Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  With each loss, Norrec’s mind edged nearer to what it had more or less been like before the armor had claimed him. The memories and thoughts became wholly his own, not that of a murderous demon master. Yet, he could never be rid of the terrible days since the tomb, never be rid of the horrors and death of which he had played an unwilling but great part.

  And when it was done, the white-haired figure stretched out a gauntleted hand again, summoning the helmet. Placing that in the crook of one arm, Horazon’s puppet looked over Norrec and the others.

  “It is time for the world to forget Bartuc and Horazon. You would do well to do the same, all of you.”

  “Wait!” Kara dared approach the enigmatic form. “One question. Please tell me—did you send this one,” she indicated Horazon’s host. “To find me in Lut Gholein?”

  “Yes . . . I sensed something amiss and knew that a necromancer so near—a necromancer who should not be in the city above—had to be involved. I needed you closer so that I could discover why. As you slept, as you ate, I learned what I needed to know from you.” He stepped back from her, from all of them. “Our conversation is at an end. I leave you on your own now. Remember this, though; the Arcane Sanctuary exists in many places, has many doorways—but I advise you now to never seek it again.”

  His darkening tone left them with no doubt as to what he meant by the last. Horazon had no desire to be a part of the living world again. Those who would disturb him would risk much.

  He suddenly seemed to lose form and substance, bits of him crumbling away as if even flesh and metal had become grains of sand. With each second, the armored mage looked less like anything mortal and more a very part of the landscape.

  “Norrec Vizharan,” Horazon called in that odd, echoing voice. “It is time to create your own legacy . . .”

  Clad in the same garments he had worn upon entering Bartuc’s tomb—even his own boots having somehow been returned to him by the astounding sorcerer—Norrec pulled free from the revenants and started forward. “Wait! What do you mean by that?”

  But Horazon’s host, now a man completely of sand, only shook his head. Of all of him, only the eyes remained somewhat human. Even as Norrec neared, the figure shrank, his sandy form melting into the dunes around. By the time the veteran fighter reached the area it was already too late . . . only a small lump of loose grains remained to mark Horazon’s past presence.

  Seconds later, even that no longer existed.

  “It’s over,” Kara quietly remarked.

  “Yes . . . it is,” agreed Sadun Tryst.

  Something in his tone made Norrec now turn to the two ghouls. Both undead had a peculiar look in their eye, as if they waited for something else to happen.

  The necromancer guessed first. “Your quest is over, is it not? Just as with Horazon, your time in this world is at an end.”

  Fauztin nodded. Sadun gave what seemed a sad grin—or perhaps his failing flesh and muscle simply made it seem so. “He came . . . when he felt . . . the armor stir . . . but too late . . . so he granted us . . . this chase . . . but with . . . the promise that . . . when it finished . . . so would we.”

  “ He? ” Norrec asked, joining Kara.

  “But it was my spell and my dagger that brought you back!”

  “His trickery . . . to throw you . . . off . . .” The smaller of the undead looked around. “Sanctimonious . . . bastard . . . can’t even show up . . . now that it’s . . . over . . .”

  However, as he finished, a brilliant blue light suddenly shone down on the four, turning their small patch of desert as bright as, if not brighter than, a cloudless day at noontime.

  Sadun Tryst would have spat in disgust, if such a simple feat had been within his ability any more. Instead, he shook his head—or rather, let it rock back and forth once—then added, “Should’ve known . . . better . . . damned strutting . . . angel!”

  Angel? Norrec looked up in the direction of the light, but found no source for it, much less an angel. Still, what else could explain so much?

  The ghoul glared at it. “At least . . . show yourself . . .” When nothing happened, he glanced at Norrec and added, “Typical. Just like . . . his kind . . . hiding in the . . . shadows . . . pretending they’re . . . above it all . . . but putting their hands . . . in everything.”

  “I know this light,” Kara muttered. “I caught a glimpse of it in the tomb. It’s what drew me away from your bodies.”

  “He likes . . . his tricks . . . the archangel does.” Tryst eyed Fauztin, who nodded again. To the two living members, the wiry revenant continued, “And for his . . . last one—”

  “Damn you, Sadun, no!” Norrec scowled at the heavens, scowled at the unseen archangel. “It’s not fair! They had no choice in the matter—-”

  “Please . . . it’s . . . time . . . and we . . . want it so . . . Norrec . . .”

  “You can’t mean it!”

  Sadun chuckled, a harsh sound. “I swear it . . . on my . . . life, friend . . .”

  The blue light focused suddenly on the revenants, bathing them in such brilliance that Norrec had to shield his eyes. Fauztin and the smaller ghoul became harder and harder to see.

  “Time to . . . buy that . . . farm . . . you always wanted . . . Norrec . . .”

  The light flared then, becoming so intense that it momentarily blinded the veteran and his companion. Fortunately for both, the burst lasted only a few seconds, but even with that, by the time their eyes recovered, it was to find that not only had the heavenly illumination completely faded away—but with it had gone the two undead.

  Norrec stared at the spot, at first unable to speak.

  A hand touched his own. Kara Nightshadow gave him a look of sympathy. “They have moved on to the next step in the eternal journey, on to their next role in helping to maintain the balance of the world.”

  “Maybe . . .” Wherever they had gone, Norrec knew that he could be of no aid to them. The best he could do was keep their memories alive in him—and do something with his own life in honor of the friendship the three had built. He glanced up again, noticed for the first time that the ever-present storm clouds had finally quieted. In fact, they had already begun to dwindle to the point where patches of clear sky could be made out.

  “What will you do now?” the necromancer asked him.

  “I don’t know.” He glanced in the direction of Lut Gholein, the only sign of civilization for days. “Go there first, I suppose. See if they need any help cleaning up. After that . . . I just don’t know. What about you?”

  She, too, looked to the far-off city, giving him a chance to study her profile. “Lut Gholein makes sense also. Besides, I wish to discover whether Captain Jeronnan and the King’s Shield are there. I owe him a debt. He treated me well, as if I were his own daughter—and he probably fears I drowned at sea.”

  Having no desire to part from her company just yet, Norrec responded, “I’ll come with you, then, if you don’t mind.”

  That brought an unexpected smile from Kara. Norrec liked it when the dark-haired woman smiled. “Not at all.”

  Recalling the ways of the many nobles he had served, Norrec offered her his arm, which, after a moment’s hesitation, the necromancer took. Then, together, the weary pair made their way through what remained of the ruined dune and headed back toward civilization. Neither looked behind them to where the head and body of General Augustus Malevolyn already lay half-covered by the drifting sand, where Horazon and the armor had faded into the desert itself. The weary, battered soldier especially had no desire to be reminded of what had happened—and what could have happened if matters had taken a turn to the dark.

  The legacy of Bartuc, the legacy of the Warlord of Blood, had been buried once again from the sight and knowledge of all . . . this time hopefully forever.

  Epilogue

  Night fell upon the desert of Aranoch, a solemn, brooding night. The creatures of the day hurried to the safety of their lairs while those who hunted in the darkness came fort
h in search of careless prey . . .

  And from beneath the sand slowly emerged a monstrous form, one that would have sent maggots, scarabs, and vulture demons fleeing in mindless panic. Mandibles snapped open and closed several times and bulbous yellow orbs that glowed faintly in the darkness carefully perused the unyielding landscape, searching . . . searching somewhat fearfully.

  Xazax rose unsteadily, a pool of brackish, black fluids underneath him. The wound caused by the necromancer’s dagger refused to be healed by his power and the mantis knew that he could not yet petition his lord Belial to help him. By this time, Belial would know of his failure and, worse, the decimation of the infernal horde summoned to aid General Malevolyn.

  The mantis had sensed the terrible spell being cast even as he had fled. Who had been responsible for it, he could only guess, but it had meant the certain end for most of the lesser demons. Summoning such numbers in so quick a fashion had required each hellish warrior to be initially bound to the mortal shell they had been given. With the passing of time, even as little as a month, they would have grown more adapted to this plane, been able to fully cast off the husks. This new spell, though, had torn them from their earthly anchors far too soon. Only the strongest would survive the extraordinary forces unleashed by the abrupt separation. In human terms it would have been akin to removing a baby from the womb more than a month before its proper birth time. Only the strongest would survive . . .

  The few survivors would be condemned to wander Aranoch without any guidance, unable to return to Hell without aid. Unlike Xazax, most these demons lacked sense enough to plan beyond the moment; Belial had relied on his lieutenant for their guidance.

  In that lay the mantis’s only hope for redemption. His dark lord might forgive him if Xazax managed to gather those who remained and sent them back to Hell. For that, the demon would need another human dupe capable of sorcery, but there were always plenty of those. Of more immediate importance, however, was the necessity of finding prey of his own, something to provide the energy he heeded to combat his wound. The mantis would have preferred a nice, ripe merchant camped out for the night, but at this point, anything he could catch would have to do.

  Nervously the demon moved about on the sand. The cursed necromancer’s spell still lingered, albeit with less influence than before. Illusions of angels and other fearful sights on occasion materialized before Xazax, but with effort each time he managed to fight off the urge to flee.

  When he had regained his strength, recovered from his wounds, the mantis would find Norrec Vizharan and the female. He would impale each, making certain that they lived, then slowly work on peeling the flesh from first one, then the other. After that, Xazax would devour them slowly, savoring each bloody morsel—

  -Xazax . . .

  He froze, waves of fear seeking to wash over him. Damn the human’s spell! Would the last vestiges of it never fade away? How many illusions, how many whispering voices, would the demon have to suffer before it all stopped?

  Smelled you from afar . . . knew you immediately . . .

  The giant mantis looked around, but saw nothing. So, it was only in his head this time. He could suffer that well enough—

  -A shadow darker than the night swept across Xazax, completely startling the wounded monster.

  Cunning . . . lying . . . traitorous little bug . . .

  Xazax froze. None of the creations of the female’s spellwork had ever spoken in his mind with such elaborate conviction.

  “Who dares?” he rasped, turning in the direction from which he sensed the voice in his head somehow originated. “Who—”

  And before the hellish mantis loomed the most terrible of all the nightmares he could have dreamed. The demon’s mandibles stretched wide and a single, almost plaintively spoken word tried unsuccessfully to completely escape.

  “Diab—”

  A scream punctuated the stillness of the nighttime desert, a scream seemingly of no earthly origin. It caused the various creatures of Aranoch to pause in whatever they had been doing and listen in absolute terror. Even long after the cry abruptly cut off, they remained unmoving, fearful that whatever had preyed upon the source of the mournful sound might next be coming for them.

  And among those of Belial’s demons that yet survived from the debacle at Lut Gholein, that fear took a greater form. They sensed what had happened, sensed the force behind it—and knew that for them and the humans of this mortal plane the nightmare might just be beginning . . .

  About the Author

  RICHARD A. KNAAK is the author of more than twenty fantasy novels and over a dozen short pieces, including the New York Times bestseller The Legend of Huma for the Dragonlance series. Aside from his extensive work in Dragonlance, he is best known for his popular Dragonrealm series, which is now available again in trade paperback. His other works include several contemporary fantasies, including Frostwing and King of the Grey , also available again. In addition to Legacy of Blood , he has written Day of the Dragon for the Warcraft series and will soon return to Diablo for a second tale. He is also at work on a major trilogy for Dragonlance.

  Those interested in learning more about his projects should check out his Web site at http://www.sff.net/ people/knaak.