He struck the ground again and Uldyssian, who had nearly gotten to his feet, fell back. Uldyssian turned that tumble into a roll, a wise maneuver as the club next shattered the stones atop which he had just lain.
“I am not the master of the elements that Esu was, young fool, but Bul-Kathos wields much might of his own!”
“And speaks about it even more!” snapped Uldyssian in turn. From his awkward position, he still managed to focus on his adversary. The giant made for a hard-to-miss target…
There was a sound like a thunderclap. The area between the two exploded, as if the very air had caught fire. Both combatants were thrown far from one another.
Uldyssian struck a tree, jarring his bones so hard he thought that they were all shattered. Despite that, he managed to immediately fall forward into a crouching position and seize a handful of dirt. He threw the handful high in the air and concentrated.
The dirt broke apart, becoming a whirling, blinding force that assailed the giant just as he regained his own balance. However, Bul-Kathos did not recoil, but rather inhaled…and sneezed. The whirlwind broke apart and the dust formed in a tight ball that landed in the warrior’s brown palm.
With a bellowing laugh, Bul-Kathos raised his hand and the dirt stretched two directions, creating in the blink of an eye a spear with a tip that gleamed like a diamond. He threw the spear at Uldyssian.
Again, the former farmer raised a shield, but this time it was not quite strong enough. The spear slowed, yet did not halt. Uldyssian pressed, but the missile caught him in the left shoulder. He cried out as the point penetrated—
Bul-Kathos was suddenly before him, the giant gripping the spear with both hands. He obviously intended to drive the spear deeper, for Uldyssian had managed to keep the wound fairly shallow.
“You were warned! If only you’d not refused to turn away, young one! I’m sworn to do what I must now!”
Uldyssian clutched the upper edge of the spear.
Lightning crackled along the length of it, racing to where his foe held the weapon. Bul-Kathos let out a roar as the powerful energy engulfed him.
Gritting his teeth, Uldyssian shoved the spear from the wound. Falling back, he touched the bloody opening, which immediately sealed.
The pair paused. Both Uldyssian and Bul-Kathos gasped for air as their gazes met.
“A fine battle!” the giant almost cheerfully called. “It breathes new life into me, recalls me the magnificent challenges I once faced daily…”
“You may find amusement in this, but I don’t!” Uldyssian snapped. “A friend is dead, my brother is lost, and the woman I love and those who trust in me might all be dead now while I waste my time on this!” He suddenly straightened. “Continue with your game, if you wish, Bul-Kathos, but I’m done with it all! Very well! Keep whatever foul secret you guard in that mountain to yourself!”
“I can’t trust that you’ll not be returning, young one, and though ’tis in part my own folly that you know of Arreat and that she houses something, I cannot let you live!”
The giant clasped his fists together, but before he could do whatever it was he planned, a figure materialized between them.
“But you will let him live, old ox. Not only live, but come with me to the depths of Mount Arreat…”
Bul-Kathos blurted the name before Uldyssian could. “Rathma!” Then, as the other’s words registered, a scowl spread across the giant’s gravelly features. “Inside the mount? Am I mad from isolation and only dream you? You’d never suggest such a thing!”
“I am as real as you, Bul-Kathos.” To prove his point, Rathma thrust a gloved finger into the taller figure’s chest. “And, perhaps, even more so,” he added, his glove coming away covered in ground and grass. Rathma shook his head. “I thought you would outlast even me…”
“I may yet, if you persist in this! How does this one come to need to visit the mount?”
“Because my mother has returned.”
It was all Rathma had to say. Bul-Kathos’s face changed utterly. He spat, but instead of water, mud landed on the ruined ground. Uldyssian realized that Rathma had the right of it concerning the giant; Bul-Kathos looked much more like them now, but what the son of Diomedes had first seen was the truth. Bul-Kathos existed more as spirit; his true body had long ago been replaced by the soil in which he had lain.
It bespoke how very old the giant was and how very long he had likely stood sentinel over this mysterious peak.
“Lilith…” Bul-Kathos spoke her name like someone who had just discovered that they had swallowed poison. “She still bears the murders of my parents on her shoulders! They would’ve never let Inarius slay us, as she said he would, Rathma! I’m sure of it—”
“And I am not…but that is neither here nor there. My mother saved us only to become hers, a fate that would have been worse than death, trust me. As for my father…in the name of his sanctimony, he is capable of things just as terrible…”
That stilled the huge warrior completely. “Aye, I know that too well…”
“Then you understand why I shall now take Uldyssian to see Mount Arreat’s secret.”
Bul-Kathos nodded. “Aye…and no one else’ll stop you. If they still stand, that is. I’ve let any who can hear me know that the way must be clear for you and yours…”
With a swirl of his cloak, Rathma turned to Uldyssian. “Well, son of Diomedes, you wanted to see what lay in the mount. Come and I will show you.”
But something else concerned Uldyssian far more. “Where is my brother? Where’s Mendeln?”
“With Trag’Oul. It must be so for now. Events are rushing forward even swifter than I had imagined that they could and he, too, must be ready to aid in the struggle.”
Despite Rathma’s indifferent tone, Uldyssian felt every fiber of his being go taut. “What is it?”
“It is,” the ancient being said with a sigh, “what it has been. My mother. Lilith. I underestimated her. She has adapted once again…”
“What? What has she done?”
Rathma’s gaze shifted to Mount Arreat. “She has gained control of your edyrem, of course.”
And before Uldyssian could respond…they both vanished from Bul-Kathos’s side.
Twelve
Mendeln worried about his brother. He had no idea where Uldyssian had vanished to and the being called Trag’Oul was of no help whatsoever.
He is where he must be, just as you are where you must be, the dragon had each time answered to his question.
Where Mendeln was bothered him almost as much as the location of his sibling. He no longer stood in the empty darkness that seemed Trag’Oul’s domain, but rather in a wasteland, a place where there had been much carnage long, long ago.
The landscape and sky were utterly gray and not the slightest hint of wind graced his cheek. Dust covered what Mendeln assumed were ancient buildings of some sort, buildings scattered far from one another. They all bore some similarity to one another, though. Some stood nearly whole, others were barely skeletons. In addition to the buildings, there were also signs that this place had been rich in tall trees and other flora as well. Now, though, there were only the petrified traces of that once lush time. Every plant, however, great or small, had perished at the same time that this settlement had come to ruin.
As had the inhabitants. Mendeln sensed the dead. They had died long, long ago. Longer than even legendary Kehjan had existed, yet they were not fully at rest.
He awaited some word from Trag’Oul, but the celestial creature was as silent as the grave. A frustrated Mendeln finally stalked toward the nearest of the ruins, where he began dusting off the upthrust corner of one.
Not at all to his surprise, the archaic words of the language Rathma had burned into his head were just barely visible. These, however, meant nothing to him, not even after Mendeln sounded them out. He understood the “letters,” but they added up to nothing comprehensible.
Straightening, he muttered, “And so what do we have here, th
en? What?”
The legacy of the demoness’s previous crusade…came the answer immediately.
Mendeln shuddered, but not only because of what the dragon had said. Since Uldyssian had pointed it out, even he now recognized the similarity between his voice and that of the leviathan…not to mention Rathma, also. How long ago and how deeply had they infested his mind?
That question almost made him rebel against any further movement here, but the threat of Lilith and his concern for Uldyssian overrode the hesitation. In truth, thus far Mendeln had not experienced anything actually sinister at the hands of those who claimed that they wanted to be his mentors. In fact, if he recalled his own mind, they only acted on desires already stirring within him for the past few years.
And if learning from them could help save both his brother and his world…it behooved Mendeln to do whatever was necessary.
He stepped to the next ruins, the trek taking barely more than a heartbeat. Mendeln was aware that this was not right, that the distance should have taken much longer. However, he was grateful that he would not have to take what would have possibly been hours just to traverse his immediate surroundings.
The second structure was much more intact than the first. A quick dusting revealed more unknown words. This time, however, Uldyssian’s brother did not so quickly give up. He repeated each rune with care, trying them in different vocal variations. Perhaps pronunciation was the mistake, he wondered. Perhaps—
Suddenly, the word before him made sense. A name, or at least a noun. Pyragos.
Quite pleased by his success, Mendeln spoke the word out loud. “Pyragos!”
Instantly, the ground around the ruined building shuddered. Mendeln stumbled back, already regretting his rash action.
From below burst a grotesque, fleshless form with wings stripped of the membranes that had once given them the potential for flight. The head was shaped like a bull’s, even with two savage horns that interlocked in the middle. The fiend leaped up, dry dirt and what might have been drier skin dropping from it. Mendeln was immediately put to mind of the demonic presence that he and Uldyssian had fought in the jungle.
But something concerning this situation was not quite the same. First and foremost, the skeletal form rising up from its grave was shorter than the one in the jungle and its frame was much more petite overall despite the vast wings. Staring at it, Mendeln would have sworn that it was—or had once been—female.
Less certain than a moment before, he yet again repeated the name. “Pyragos?”
In reply, the ground to his right shook. In fact, the entire landscape suddenly convulsed. He cursed himself as he leapt back. Once had been ignorant; twice had been utterly foolhardy.
Out of the wasted landscape rose a legion of monstrous corpses, none of them completely human and all nearly bone…or some equivalent to it. In fact, there were many that to his eye seemed more merely empty garments or shadowy images. They came in all shapes, all sizes, to his eye registering as once male, female, and…simply other.
But there was something about them that did not seem right. Mendeln had faced ghosts before and these were not such. He put a hand to the foremost, a winged thing with horns that, from its slight size and certain characteristics, Mendeln judged once female. The hand went through, not so great a surprise, but the sense of former life was not there.
They are the memories of angels and demons, came Trag’Oul’s voice. Their deaths so terrible that their shadows are forever burned into this place…
Not real spirits. Mendeln wondered if either group had what he would have called a soul, but suspected not. Perhaps that was another reason they both coveted and distrusted humans…
Then…among them he sensed the coming of others. Misty forms milled around and even through the macabre memories, misty forms with which Mendeln was more familiar. These were true spirits, true souls.
But…of whom?
Show yourself to me! he demanded. Show yourself!
They did. A legion of men and women, many of them astonishingly perfect even in death, overwhelmed the visions of demons and angels. Mendeln recognized them for who they were, for their perfection was as Rathma’s.
The children of Sanctuary’s founders. The first nephalem and the immediate generations after.
The ghosts of the nephalem stood motionless, as if awaiting his next action. Mendeln had no notion as to what that might be and Trag’Oul appeared silent on the subject. Evidently, it was up to Mendeln to make his own path.
But with an endless array of dead before him, what was that path?
He looked to the foremost of them, a woman of such dark beauty that she made his heart beat faster. Her silver eyes stared into his without blinking.
Hoping that he was not making a fatal mistake, Mendeln reached out a hand.
The female nephalem immediately bowed her head so that the top of it hovered directly before his fingers.
Acting on a hunch, Mendeln let the fingertips graze the lush, black hair. Immediately, he felt a force surge through him and a voice—a distinctly feminine voice—said to him, I was Helgrotha…
He pulled the fingers back. The nephalem raised her head, the silver orbs again staring into his own.
Curiously, although he had only heard the name—her name—Mendeln discovered that he now knew much, much more about her. He could imagine her as she had once been, from her birth to her death. Once, she had been nearly as powerful as Rathma and had watched over those creatures who lived during night as opposed to the day. She had been kind, but also firm in her protection of those for whom she had cared.
He stood there, wondering what next to do. The dead waited with him, forever patient, even if he was not.
“And what am I to do with you?” Mendeln demanded. “Will you march against Lilith for me? Will you? Will even one of you do this?”
The woman raised her left hand to him. The action startled Mendeln, who took another step back. But the specter did not attack. Instead, in her hand materialized a long, narrow object. A bone.
She offered it to him.
Having no idea what he should do with the grisly gift but certain that it would be folly to refuse it, Mendeln gingerly gripped the piece of bone.
“Thank you?” he blurted.
But even as the last word slipped from his lips…what had once been a nephalem called Helgrotha faded like a dying wisp of smoke suddenly caught in a breeze. Mendeln looked around and saw the rest of the ghostly legion vanish in like manner.
No sooner had they faded away, than the ruins, the visions of demons and angels—the entire wasteland—followed suit.
A moment later, Mendeln did the same, suddenly reappearing in the dark emptiness with which he was starting to become too familiar.
Say the word again. Say it, son of Diomedes…
“Pyragos?” Mendeln instantly felt a coolness in his hands, an almost refreshing coolness. He glanced down and saw the bone shimmer. It took all his will not to drop the fragment.
It is the first word of summoning and this the item that will better bind you to the powers involved in such an act.
The nephalem’s bone twisted, reshaped. It grew slightly shorter and much slimmer. One end narrowed to a point, then flattened. The edges grew sharp.
The shimmering dulled but did not completely fade. Mendeln stared at what he held.
A dagger…an ivory dagger such as he had seen Rathma wielding.
They have accepted you who hears them—the children of angels and demons slain so foully—accepted that you will keep Sanctuary from becoming either the fury of the Burning Hells or the oppressive order and worship of the High Heavens. They who were the first birthed in Sanctuary and are, because of that, still more of it than either Lilith or Inarius can understand, forever open the link between the phase of afterdeath and that of living…
“‘Afterdeath’?” Mendeln repeated, but the glittering stars did not further explain that term and Mendeln finally understood that he should define
it as best he could on his own.
Take up the dagger in one hand, Trag’Oul then commanded. When Uldyssian’s brother had done so, the celestial leviathan added, Turn it point down to your palm.
Mendeln did not like where this was going, yet he still obeyed. “Great Trag’Oul—”
Prick your palm, son of Diomedes…
“But—”
It must be done…
He had come this far, Mendeln thought. Besides, all the dragon asked of him was a slight jab, nothing more. What harm could come of that?
What harm, indeed…
Mouth grimly set, Mendeln did as instructed. He pulled the point away almost as soon as it touched, so swiftly, in fact, that at first he wondered whether he had actually punctured the skin.
But a tiny red dot did form, so miniscule that Mendeln expected Trag’Oul to command him to try again. The dagger still hovered an inch or two above the palm…
Then, to his shock, a thin stream of blood rose from his hand to the blade’s tip. Only magic could explain this defiance of nature. The tiny stream covered the point…then continued to flow up, covering more and more of the narrow end of the blade and heading slowly but inexorably toward the hilt.
Mendeln could only imagine how much blood it would take to reach that point and started to pull his hand away.
Leave it…
Mendeln wanted to disobey, but did not. It was not that Trag’Oul had just cast some spell over him, merely that he yet trusted in the dragon that no harm would come to him.
But when did I start to trust him? Before he could answer that question, the first drops touched the handle.
The blood already flowing continued its journey, but no more rose from Mendeln’s palm. In fact, when he sought the small wound, he could find nothing.
Watch…
His gaze returned to the dagger, where the blade was now colored crimson. Yet, the crimson grew more faded with each passing moment, until finally it disappeared.
The dagger is bound to you and you are bound to the dagger. Through it, you are bound to them and through them, the Balance.
Diablo: The Sin War Box Set: Birthright, Scales of the Serpent, and The Veiled Prophet Page 48
