead . . . but how?”

  “Norrec.”

  He turned to find Kara free, the gleaming ivory dagger ready in her hand. From his left and right came the two revenants, the determination of the dead forever tattooed on their expressions.

  “Kara.” He glanced at his former comrades. “Fauztin. Sadun.”

  “Norrec,” continued the necromancer. “Please listen to me.”

  “No!” The mercenary instantly regretted his harsh tone. She only sought to do what even he knew had to be done. “No . . . listen to me instead. I—I’ve got some control over the armor now, but I can feel that already slipping away. I guess I’m just too exhausted to fight it much longer . . .”

  “How could you even manage to fight it at all?”

  “He is . . . Bartuc’s progeny . . . after all,” remarked Sadun. “Something that the . . . armor needed . . . in order to . . . fulfill its destiny . . . but that it . . . did not . . . understand worked . . . both ways. What other . . . answer?”

  She lowered her gaze. Norrec could read the pain in them. Although a necromancer, the pale woman felt no pleasure or satisfaction in slaying one who had not chosen to cause such evil. Yet so long as he lived, all humanity lay threatened.

  “You’d better do it quick. One swift thrust straight through the throat. It’s the only way!”

  “Norrec—” “

  Hurry —before my mind changes!” He did not simply refer to any sudden reluctance on his part, and they all knew it. The risk remained that at any second the armor might transform him again into the ideal host for its insidious desires.

  “Norrec—”

  “Do it!”

  “This is not . . . how it was . . . supposed to be . . .” rasped Tryst in open bitterness. “Fauztin! He swore . . . to us . . .”

  The Vizjerei, of course, said nothing, instead moving toward Norrec. With great reluctance, Sadun slowly followed suit. Norrec swallowed, hoping the madness would end soon.

  The hand still gloved suddenly rose.

  Fauztin seized it in his own.

  “Best do . . . as he says . . . necromancer . . .” a sullen Tryst murmured. “Looks like . . . we don’t have . . . long . . .”

  Kara came toward him, clearly steeling herself for what she had to do. “I’m sorry, Norrec. This is not how I would wish it, not as it should be . . .”

  “Nor is it how it will be,” a peculiar, almost hollow voice answered.

  Horazon stood a short distance behind the necromancer, but Horazon with something different about him. The glimpse Norrec had earlier had of the ancient mage had made him think of Horazon as a cowardly looking hermit most likely bereft of most of his wits. However, this figure, while still clad in rags and with hair like uncut weeds, had a presence that made all else around him seem insignificant. Norrec had a suspicion now what had made Malevolyn look up at that most vital moment in the battle, for surely the ancient mage’s appearance would have shocked the half-possessed general as well . . .

  A massive, unexpected surge of bitterness and hatred welled up within the fighter, all aimed at his foul brother—

  No! Horazon was not his brother! Once again the armor sought to reestablish its control, rekindle the insidious spirit of Bartuc . Norrec managed to fight the emotions down, but he knew that next time the suit would likely prevail.

  The robed figure moved purposefully toward him and as he did, Norrec noticed a curious shimmer around him. The captive warrior squinted, trying to make out what caused it.

  Horazon’s entire body had been encased in a thin layer of glittering, almost transparent sand grains.

  “Blood calls to blood,” the Vizjerei murmured. His eyes stared brightly, never blinking. Even the two undead holding onto Norrec seemed taken aback by his presence. “And blood will end this travesty now.”

  Norrec could feel the will of the suit battering at his mind, struggling physically with his body. Only the combined efforts of he and his comrades kept it from succeeding for the moment.

  “Horazon?” Kara whispered. The white-haired sorcerer glanced her way—and the woman stepped back. “No—you are him , but you also are not .”

  He gave her—gave all of them—a condescending smile. “This living shell is another’s, a too-curious sorcerer who long ago found the Arcane Sanctuary by accident, but in the process lost his senses forever. I have watched over him ever since, feeling some responsibility . . .” Foregoing any further explanation as to what in the underground sanctum might have destroyed a mind so, the glittering figure glanced at his borrowed hands
. “So fragile is flesh. More stable and lasting are earth and stone . . .”

  “You!” Kara gaped, her eyes nearly as wide open as her mouth. “I know you at last! He talked to you, seemed to even obey you—the great Horazon seemed so willing to obey you—which made no sense until now! You are the presence I felt—the presence of the very sanctuary itself!” He nodded, his own eyes never blinking once. “Yes . . . over time it just seemed the natural path, the natural way of things . . .”

  Still battling the insidious incursions of Bartuc’s enchanted armor, it took Norrec a moment longer to understand—and when he did the answer so astounded him that he nearly dropped his defenses.

  Horazon and the Arcane Sanctuary were one and the same .

  “My own mind almost shattered by what I had been through, I came here to escape the memories, escape the horror, and so I built my sanctum and dwelled underneath the sand, away from the events of the world.” A smile crossed the false Horazon’s face, the sort of smile attempted by someone who had all but forgotten such minor mortal practices. “And as I kept remaking my domain over and over in my own image, it became more me than the faltering shell I wore—until at last, one day, I gave what remained within and took upon a new, stronger, and far more durable form . . . and so I have been ever since—”

  Horazon might have gone on further, but at that moment, Norrec’s world turned bloodred. He felt an allconsuming rage build. He would not be denied again! Horazon had escaped his wrath at Viz-jun, but even if he had to burn away the entire desert, the warlord would have his final vengeance!

  Horazon’s puppet looked his way again, holding out one hand as if asking something of the armored figure.

  A gauntlet—the same one Norrec had earlier torn off and thrown away—materialized on the aged sorcerer’s own hand.

  “Blood calls to blood . . . and I am calling you, brother. Our war is over. Our time is over. We are over. Your power negates mine. Mine negates yours. Join me now where we both belong . . . far from the sight of men . . .”

  The other gauntlet tore free from Norrec, flying over to the glittering figure’s ungloved hand. Then, in rapid succession, each piece of armor from his legs, torso, and arms flew forth, the crimson suit quickly remaking itself bit by bit on the elder’s body. Somewhere along the way, the torn, stained robe of the hermit vanished, replaced by other garments more suitable to the armor. Even the boots Bartuc had worn left Norrec to join the rest of the suit. The false Horazon raised his arms as his astonishing work went on, eyes never blinking, lips set grimly.