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

by Richard A. Knaak

  He barely looked old enough to be called a man, though looks could be and were most definitely deceiving. His ivory skin was unmarred by even the least stubble and his golden locks flowed well past his shoulders. The Prophet was lithe and very fit, although not overly muscular like the Inquisitor guards standing at attention outside his sanctum doors. He was, by the opinion of all who had seen him, simply perfect.

  He wore a look of innocent contemplation, yet tonight he was anything but serene. The impossible had come to pass and he would not stand for it. He was too close to achieving his desires, too close to re-creating the paradise he had lost.

  Near the area of his repose, four senior clerics clad in the collared silver-white robes of their station knelt with heads down in prayer. Each man looked old enough to be his father or even grandfather, yet, just like the women, they treated him with the utmost veneration.

  The Prophet suddenly found the many voices annoying to his ears. He raised one hand and the singing ceased. The praying stopped a moment later as the clerics became aware of the shift in mood.

  “I must compose myself before the next sermon,” the Prophet declared, his own voice flowing like the music of a lyre.

  The singers filed dutifully out of the chamber, followed immediately by the clerics.

  The Prophet waited for a moment, then reached out with his thoughts to make certain that his sanctum was sealed off from any who might wish to enter or attempt to hear within. Satisfied, he stared again at the fantastic images above, especially those of the magnificent fliers. A slight frown escaped him as he studied the details. Their wings were feathered like a bird’s, the closest a mortal mind could come to the truth…and yet so very far from it. The countenances were akin to his own, youthful and unmarred, but somehow, at the same time, ancient and knowing. He credited the artist for that touch, it perhaps being the most accurate portrayal, even if also wrong in so many ways…

  It had been years—nay, centuries—since he had revealed the truth, even to himself. Part of the reason had to do with his ongoing attempt to forget the past, to go on only forging a future that would be rid of any taint, any imperfection.

  But a greater part of it had to do with her…and her terrible betrayal. He had never wanted to be reminded of what had been or what might have been. It had taken him several lifetimes just to thrust her to the back of his thoughts, then twice as many to bury her memory deep to pretend, on occasion, that she had never existed.

  Yet…now it seemed that all his efforts had gone for naught.

  So be it. He would unleash his righteous fury and she and the others would learn what it was to dare plot against him. They would be reminded of just who and what he was…just before they were annihilated.

  The Prophet raised his hands high…and both he and the chamber were enveloped in light. The paintings, the murals—everything on the walls—faded away as if dew caught by a hot morning sun. Vanishing in their wake was literally all else—the intricate vases and the grand marble stands beneath them, the long, tapering rugs, the garlands of fresh flowers draping every wall…even the very couch upon which he had reclined. There remained nothing but the Prophet.

  With but another thought, he next reshaped the chamber itself. From the very top of the ceiling to the floor beneath his feet, every inch of the room took on a gleaming, mirror-like finish. The Prophet stood reflected a hundred thousand times over, his glory undiminished no matter how great the distance the image was from the original.

  But it was still not the true him. Unfamiliar emotion filled the Prophet. Desire. The desire to gaze upon his long-relinquished form. It suddenly became too much to bear. He stared at the foremost reflection, remembering, then, in the next instant, made his memory reality once again.

  The light he had earlier summoned focused upon him. It grew so bright that any normal man would have been immediately blinded no matter how well he covered his eyes. Even then, the light continued to strengthen, first taking on an aspect akin to searing white flame…and then becoming it in truth.

  But the flames did not harm the Prophet, for they were a part of him as he was a part of them. He bathed in the white fire, let it melt away the false image of a youthful human that he had worn for far too long.

  And in its place there stood revealed a towering, hooded figure with wings of that same flame, a figure who had no face as mortals understood it, but rather a wonderful radiance beneath long flashes of silver light that in their shaping somewhat resembled a magnificent mane of hair shadowed by the hood.

  The other flames receded, allowing him to fully view his glorious image over and over. His long robe was pure sunlight, his great breastplate the shine of copper. Some would have recognized his as resembling a knight, but clearly of no mortal order. Even if the fiery wings that now stretched almost the full width of the chamber had not been a part of him, it would have been clear to any that his kind did not generally walk among something so lowly as Humanity. The light shimmering from within the hood was the true him, a unique combination of pure energy and tonal resonance that marked him as one distinct being even among his own illustrious kind.

  And slowly he whispered the name that he had left behind on that fateful moment, the name which had once been sung in praise by the highest of the high.

  The name she had oft murmured in love.

  INARIUS…INARIUS… came a voice that was not a voice, but rather a sensation simultaneously experienced in mind, ear, and soul. I AM INARIUS AGAIN.

  And in announcing it to himself, he felt a rush of jubilation. He was again Inarius, once of the Angiris Council, once a commander of the Heavenly Hosts!

  Once a rebel against both the High Heavens and the Burning Hells…

  The last remembrance doused much of his pleasure. Much, but not all. He had done what he had because both sides had become so mired in conflict that they could not see the ultimate futility of their struggle. Since the dawning of reality, when the two celestial realms had come into existence and, shortly thereafter, discord, their vast forces had fought one another for the control of All. Anything of value became the focus of attack and counterattack, generally to its destruction. Angels—as his kind would have been called by humans—and demons alike perished by the legions, all in the name of the Angiris Council—they who ruled the High Heavens—and their eternal adversaries, the Prime Evils.

  But Inarius had grown sick of the endless battles, the plotting and the counterplotting. Nothing was gained. Had he been in charge of the Council, he would have done things differently, but even his brother—brother in the sense that their resonances, their beings, held a distinct similarity compared with others’—would not see reason. Even Tyrael, he who was the essence of Justice, could not or would not understand the truth.

  And so it was that Inarius at last chose to abandon his part in the struggle. Yet he could not help feeling that there had to be others like him, even in the Burning Hells. Making contact with such—either those of his own kind or, especially, the demons—proved a tricky situation, but Inarius had not been an advisor to the Council for nothing. He understood the machinations not only there, but as they would be in the Burning Hells, and that allowed him to circumnavigate the watchdogs of both. He soon began to locate those others and gather them secretly to him. To his surprise, there were far more than even he had dreamed, far more who saw no sense in battering away at one another throughout eternity. Even more astonishing, there had been among the demons one who had thought like Inarius long before the angel himself had dared to do so.

  Her. The one who would awaken love in him as he would do in turn. The one with whom he would help forge a world, a place known to his band of rebels as Sanctuary.

  The one who would turn his dream of a paradise into a nightmare of blood.

  Inarius gazed at the mirrored images and saw her at his side again. She would not be wearing the form he recalled, not now. If she had truly found her way back, it would have been in a masked shape, female likely, but possib
ly male. She was cunning, beguiling…and a threat to all that was by right his.

  YOU SHALL NOT TAKE FROM ME SANCTUARY, Inarius reprimanded her memory. I WILL NOT LET YOU AGAIN DESTROY MY DREAM! SANCTUARY AND ALL IT CONTAINS WILL NOT BE YOURS, EVEN IF I MUST DESTROY IT MYSELF…AS IS MY RIGHT…

  After all, it had been Inarius who had kept it all from collapsing after her heinous betrayal. It had been he who had countered the plots of the Prime Evils and Lucion when they had discovered the realm and he who continued to keep the Angiris Council ignorant of all. The fate of this world and all the brief lives on it were his, no one else’s!

  The angel dismissed the vision of her with what in humans would have been bitterness but what in Inarius was certainly no such base emotion. He was above all that, of course. He reacted only as events demanded, no more.

  In fact, Inarius had already set into motion steps against her return. She kept herself veiled well, but not well enough. She could not hide from him; he knew her even as her brother did not. Having divined that she had in fact returned to Sanctuary, Inarius had then calculated where she had to be located. That had turned out to be no difficult matter, not given her obvious plan, a continuation of her ancient obsession.

  I WILL NOT BROOK THE STIRRING OF THE NEPHALEM AGAIN, he thought, recalling what had happened last time. SUCH AN ABOMINATION WILL NOT SEE FRUITION AGAIN! He suddenly swelled up in size. His wings filled the vast chamber and the entire Cathedral shook with his anger, though his followers would blame that on a mere tremor. YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE DARED RETURN, NOT DARED TO INFLUENCE THAT WHICH SHOULD HAVE BEEN LEFT BURIED SO DEEP…

  Inarius stared at his reflections. Humanity did have one advantage and he chose to use it again. With a thought, the angel altered his appearance, re-creating beneath the hood glimpses of a face akin to that of the gold-tressed Prophet. The eyes were still pure energy, but the rest had some semblance of mortal life.

  More important, Inarius now had a mouth and on that mouth he set an angry edge, a scowl. It better allowed him to display for his own satisfaction his fury.

  “You should not have dared return,” the angel repeated, savoring the harsh movements of the mouth and the coarse tones that accented his words better. The scowl deepened in a yet more satisfying manner as Inarius added, “And you should not have dared try to cross me again, Lilith…”

  They brought him gifts of flowers, food, and goods. Many of the gifts were simply discovered at the gates surrounding the estate of Master Ethon, left there by anonymous folk who had heard the tale from others.

  “Partha has had its share of preachers and clerics talking of healing the body and soul,” their host told Uldyssian. “Yet none of them were ever able to back their words with anything but emptiness!”

  “I only did—I only did what I wished that I could’ve done for my sister,” the son of Diomedes explained helplessly, not for the first time.

  The tale of the boy’s healing had spread like wildfire throughout the town. Without exception, it was called a miracle, especially by the grateful mother. According to Ethon, she had gone from place to place, showing off what he had done for her only child and singing Uldyssian’s praises to the heavens.

  “I know the woman. Bartha is her name. That child’s her treasure, her only love. His father died just before he was born. Fall from a horse.” The merchant and headman smiled sadly. “She always feared for the lad, though I know she never let him see that. Tries to teach him to be strong…”

  “They have to stop leaving all these things,” Uldyssian interrupted, staring out the window overlooking the gates. Even as he watched, a furtive figure in a cloak dropped a basket that appeared to contain loaves of bread and a flask of wine. The guards there pointedly looked the other way, not helping Uldyssian’s situation. From what he had seen, they were as awed by him as the rest of the citizenry.

  “My people are a generous, appreciative lot. They seek to honor you for your good deed, nothing more.”

  “It would be best if we left before this gets any more out of hand, Uldyssian,” remarked Lylia. “We must be on our way to the city.”

  The party had originally agreed to just stay overnight at Ethon’s estate. However, that single night had turned into two, then three. Ethon made no attempt to ask them to depart and Uldyssian had quickly found that he had missed such simple comforts as clean beds and proper meals. He liked Partha, liked the people, especially the kindly merchant. He was only embarrassed by the excess of generosity, something he felt he did not deserve.

  “I can’t,” Uldyssian finally said to her. “Not yet.” Without warning, he started for the door.

  The others rose to their feet. Achilios was the first to ask, “Where are you going?”

  “Out to do what I must. Wait here.”

  Uldyssian gave them no chance to argue with him. He especially worried about what Lylia would say if he hesitated. The plan was still to head on to Kehjan…just…not yet.

  He all but flew down the stairs, but as he headed toward the doors, a slim figure caught up with him. Cedric, eyes wide, stepped up next to Uldyssian and began keeping pace.

  “Are you finally going out? Are you? Will you do anything like the last time?” he asked excitedly.

  The farmer grimaced. “I’m going out, but alone. Stay here, Ced. Stay for your safety.”

  “Safety? Safety from what?”

  Instead of answering, Uldyssian picked up his pace. He crossed the threshold just ahead of the boy. However, when Ethon’s son attempted to follow, it was to have the door shut right in front of him despite no one touching it.

  Outside, Uldyssian breathed a short sigh of relief. He had hoped that the door would do as he wished, but actually having it happen still astounded him. No one would be able to open it again until Uldyssian was well into the town square. By then, it would be too late to stop him…

  Unfortunately, if he had hoped to make it there unnoticed, in this his abilities failed him. Even before Uldyssian stepped beyond the gates of the estate, people began to gather in his vicinity. It was as if they had been waiting for him to finally come out…very likely the case, he mused. None of the faces he saw gave any indication of malice or fear, though. Something far different. Something he thought approached…reverence?

  It was not the emotion he wanted of them. He had experienced it to a point with Serenthia and still felt uncomfortable. He was a simple man. He came to offer them something to put them on a level with himself and to free them from the control of the nobles and the mages…and, most of all, the Temple and the Cathedral. Uldyssian had no desire to be worshipped.

  But first, he would have to show them that what he had done was not so much a miracle, not if they could learn to do it for themselves.

  By the time he neared the town square, there followed in his wake a substantial throng. Uldyssian continued to sense nothing threatening in anyone around him. Perhaps he had overreacted in keeping his friends from coming with him immediately, but it was still possible that there would be one person around who might choose to see him as a thing of evil, a monster, as his own village had declared him.

  The center of Partha consisted of an open, stone-paved area where, in the morning, merchants and farmers with wagons sold various wares, especially food and meat. They ringed a wide, round fountain in the middle of which stood a statue of a scholarly figure with a long, long beard and bearing twin scrolls under his arms. Master Ethon had called him Protheus, one of the founders of Partha and the man who had preached kindness and understanding. Uldyssian thought Protheus’s shadow a good one to have cast over him when he began his task.

  Four leaping fish spouting water marked the outer edge of the fountain and directly between two of these was the location that Uldyssian chose. Protheus would be staring at the crowd from right behind him.

  The market had still been active, but a hush spread through the townsfolk the moment he stopped. Uldyssian suddenly felt nervous. His mouth went dry and he was tempted to thrust his hea
d in the fountain not only to try to quench his sudden thirst but to hide from the very audience he had sought out.

  But then Uldyssian spotted a very familiar figure in the crowd. The woman, Bartha. He had only to glance down to discover her son, who beamed at the man who had healed him as if Uldyssian were his own father.

  That gave him the heart that he had momentarily been lacking. Unconsciously mimicking the statue’s stance, Uldyssian surveyed the crowd, then proclaimed, “What I’ve done is no miracle!”

  His words were met with disbelief by some, confusion by others. Bartha smiled as if he had told some gentle joke. She was absolutely certain of what she had witnessed and her son was proof of that.

  However, Uldyssian shook his head at her, then continued, “It is no miracle…because it lies within each of you to do as much, if not more!”

  Now a murmur arose among the people, many of them clearly not believing this suggestion any more than the last.

  “Hear me!” the son of Diomedes shouted at the top of his voice. “Hear me! Only a short while back, I was no different from the rest of you! I toiled in my farm, concerned only with my day’s work. I thought of little else. The vicious bickering of the mage clans was not for me, save that I hoped it would not spill over into my village! Nor was I concerned with the empty words of missionaries from the Temple and the Cathedral, knowing how they had done nothing for my family, who first suffered long from plague, then withered slowly into death!”

  Here, he received sympathetic glances and nods of understanding from several in the crowd. Uldyssian spied at least a handful of people who wore the pockmarked faces of plague survivors. Partha might overall be very prosperous, but its individual citizens suffered their black days, clearly.

  He shook his head. “I said that what I did was no miracle, but for me there did come a miracle one day, an awakening of something within me…a force, a power…call it what you like! Things began to happen around me. Some feared them, some did not.” That was as far as he would go into the story of what had happened in Seram. If the townsfolk discovered the truth later on, so be it. By then, either Uldyssian would have convinced them or proven himself a madman after all. “I was able to do things, help others…”