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

by Richard A. Knaak

  He was, even the other two knew, the right hand of the Primus.

  The private chamber in which they met was a small, almost empty place. The only furniture at all was the Primus’s regal chair, the back of which rose high above his head and featured the triangular symbol of the sect. Twin torches set in wall niches illuminated the oval chamber, not that there was anything else to see but the chair’s occupant…which was exactly the point.

  The Primus gazed down at the three as he quietly spoke words for their ears alone. Of all, Malic and his counterparts knew the innermost secrets of the Triune as no one else did.

  The Grand Priest’s voice was pure music. His face could have been chiseled from marble, so unmarred was it. He had long, flowing hair of silver, with a short, well-trimmed beard that matched it. His features were very angular and his eyes were of a gleaming emerald. He was taller and stronger-looking than most men, but despite his commanding appearance, moved at all times with a practiced gentleness.

  Until now.

  Only Malic, surreptitiously lifting his gaze up, noticed the sudden and very slight tremor. Under his dark brow, the high priest of the Order of Mefis watched with concealed concern.

  But the Primus evidently saw that concern despite Malic’s attempts. Completely recovered now, the Triune’s beloved leader made a single gesture of dismissal, to which the mustached Malic quickly alerted the others with a tap of his own hand. The three senior priests, heads kept low, quickly retreated from the private chamber.

  The Primus sat silent, his eyes apparently staring at the empty air before him. The flames of the torches suddenly flickered madly, as if a strong gust of wind briefly danced about the room.

  And as the torches returned to normal, a shift came over the benevolent visage of the Primus. There was nothing holy in his aspect now; in fact, any who would have witnessed it would have found it quite the opposite…and likely feared for their very soul, then, too.

  “West of the city…” he rasped in a voice now more like a serpent’s than a man’s. “West of the city…”

  FIVE

  As chaos overtook Seram, Achilios’s first thoughts were not for himself nor even for Uldyssian. Rather, they were for Serenthia, caught in the open like so many others. The hunter dodged a spinning wagon wheel and what appeared to be the remains of a scarecrow on a cross as he rushed toward Cyrus’s daughter.

  From farther away came a shout. Achilios sighted the trader also running toward her. However, having stood nearer the hunter, Serenthia did not notice Cyrus nor could she hear her father.

  At that moment, a massive fragment of roof suddenly tore off the Guard headquarters. It fluttered in the air like a gigantic black bird suffering its death throes…then dropped with all the accuracy of an executioner’s ax toward the unsuspecting Cyrus.

  Achilios shouted, but, as with the trader, could not be heard over the gale. A chill coursed through him. The hunter knew that there was only one choice left to him.

  The moment that he could, Achilios leapt for Serenthia. He tackled her much the way he would have game seeking to escape one of his snares. The archer did not care; all that mattered was keeping the trader’s daughter from witnessing the horrible scene to come. There was nothing he could do for Cyrus, who was too far away.

  But although he managed to smother her view, Achilios could do nothing for his own. He watched in macabre fascination as the piece of roof caught Cyrus from behind. The force with which it struck the back of the man’s neck ensured that there would be no hope for him. Indeed, the sharp edge severed bone and flesh with awful ease and despite the fact that he could not hear anything but the wind, the veteran hunter knew exactly what Cyrus’s horrific beheading sounded like.

  The rest of the broken piece collapsed atop the mangled body immediately afterward, thankfully obscuring it from sight. Serenthia chose that moment to finally struggle free. She looked up at Achilios, her expression one of surprise…and perhaps a little embarrassment, if her reddening cheeks were any sign. Achilios suddenly felt very uncomfortable and not merely because of having witnessed the fate of her father.

  “Let me up, please,” she called, her voice barely audible. “Have you seen Uldyssian?”

  The hunter’s own embarrassment grew. Unaware of Cyrus’s tragic end, her first thoughts naturally went to the farmer and no one else. Certainly not Achilios.

  Still, her concern for the farmer gave him a momentary reprieve from telling her what had just happened. Now was not the time for Serenthia to know. Besides, if she tried to uncover her father’s body in the midst of this insane weather, it was very possible that she would merely end up joining him in death.

  “I saw him run toward the smithy!” he finally shouted in response to her question. Despite his powerful lungs, Achilios had to repeat himself before the trader’s daughter understood. He pulled her to her feet, careful to avoid turning her in the direction of the grisly sight. “Hold my hand tight or you may be blown back!”

  To his relief, Serenthia obeyed without question. Achilios dragged her in the direction he had last seen his friend, the violent wind buffeting him as hard as any wild boar. He did not know what they would do if and when they actually located Uldyssian. The farmer was considered a prisoner, a possible murderer in the eyes of some, and Achilios’s duty should have been to either convince his friend to return and face justice or, failing that, force him to do so. But the hunter had already seen enough of what passed for justice and the very thought of turning Uldyssian over to the Inquisitors—or even Tiberius—left Achilios cold.

  More important, if he brought Uldyssian back to Seram to face the charges, the archer had no doubt that he would forever blacken himself in the eyes of Serenthia.

  They raced for the edge of the village even as others ran past them in different directions. Planks tore off of buildings, adding to the dangerous debris flying about. A water bucket ripped from the village well smashed against the chest of one of Tiberius’s men, sending him falling on his back. Achilios wanted to stop by the supine form to see if the other still lived, but feared that to do so would endanger Serenthia.

  With much relief, he plunged Cyrus’s daughter and himself into the woods. His attuned senses immediately noticed the difference between the weather there and the mad turbulence in Seram. It was almost as if he had shut a door behind him. The foliage barely shook and the howling had all but ceased.

  Despite that, the hunter did not slow until the two of them were well away from the village’s edge. Only then did Achilios pause, near a tremendous oak, and that more for his companion’s sake than his own.

  “Are you all right?” he immediately asked her.

  Gasping for breath, Serenthia nodded. Her gaze shifted around the woods, seeking.

  “We’ll find him, Serry,” he muttered, a little put out after having helped her escape the chaos. Then Achilios recalled Cyrus and guilt overwhelmed him.

  “I wonder if—” the trader’s daughter began, halting abruptly as an unexpected hush filled the area.

  The two glanced back at their home. The lightning had ceased striking and the wind there had died down, too. Most astonishing, not only were the clouds thinning, but it actually looked as if the sun was already trying to peek through.

  “Praise be! A miracle!” uttered Serenthia. Achilios, on the other hand, felt a peculiar dread inside him, a sensation he had experienced but one time before…when he had first touched the ancient stone.

  Serenthia took a step back to Seram, but the hunter pulled her deeper into the woods. “Uldyssian!” he reminded her, though the farmer was not now entirely his reason for wanting to be away from the village. “This way, remember?”

  The trader’s daughter nodded, once more a look of determination across her beautiful face. Achilios wished just once that such an expression would be reserved for him.

  Although he knew that he had seen Uldyssian head toward this part of the woods, Achilios found tracking his friend much more troublesome than h
e would have expected. Uldyssian had barely left any trace of his passing. In fact, the hunter had to guess half the time, for the farmer apparently moved through the woods with greater stealth than an animal. If not for that certain sense within Achilios, that sense that he had never mentioned to others but that always gave him the advantage when seeking a quarry’s spoor, then it would have been impossible to keep after Uldyssian.

  And that sense, that knowing that enabled Achilios to ever follow the correct trail, also told him that someone else had met Uldyssian in the woods. It was not a familiar trail and from its light touch, he suspected it to be that of the noblewoman. Who else? Whatever cloaked Uldyssian did so for her, as well. Her trail was even harder to maintain focus on than the farmer’s.

  For some reason, that made Achilios think of the stone again. Since he had discovered it, strange and unsettling things had kept happening, some of them undeniably unnatural in his eyes. Achilios recalled the symbols and wondered if, with time, Mendeln could translate them. Mendeln was clever. Perhaps he could even explain the terrible storm and what—

  The hunter paused in his tracks, causing Serenthia to stumble into him. He looked behind them.

  Thinking that there was someone back there, Cyrus’s daughter also looked. “What is it?”

  “Nothing…” He tugged her forward again. Achilios could not go back for Mendeln. Uldyssian’s brother would have to fend for himself. Surely, wherever he was, he was safe. The archer could not even recall seeing him when Uldyssian had been brought out before Brother Mikelius.

  He can fend for himself, Achilios repeated to himself. Mendeln’s very clever. Very learned. I have to worry about Serry. I have to find some way to tell her about her father…maybe when we find Uldyssian…maybe then…yes, Mendeln will be fine in the meantime…

  The hunter kept on repeating the last in his head, hoping that eventually he would believe that scholarly Mendeln would indeed stay out of trouble.

  Hoping, but not expecting.

  Mendeln had arrived at the outskirts of the village just as it seemed that the skies had declared war on his people. In contrast to the rest of Seram’s inhabitants, he had stood where he was, watching in fascination as nature acted in a manner entirely contrary to what he knew to be correct. Storms did not without warning strike so particularly. Wind did not blow with tornadic strength within village limits, only to all but die at his very feet.

  Only when the phenomenon had without warning ceased did Mendeln stir himself and enter Seram. The village center was in ruins and more than one person lay still on the ground. The enormity of what had taken place began to sink in…and so did the fact that it had proven most timely for Uldyssian.

  That last point was further emphasized for Mendeln as he passed the burnt carnage that he somehow knew was all that remained of the robed figure he had recognized as a high cleric of the Cathedral of Light, a Master Inquisitor from the looks of him. The fearsome bolt had left little and the stench should have sent Mendeln retreating…yet some morbid fascination drove the younger son of Diomedes toward the ghoulish corpse.

  But as he came within arm’s reach, a violent sensation akin to a hard fist struck him full force. Mendeln staggered back and had the unnerving feeling someone was screaming fiercely at him. He continued retreating, suddenly not wanting to be anywhere near the burnt remains.

  Then, someone behind him cried, Where is she? I can’t find her…I can’t find her…

  Mendeln turned at the voice, but saw no one. Frowning, he gave up and started away in search of his brother.

  Good Mendeln! Have you seen her? Have you seen my daughter?

  Out of the corner of his eye, Mendeln saw a figure standing near a huge piece of torn roof littering the ground. However, as he turned, the figure seemed to vanish…or was never there in the first place.

  But he thought he had recognized who it was. “Master Cyrus?” he called hesitantly. “Master Cyrus?”

  There came no answer, but again Mendeln was filled with a compulsion, this time to approach the wreckage from the roof. As he neared, he sensed something beneath the wood. Reaching down, Mendeln tugged at the rubble. The wood proved even heavier than he had imagined, but by choosing to use his mass to slide it toward him, Uldyssian’s brother managed to make some progress. Slowly, what had been hidden was revealed to the light—

  At which point Mendeln let out a garbled cry and let the wreckage loose. He shook his head, a dismay he had not felt since the death of his parents and siblings rising up to overwhelm him.

  And yet, at that moment, the familiar voice again asked, Where is she? Where is my Serenthia?

  Only then did Mendeln realize that the voice was in his head. Trembling, he retreated from the roof fragment and that which it had shrouded.

  A sharp point caught him in the small of his back. He started to turn, only to be seized roughly by more than one pair of powerful hands.

  The stern face of an Inquisitor guard came within inches of his. “You!” barked the figure. “You are kin to the accused heretic and murder, Uldyssian ul-Diomed? Admit it! Someone identified you earlier as his brother!”

  Still struggling to comprehend what had just happened before, Mendeln mutely nodded. Unfortunately, that proved to be his captors’ cue to drag him through the village toward where a group of locals stood pensively eyeing four other Inquisitor guards watching over them. Mendeln estimated nearly twenty people in the group, their wide eyes and movement reminding him of a herd of sheep heading to the slaughter.

  Dorius stood arguing with one of the minions of the Cathedral. Of Tiberius, there was no sign. A few of his men stood near Dorius, but they looked uncertain as to what to do, if anything.

  “But you’ve no right to be holding these good people!” the headman insisted.

  “Under the authority granted by the signed agreements between Kehjan and the Cathedral, we have what right we need or desire!” responded the lead guard haughtily. To Tiberius’s men, he added, “And in the scope of that, authority of your captain is ceded to us! You will obey all orders of the Cathedral and the first is to remove your headman to his quarters and confine him there!”

  One of the locals put a tentative hand toward Dorius. “What should we—”

  “I won’t budge!” insisted Dorius.

  “Then, if these will disobey, I will have no choice but to have some of my own deal with you…and them, afterward.”

  The headman glanced at the fearsome warriors, then at his own Guard. Shaking his head, he reluctantly turned and led the latter away.

  With Dorius’s retreat and Tiberius’s absence—Mendeln now suspected that the captain was one of those struck down—the fate of Uldyssian’s brother and the rest of those gathered was squarely in the hands of the Cathedral’s Inquisitor guards. Mendeln did not exactly share his sibling’s loathing of the sect, but at the moment he could think of no worse fate for any innocent than that awaiting him now. The warriors were likely to think of this as some act of magic, a notion that even Mendeln could not entirely rule out. Certainly no reasonable explanation worked.

  “Move into the circle!” growled one of those who had captured him.

  Mendeln stumbled toward the others. Those nearest immediately shunned him, pressing against their fellows in their fear. Even those who had known him since childhood looked at Mendeln as if he were some sort of pariah.

  Or rather, the brother of one.

  “That’s him,” said the same guard who had shoved the younger son of Diomedes forward.

  Mendeln turned to face a guard who, although he was a couple of inches shorter than the farmer, stared down the latter with ease. The broad, rough-hewn face looked more appropriate on a brigand than a representative of a holy order.

  “The brother of the heretic and sorcerer, are you?” demanded the lead guard in a tone that indicated no response from Mendeln was necessary. “Where is Uldyssian ul-Diomed? Answer now and you may be spared his fate!”

  “Uldyssian’s done noth
ing!”

  “His guilt is proved, his mastery of arts foul unquestionable! His soul is lost, but yours may yet receive absolution! You have but to give him up to us!”

  The words sounded absurd to Mendeln, but the guard clearly believed everything that he said to the brother. Despite the fact that he would be condemning himself, Mendeln did not hesitate to shake his head.

  “We will begin with you, then…and the rest here, all known to have fraternized with the heretic, will learn from your example!”

  Just as quickly as they had tossed him in among the others, the guards then pulled Mendeln out. They dragged him to an open space. As the farmer was forced down on his knees, he saw the lead guard stride over to his horse, there to remove a long, braided whip rolled up and attached to the saddle. The guard undid the loop binding the whip, enabling the full length of the sinister weapon to flow free. He tested the whip once, the crack it made shaking Mendeln worse than the harshest thunder.

  Face resolute, the lead guard headed back to Mendeln, who squeezed his eyes tight and prepared for the agony…

  It was a coincidence. That was all. A coincidence.

  But as Uldyssian stared toward Seram, a niggling doubt ate away at him from within. He recalled again how terrible Lylia’s ankle had looked…and then how unmarred it had appeared but moments afterward. There was the horrific storm that had assailed the village just as Brother Mikelius had begun condemning him. What were the odds of lightning striking so perfectly?

  A coincidence! Uldyssian told himself again. No more!

  Yet, even he was not entirely convinced of that.

  The farmer continued to stand there, unable to decide what to do. Then, a face came unbidden into his thoughts, a face he knew as well as his own.

  Mendeln’s…and with it came a sense of urgency, of impending threat.

  With a wordless cry, Uldyssian started back to Seram.

  “Uldyssian!” called Lylia. “What is it?”

  “My brother! Mendeln—” was all he could say. The need to reach the village before something terrible happened to Mendeln took over. Uldyssian did not question how he knew that his brother was in danger. All that mattered was preventing Mendeln from coming to harm, even if it meant being recaptured.