Diablo: The Sin War Box Set: Birthright, Scales of the Serpent, and The Veiled Prophet

by Richard A. Knaak

  The third of their band was nowhere to be seen, but Uldyssian knew that he or she could not be far away. The servants of the Temple of the Triune did not stay separated long. While a missionary from the Cathedral often worked alone, the Triune’s acolytes acted in concert with one another. They preached the way of the Three, the guiding spirits—Bala, Dialon, and Mefis—who supposedly watched over a mortal like loving parents or kindly teachers. Dialon was the spirit of Determination, hence the stubborn ram. Bala stood for Creation, represented by the leaf. Mefis, whose servant was missing, was Love. The acolytes of that order bore upon their breast a red circle, the common Kehjan emblem for the heart.

  Having heard the preachings of all three orders before and not wanting to risk a repeat of the debacle in the tavern, Uldyssian tried to shift into the shadows. Serenthia had finally realized that Uldyssian no longer listened to her. She put her hands on her hips and gave him the stare that, when she had been a child, had made him give in to her way.

  “Uldyssian! I thought you wanted to see—”

  He cut her off. “Serry, I’ve got to be going. Did your brothers gather what I asked for earlier?”

  She pursed her lips as she thought. Uldyssian eyed the two missionaries, who seemed engrossed in some conversation. Both looked oddly disoriented, as if something had not gone as they had assumed it would.

  “Thiel said nothing to me or else I’d have known you were in Seram before. Let me go find him and ask.”

  “I’ll come with you.” Anything to avoid the dogs of the Triune. The Temple had been established some years before the Cathedral, but now the two appeared more or less even in their influence. It was said that the High Magistrate of Kehjan was now a convert of the former, while the Lord General of the Kehjan Guard was rumored to be a member of the latter. The disarray within the mage clans—often bordering on war of late—had turned many to the comfort of one message or another.

  But before Serenthia could lead them into the back, Cyrus called for his daughter. She gave Uldyssian an apologetic look.

  “Wait here. I won’t be long.”

  “I’ll go look for Thiel myself,” he suggested.

  Serenthia must have caught his quick glance at the missionaries. Her expression grew reproving. “Uldyssian, not again.”

  “Serry—”

  “Uldyssian, those people are messengers of holy orders! They mean you no harm! If you would just open yourself up to hearing them! I’m not suggesting you join one or the other, but the messages both preach are worthy of your attention.”

  She had reprimanded him like this before, just after he had stood up in the tavern after the last visit by missionaries from the Triune and gone on at length about the lack of need for any of their ilk in the lives of the common folk. Did the acolytes offer to help shear the sheep or bring in the crops? Did they help wash the mud-soaked clothes or lend their hands fixing the fences? No. Uldyssian had pointed out then, as he had on other occasions, that all they came to do was whisper in the ears of people that their sect was better than the other sect. This to people who barely understood the concept of angels and demons, much less believed in them.

  “They can say all the pretty words they want, Serry, but all I see is them contesting against one another, with how many fools they can brand as their own as what decides the winner.”

  “Serenthia!” Cyrus called again. “Come here, lass!”

  “Father needs me,” she said with a rueful look. “I’ll be right back. Please, Uldyssian, behave yourself.”

  The farmer watched her hurry off, then tried to fix his attention on some of the items for sale or barter in the station. There were tools of all sorts that could be useful on the farm, including hoes, shovels, and a variety of hammers. Uldyssian ran his finger over the edge of a new iron sickle. The craftsmanship was the best available in a place such as Seram, although he had heard that in some estate farms near Kehjan proper a few lords had their workers wielding ones tipped with steel. Such a concept had far more impact on Uldyssian than any words concerning spirits or souls.

  Then someone quickly strode past him, heading into the back. He had a glimpse of golden hair bound up and a hint of a smile that the son of Diomedes could have sworn was directed toward him.

  Without at first realizing it, Uldyssian followed. The noblewoman vanished through the back door as if the station were her own home.

  He slipped through a moment later…and at first saw no sign of her. What he did see was that his wagon was indeed full. There was no sign of Thiel, but that was not uncommon. Serenthia’s eldest brother was likely assisting with some other labor.

  Having already dealt with the matter of payment, Uldyssian headed toward the wagon. However, as he neared, he suddenly saw a flash of green by the horse.

  It was her. The noblewoman stood on the other side of the animal, murmuring something to it while she caressed the muzzle with one slender hand. Uldyssian’s horse appeared mesmerized by her, standing as motionless as a statue. The old male was an ornery beast and only those who knew him well could approach him without the danger of a bite. That this woman could do so spoke volumes about her to the farmer.

  She noticed him in turn. A smile lit up her face. To Uldyssian, her eyes seemed to glow.

  “Forgive me…is this your horse?”

  “It is, my lady…and you’re lucky still to have more than one hand. He likes to bite.”

  She caressed the muzzle again. The beast continued to stand still. “Oh, he wouldn’t bite me.” The woman leaned her face close to the muzzle. “Would you?”

  Uldyssian half-started toward her, suddenly fearful that she would be proven wrong. However, again, nothing happened.

  “I once owned a horse that looked very much like him,” she continued. “I miss him so.”

  Suddenly recalling where they were, Uldyssian said, “Mistress, you shouldn’t be here. You should stay with the caravan.” Sometimes, travelers journeyed with merchants in order to make use of the protection of the latter’s guards. Uldyssian could only assume that this was the case with her, although so far it seemed that she was without any escort. Even with the protection of the caravan, a young woman traveling alone risked danger. “You don’t want to be left behind.”

  “But I am not going with the caravan,” the noblewoman murmured. “I am not going anywhere at all.”

  He could not believe that he had heard her correctly. “My lady, you must be joking! There’s nothing for you in a place like Seram…”

  “There’s nothing for me in any other place…why not Seram, then?” Her mouth curled up in a hesitant smile. “And you need not keep calling me ‘my lady’ or ‘mistress.’ You may call me Lylia…”

  Uldyssian opened his mouth to answer, only to hear the door swing open behind him and Serenthia’s voice call, “There you are! Did you find Thiel?”

  He looked over his shoulder at her. “No, but everything’s here, Serry.”

  His horse suddenly snorted, then shied from him. Grabbing the bit, Uldyssian did his best to calm the cantankerous beast. The horse’s eyes were wide and his nostrils flared; to his master he seemed startled or frightened. That made little sense, for the creature liked Serenthia more than he did Uldyssian. As for the noblewoman, she—

  She was nowhere to be seen. Uldyssian surreptitiously surveyed the area, wondering how she could have possibly slipped away so quickly and without a sound. He had a fair view for some distance, but all he saw were a few other wagons. Unless she had climbed into one of the covered ones, the farmer could not possibly fathom what had happened to her.

  Serenthia walked up to him, mildly curious at his behavior. “What are you looking for? Is something you needed missing, after all?”

  He recovered enough to answer, “No…as I said, it’s all here.”

  A familiar—and undesired—shape slipped through the doorway. The missionary glanced around as if searching for something or someone in particular.

  “Yes, Brother Atilus?” asked S
erenthia.

  “I seek our Brother Caligio. Is he not in here?”

  “No, brother, there’s only the two of us.”

  Brother Atilus eyed Uldyssian without the usual religious fervor the farmer was accustomed to seeing from his ilk. Instead, the missionary’s gaze held a hint of what seemed…suspicion?

  Bowing his head to Serenthia, Atilus withdrew. Cyrus’s daughter turned her attention back to Uldyssian. “Do you have to leave so soon? I know you feel uncomfortable around Brother Atilus and the others, but…couldn’t you stay and visit with me a bit longer?”

  For reasons that he could not explain, Uldyssian felt unsettled. “No…no, I’ve got to head back. Speaking of looking for someone, have you seen Mendeln? I expected him to be with your father.”

  “Oh, I should’ve told you! Achilios stopped by just a short time earlier. He had something he wanted to show to Mendeln and the two of them headed off for the western forest.”

  Uldyssian grunted. Mendeln had promised that he would be ready at the proper time to ride home with him. Generally, his brother was very good about keeping his word, but Achilios must have come across something unusual. Mendeln’s greatest weakness was his incessant curiosity, something the hunter should have known better than to encourage. Once started on one of his studies, the younger son of Diomedes lost all track of time.

  But although Uldyssian would not leave without his one remaining sibling, he did not want to be anywhere near the Triune’s followers. “I can’t stay. I’ll lead the wagon out to the forest and hope that I find them. Should Mendeln somehow return here without me seeing him—”

  “I’ll tell him where you wait, yes.” Serenthia did not attempt to hide her disappointment.

  Feeling uncomfortable for a more normal reason, the farmer gave her a brief—and merely friendly—hug, and climbed aboard. Cyrus’s daughter stepped back as he urged the old horse on.

  He looked back in her direction as the wagon moved and the intensity of his expression made Serenthia’s own countenance light up. Uldyssian paid her reaction no mind, for his thoughts were not on the trader’s raven-haired daughter.

  No, the face that had burned itself into his thoughts was that of another, one whose tresses were golden.

  And one whose caste was far, far above that of a simple farmer.

  TWO

  Mendeln was well aware that his brother would be angry with him, but his curiosity had complete rein of him now. Besides, it was all Achilios’s fault, truly, and Achilios, at least, should have known better.

  There was a good nine years’ difference between the surviving sons of Diomedes, enough that in some ways the pair might as well have been considered other than brothers. Uldyssian often acted more like Mendeln’s uncle or, indeed, their father. In fact, from what Mendeln could vaguely recall of his sire—combined with what Cyrus, Tibion, and a few elders had told him over the years—Uldyssian could have passed for Diomedes’s twin in both look and manner.

  Mendeln shared some of his brother’s features, but was half a foot shorter than Uldyssian and, while strengthened by the necessities of farm life, was not nearly as mighty, either. His countenance was narrower and longer—from his mother’s side, he was told—and he had eyes that were black and glistened like dark jewels. From where those had come, no one in the village could say, but Mendeln had learned early on that, if he stared, he could unsettle most anyone save his brother and the man now with him.

  “What do you make of it?” Achilios muttered from behind.

  Mendeln forced his gaze from the hunter’s fascinating discovery. Achilios was a blond, wiry figure nearly as tall as Uldyssian. Unlike Mendeln, who was clad virtually identically to his brother save for the darker shading of his tunic, Achilios was dressed in a green and brown outfit consisting of jerkin and pants that allowed him to blend well into their present surroundings. He had soft leather boots designed for padding as silently through the woods as any animal. His slim frame hinted of his swiftness but belied his strength. Uldyssian’s brother had tried to string and fire the great bow that was Achilios’s pride and joy, tried and failed. The hawk-faced archer was not just the best at his craft among Seram’s inhabitants, but—at least in Mendeln’s estimation—superior to many a hunter elsewhere. He had watched Achilios match skills against veteran guards from passing caravans and never had seen him lose.

  “It…looks ancient,” was all Mendeln could finally answer. He felt some embarrassment; even Achilios had noticed that.

  But the hunter nodded as if listening to a sage. Although more than half a decade older than Mendeln, he treated the youngest son of Diomedes as if Mendeln were the fount of all the world’s knowledge. That was one of the few points of frustration between Achilios and Uldyssian, who saw little practical use in most of his sibling’s learning, but did at least tolerate it.

  “The thing is…” The archer ran a hand through his thick, almost leonine mane. “…I’ve been through this area many a time and I swear that it’s never been here before!”

  Mendeln only nodded, his attention once more upon his companion’s find. Achilios had an eye such as he could only envy, Mendeln’s own vision often forcing him to peer close at parchments in order to make out the words he so cherished.

  And at this particular thing, he peered especially close, for the symbols etched in its face were, in many places, worn almost clean away by weather and age. Some of them he could not have made out even if his nose had been pressed against the stone. Clearly, the object before him had suffered long the effects of nature, and yet, how could that be, when it had, by Achilios’s declaration, only just appeared?

  Kneeling before it, Mendeln estimated the dimensions. Just over the length of his foot on each side of the square base and, had he been standing, a hand’s breadth below his knee. The flat top was roughly half the dimensions of the base. In size alone, the stone carving should have been impossible to miss seeing.

  He touched the ground before it. “Nothing of recent change in the surroundings?”

  “No.”

  Mendeln traced his fingers almost reverently over some of the more legible symbols. Legible only in that he could see them, not understand them. One prominent marking seemed to loop in and around itself, giving it no end. As Mendeln touched it, he had a sense of incredible age.

  He involuntarily shook his head. Not age, Uldyssian’s brother thought, but agelessness.

  Mendeln’s mind paused at that sudden notion, never having conceived of it before. Agelessness. How could such a thing be possible?

  The stone was black, but the markings glittered as if silver. That also fascinated him, for they did not appear to have been painted so. The skill with which the entire thing had been carved bespoke an artisan far more sophisticated than could be found in Seram or even in any of the larger settlements in the entire western region.

  Belatedly, Mendeln realized that Achilios was shaking him by the shoulder. He wondered why. “What?”

  The archer leaned warily over him, his brow furrowed deep in concern. “The moment you touched it, you seemed to still! You didn’t blink and I’d swear you didn’t breathe!”

  “I…did not notice.” Mendeln was tempted to touch the artifact again, fascinated to see if the same thing would happen. However, he suspected that Achilios would not like that. “Did you touch it earlier?”

  There was a noticeable hesitation, then, “Yes.”

  “But the same thing did not happen to you, did it?”

  Achilios’s complexion went pale with memory. “No. No.”

  “Then, what? Did you feel anything?”

  “I felt…I felt an emptiness, Mendeln. It reminded me of…of death.”

  As a hunter, the blond man dealt with death on an almost daily basis, usually because of the animals he killed, but occasionally because of close scrapes with wild boars, cats, or bears, where for a time he became the prey. Yet, the manner in which Achilios spoke of death now gave it a new and far more ominous connotation, o
ne which, oddly, stirred further curiosity, not fear, in the heart of his companion.

  “What about death?” Mendeln asked almost eagerly. “Can you describe it better? Was it—”

  Achilios, expression suddenly guarded, cut him off with a sharp slash of his hand. “That’s all. I went for you right after.”

  Clearly, there was much, much more involved, but Uldyssian’s brother did not push. Perhaps he could slowly gain the information over time. For the moment, he would satisfy himself with the stone artifact. Mendeln seized a small broken branch and scraped the ground near the bottom edge. The mysterious relic appeared to be planted deep in the soil, but how far? Was there more beneath the surface than above? Again, the temptation came to touch it, this time grabbing hold with both hands in order to see if he could move the piece at all. How much more useful it would be if Mendeln could take it back to the farm so as to study it at his leisure.

  Mendeln’s head shot up. The farm! Uldyssian!

  He leapt to his feet, startling the generally unperturbable Achilios. The stone’s discovery seemed to have upset the archer in a way Mendeln had never seen before. Achilios was known for his fearlessness, but now he seemed to look to Mendeln for reassurance, certainly a first.

  “I have to get back,” he explained to the hunter. “Uldyssian will be wondering where I am.” Mendeln did not like disappointing his older sibling, even though Uldyssian would not have shown any such emotion. Nevertheless, Mendeln lived with the memories of the terrible burdens Uldyssian had taken on with the sicknesses and, later, deaths of their loved ones. The younger brother felt beholden to the older for that reason, not to mention many other, lesser ones.

  “What about that?” Achilios grumbled, gesturing at the stone with his bow. “Do we just leave it like that?”

  After a moment’s consideration, Mendeln replied, “We shall cover it over. Help me with it.”

  The two of them gathered loose branches and bits of leafy shrubbery. Yet, although they quickly had the artifact hidden from sight, Mendeln felt as if it still stood naked to the world. He considered covering it further, then decided to make do with what they had already done. The first opportunity he had to return to it, he would.