“Behold, my Malic…”
As if time itself ceased, every morlu warrior abruptly froze where he was. Blades paused halfway into guts. Severed heads halted in their tumble from the ruined necks. Utter silence reigned over the humongous lair.
The Kiss of Mephisto let out a burst of black light. Not darkness, but completely, utterly black light.
And as that light rushed over both the fighting and the fallen, they twisted and turned as if their bones had become fluid. Lost limbs flew up to reattach, gaping wounds sewed together. Mangled corpses shivered with renewed animation. Malic felt a twinge of remembrance concerning his own recent change and clutched his disfigured hand anew as he watched events unfold.
The ranks of the morlu reconstituted themselves. Even from the steaming, red depths of the magma rivers, the warriors emerged resurrected. Their armor momentarily glowed bright from the searing heat in which their corpses had bathed, then faded to the dour black.
It was a miraculous sight to Malic, this raising of the dead and healing of the wounded, even though he knew that in some sense it was not what it appeared. The stone did not have the ability to bring life back to the mortal remains. Those morlu who had been slain either this day or previous were not, in fact, even human anymore. Rather, they were cadavers animated by Mephisto’s foul majesty through the will of his son, Lucion. What existed within was a demonic essence that mimicked the life that had once existed. Every new morlu warrior quickly joined the ranks of the animated—so harsh was the constant battling—but they thought this an honor, believing that their souls were somehow still a part of all this.
But what truly happened to those souls, only the Lord of Hatred surely knew, or so Malic at least thought.
Within moments, the field was again filled with restless fighters in their prime. Several growled at one another or brandished swords, maces, axes, and the like at potential foes. The blood that had covered much of the area had faded into the rock. To all apparent purposes, it was as if the battle had never taken place.
“Damos…” Lord Lucion whispered.
From far off in the cavern, from deep within the ranks, a particularly large and grotesque morlu turned and peered up at the pair. He suddenly raised his massive sword and gave a guttural cry, a salute, to his master.
The Primus nodded, then raised one hand with all fingers spread wide. Damos nodded and began barging through the rows of heaving bodies. Without warning, he seized one by the collar and dragged him from his position. That morlu followed behind Damos as the Primus’s chosen commander sought another. In this manner, five soon followed Damos up the edge toward where Lucion and Malic awaited them.
“Great master…” Damos croaked as he bent down on one knee. His voice was akin to that of every other morlu who had been slain once. It was as if, despite its best effort, the dark essence within could not completely mask itself as human. Damos’s voice could never have passed for mortal.
Behind the lead morlu, the five others also knelt. Lucion touched Damos on the top of the ram helm, giving his blessing. Damos then turned his head toward Malic. “High priest…”
Malic repeated his master’s gesture.
“Rise, Damos,” commanded Mephisto’s son. When the lead morlu had obeyed, the Primus said, “You are at the high priest’s command. You will obey him in all things.”
“Yes, Great One…”
“There are prey of both life and death involved, Damos. You understand the difference.”
The helmed figure nodded. Malic knew Damos from past need. The helm only partially obscured a face that looked as if the Kiss of Mephisto had failed to completely remake it. Not much remained of the nose save two gaping holes, and Damos’s lower jaw seemed to have belonged to another, even larger creature, perhaps a bear. The pits that had once been eyes were misaligned. However, other than the fact that his eyes were no more, Damos looked very much as he had when first being initiated into the living ranks of new morlu. He had been one particularly ugly human inside and out and his dark soul even then had disproven the adage of not judging a book by its cover. Indeed, there was little difference now between the mortal Damos and the thing currently inhabiting his shell.
“The high priest will mark the one to salvage, the others to slay,” continued Lucion. Then, to Malic’s surprise, the demon lord added, “but you will also have to be on your guard for another.”
“Another?” blurted the cleric, suddenly recalling some of what he had blathered to his lord in defense of his failure as the Primus had punished him.
There came an edge to the Primus’s voice that Malic had never noted in all the years that he had served the great one. Almost it sounded like…uncertainty? But no, the human quickly decided, that could not be. Lucion was never uncertain.
Never…
“I have sensed…” the son of Mephisto said after an equally unsettling silence. “…that all is not as it appears on the surface. There is some intrusion, some…other…” He trailed off, suddenly caught up in thought.
The morlu stirred uneasily and Malic grew more perturbed. This was not how the master acted. He never paused so, never hesitated.
What was happening? Who was this other?
Malic again recalled his own suspicions during the debacle against the farmer. He had been overwhelmed by the incredible power wielded by the simplistic Uldyssian, power combined with skill that the fool should not have had. The high priest had wondered then if there was something else going on behind the scenes, that things were not as they had appeared.
And now…and now Malic suspected that Lord Lucion thought the same. Lord Lucion, it seemed, believed his tale.
Mephisto’s son shook his head, his expression darkening monstrously. “No…it could never be.” The expression passed away, leaving in its place the look of utter assurance to which Malic was more used. “You will know it,” the Primus went on suddenly and calmly to both the cleric and Damos. “This time, you will know it. It must be obliterated. The farmer—this Uldyssian ul-Diomed—must be preserved, but it and all else around him shall be no more. Is that understood?”
The lead morlu bowed his head in acknowledgment. Malic nodded, his human hand still clutching the transformed one.
Lucion noted his action. Smiling benevolently, he said to the human, “It is a gift I give you, my Malic. You will see. You will see…”
The pronouncement encouraged the high priest. Malic eyed the macabre appendage anew. His master did nothing without thought. An actual gift, after all? He could flex the digits as easily as he could the old ones and in some cases in manners not previously possible. The pain had finally begun to subside, too. Curiously, the cleric also felt stronger than he had.
Steepling his fingers, the son of Mephisto concluded, “Now it is time to seek anew the one called Uldyssian. I will in this brook no failure; is that understood?”
Again, there was mute acknowledgment from both Malic and Damos.
“Then that is all. You will depart immediately.”
The chosen morlu gathered behind Malic, who bowed to the master. Eagerness had replaced fear in the heart of the cleric. He silently swore that he would bring Uldyssian ul-Diomed to Lord Lucion even if it meant beating the farmer until there remained just enough spark of life for the Primus to use.
As he led Damos and the other five away, Malic also thought about this other intrusion of which his master had spoken. Despite whatever power it wielded, Lord Lucion wanted nothing of it. He wanted it destroyed, not preserved. It very much felt to the high priest as if his master did know what—or who—it was.
Malic was not the type to betray his master. No such fool was he. However, it would certainly do no harm to find out just what this other thing was. Then, once his curiosity was satisfied, he could let the morlu destroy it.
All that mattered was the fool of a farmer…
Lucion did not watch Malic depart. He knew that he could trust the cleric to obey this time. The mortal had no other choice.
<
br /> The legions of morlu continued to chafe at the bit, but Lucion let them wait. He had not told his servants all, not given them true indication of his thoughts.
It cannot be, he argued with himself. It cannot be…her. She cannot be here…
And that made him think of the other, of the one with whom he played this game of control of the minds and souls of mortals. The one was as little like them as he was. Could it be that his foe had some part in this? Was this all a ploy to put Lucion and his father off balance? That certainly made more sense than the possibility that she was here.
He would not tell his father just yet. As Malic rightly feared punishment by the Primus, so, too, did Lucion fear the wrath of his sire. His own monstrous nature paled in comparison to that of the Lord of Hatred. No, for now, Mephisto would not be told.
But if it was her…then sooner or later Lucion would have to confront his father.
I must find out more. What he had not told Malic was that, live or die when next he confronted the farmer, the cleric would reveal to Lucion the truth about this second force using the human to shield it from his presence. Malic was bound by his new hand to his master more than he knew. There were abilities to the hand that could destroy even her…at the cost of his human vessel, of course. Lucion found Malic particularly useful, but his loss would mean little if it meant securing Sanctuary, especially from her.
Trying to ease his mind, the Primus nodded at the waiting warriors below.
With a collected cry, the morlu went at each other again. Metal rang out against metal. A hundred warriors were slaughtered in the first breath. Blood splattered the floor of the vast chamber and the cries of the wounded echoed, the last being music to the ears of their master.
Yet, despite reveling in the endless carnage created by his eager servants, Lucion’s thoughts continually rebelled by returning to the previous subject. It could not be her; it could never be her. She was gone, either banished forever or dead. It was not within even her power to overcome either. He knew her well enough, did he not? Had he not once been as close to her as nearly any other? Only two had possibly known her better than Lucion, and one of those was his father.
The other was his adversary…who had been the reason for her downfall.
Which brought to prominence again the question that Lucion would have liked to know the answer to.
If this is not some plan of his…does he sense her possible return, too?
TEN
There was no disagreement when Uldyssian decided that the party could not stay where they had been camped. Serenthia wanted to at least gather the bodies of the Peace Warders together for some sort of respectful burial, but Uldyssian cared nothing for the corpses. These men had intended capture for him and death for his companions and so he felt justified in leaving them out in the open to be feasted upon by the carrion eaters of the forest.
They searched for the Peace Warders’ mounts, but, oddly, there was no trace of the animals. No one could recall when last any of them had been seen and even the sharp-eyed Achilios could find no trail. They quickly gave up and, mounting their own for steeds, raced off into the dead of night.
Uldyssian remained tense throughout the ride, not because he feared for himself so much, but for the others…especially Lylia. Malic had surely noted her closeness to the farmer and the high priest would no doubt seek to take advantage of their relationship even more so than the blood ties between Uldyssian and his brother.
Thinking of Mendeln, Uldyssian glanced back at his sibling’s shadowed form. What little he could make out of Mendeln’s countenance revealed the same anxiousness the older brother had noticed before. Mendeln appeared particularly struck by the carnage, even more than Serenthia. Uldyssian had caught him standing near one body after another, shaking his head and reaching out into the darkness. The shock of the incident clearly continued to haunt Mendeln even now…
With a grunt, Uldyssian returned his gaze to the black path ahead. Perhaps it would be better to leave Mendeln somewhere along the way. He wished no harm to come to his brother nor did he want Mendeln’s fragile state to cause any difficulty for him later on. Uldyssian had always known his brother was not as strong physically as him, but he had believed Mendeln of a sturdy mind. Evidentially, he had been wrong.
He took another glance over his shoulder. Yes, Mendeln looked like a man haunted. Something would have to be done if that did not change…
Faster and faster they rode, racing like the wind through the shrouded night. Mendeln tried desperately to stare only ahead, but even in that direction he could not entirely escape them.
They were five, he, his brother, and the rest. That was all that there should have been. Five people, four steeds.
But with the five there now traveled nearly a score more riders that only Mendeln could apparently see.
The translucent wisps of white and gray fluttered along each side of the party. They shimmered in and out of existence. They had gaunt, pale faces and wore the helms and breastplates of Peace Warders. When he did dare glance in their direction, it was to be rewarded with the same unblinking, hollow-eyed stares, as if the ethereal figures awaited some word from him.
But Mendeln had no words for these ghosts of the men his brother and Achilios had slain, no words save a silent plea for the shades to depart. Yet, not only did they not leave, it seemed to Mendeln that they clustered nearest to him. The phantasms kept perfect pace with the anguished farmer, riding astride invisible mounts. Mendeln supposed that if any of the animals had been killed in the process, then they, too, would have joined the ghostly charge. That notion made him chuckle nervously, which brought a concerned glance from nearby Achilios.
He thought of telling the archer what was happening, Achilios perhaps the only one who might understand. The hunter would recall the unsettling stone and would make the connection just as Mendeln had.
But if Achilios had any good sense—which Mendeln believed he did—then the blond archer would immediately keep his distance from the hapless farmer. Mendeln certainly would not blame him. He wanted to be as far away from himself as possible. However, since it was not possible to do that, all he could hope was that, with time, the shades would go to whatever rest they were supposed to go.
Yes, he could hope that would happen…but Mendeln doubted he would be so lucky as that.
Night gave way to a mist-covered day, but although Achilios suggested that they stop, Uldyssian chose to press the horses and his companions until what he believed nearly noon. Only when they came across a stream surrounded by high, canopied trees did he finally call a halt.
Even Uldyssian felt weary by this point. Dismounting, he immediately went to help Lylia down. Achilios did the same for Serenthia. Mendeln slipped off his own mount and rushed to the stream to drink.
However, barely had Uldyssian’s brother started to thrust a hand toward the clear water when suddenly he withdrew it as if bitten. The younger son of Diomedes stared off into the distance, then, blinking, looked back to the rest.
“This water is tainted,” he said somewhat hesitantly. “Best not to drink it. At the very least, we would become very ill.”
“How do you know?” asked Serenthia.
Mendeln frowned, acting to Uldyssian like a child caught in a lie. “I saw…I saw some small fish…more than one…float by. They were dead and mottled. Looked like they died of sickness.”
“I’ve seen the like,” interjected Achilios. “If what Mendeln describes is accurate, then we’d be best not to drink.”
“But there is nothing to fear,” declared Lylia, stepping from Uldyssian’s side. She looked up at him. “You can surely deal with something so simple as this.”
“Deal with it?”
“Make the water pure, naturally!”
The others eyed her in disbelief. Even Uldyssian had some trouble with what she said, but the longer she held his gaze, the more he considered the possibility.
“All right.” He strode to the stream, glanc
ing only briefly at his brother. Mendeln put out a warning hand, but Uldyssian sensed Lylia watching and so continued past his brother without a word. He could do this for her, he decided. Each time, it had been her confidence, her love, that had shown him the way. This would be no different.
His fingers touched the water. Droplets fluttered over his hand as he concentrated, willing the stream to be clean of taint. Uldyssian repeated the desire over and over in his head until finally deciding that either he had succeeded or it had all been a waste of time.
As he drew back his hand, Serenthia asked, “But, how will we know if it worked?”
Once again, Lylia proved her faith in Uldyssian. Without hesitation, she slipped past him and knelt by the stream.
This was too much even for Uldyssian. “Lylia! No—”
But in one swift motion, she brought her cupped hands to her lips and drank fully the contents.
Uldyssian stood ready to help her, fearful that he had failed this time and thus risked the life of the one most dear to him. To his surprise, though, it was Mendeln who sought to ease his concern.
“The stream…Uldyssian…the stream…is clear of taint now. No need to worry, I swear, brother…”
Uldyssian did not ask how Mendeln knew this. Yet, something in his sibling’s voice made him believe.
“He speaks the truth,” the noblewoman declared. “I am all right, my love. Trust me.”
He seized Lylia, holding her tight. “Don’t ever do that again!” he breathed in her ear. “Especially not because of me…”
“But I knew that your power protected me…protected all of us. Was I not correct?”
“Just…don’t…”
“Well, I for one, need a drink after that,” Achilios uttered loudly, leading the horses forward. “As do these fine creatures…”
Diablo: The Sin War Box Set: Birthright, Scales of the Serpent, and The Veiled Prophet Page 14
