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

by Richard A. Knaak

  The dagger flared as if of its own doing. In its even more brilliant light, Mendeln saw her again as she truly was.

  Disgust at his own weakness overtook him. “No…no more from you, harpy!”

  He uttered words of power, and the sphere shot backward into the darkness. The demoness’s shriek was terrible to hear, filled with both fury and despair. Lilith cursed his name even as she called for him.

  And then Mendeln could hear the temptress no more.

  The shock of confronting her—especially since she was supposed to be dead—shook Mendeln so much that he nearly demanded that Trag’Oul immediately return him to his world. However, just as he became determined to do this, he felt Rathma’s faint presence again.

  Mendeln hesitated but could not risk abandoning this one last hope. He repeated his earlier magic, using the dagger to draw whatever it was he had sensed.

  A breath later, another sphere drifted close. Like the first, it was covered with the peculiar, frostlike coating. Keeping wary, Mendeln removed the latter as he had previously.

  Before him floated a weary but grateful Rathma.

  “I have him!” he shouted to Trag’Oul.

  Yes…I know.

  And suddenly, Mendeln felt himself propelled through the emptiness. As stunned as he was by the effect, he had the presence of mind to keep focused on Rathma.

  Vertigo struck the younger son of Diomedes—and then he landed on something hard.

  Above him, the glittering stars that were the dragon proved a welcome sight.

  And a voice from his right proved even more welcome. Gasping for breath himself, Inarius’s son said, “You have no idea, Mendeln…my gratitude…for that risk.”

  “It was Trag’Oul who was able to send me there,” Uldyssian’s brother pointed out as he turned to face the Ancient. “He who managed to find where you had been cast in the first place.”

  Rathma nodded. “And to him, too, I am grateful, but do not underestimate your part. The risk you took was monumental. You could have easily been lost there…” He shook his head. “To be alone in the void—forever—I could imagine no worse fate, not even death.”

  As Rathma talked, Mendeln watched him carefully, seeking any sign that he knew what had happened just before his rescue. Yet Lilith’s offspring gave no sign that he had noticed the nearby presence of his murderous mother, who Mendeln had to assume had been drawn to his spell because of her physical ties to Rathma.

  Lilith alive…but, as Rathma had pointed out, suffering a fate surely worse than death. It was also one she could not possibly escape. After all, it had only been because of Mendeln and the dragon that Rathma had had any chance.

  He suddenly wondered why Trag’Oul had been silent all this time. Surely, their success was worthy of some celebration.

  Even as Mendeln thought that, Rathma stood. The Ancient stared up at the constellation, his expression not at all pleasant.

  “What is it, Trag?” Rathma demanded. “What’s happening?”

  There was a long, worrisome pause before the celestial answered. When he did, it was in a tone of weakness and defeat that shook Mendeln as even the dark emptiness had not.

  The strain…was too…much…I could not maintain the…the ploy at the same time…we may have saved you…only to condemn you…with the rest of us…Rathma…

  “What do you mean?” he asked, sounding every bit as concerned as Mendeln felt. “What ploy? What happened?”

  Sanctuary is no…no longer shielded from their…sight! The Heavenly Host knows they were misled. Trag’Oul’s grief at his failure was so very evident. The winged warriors are closing in on our world.

  Seventeen

  IT IS GOOD.

  Tyrael had surveyed the situation sweeping over this false world one last time and found it to his immense satisfaction. The creatures were all at one another’s throats, and those who might cause the host some minor difficulty were in complete disarray. There was only one being in all this place that truly concerned him now, and that was the fallen one, Inarius.

  The list of the renegade angel’s crimes was lengthy, but foremost among them was the very creation of these humans. Tyrael understood their origins, and the wrongness of such a thing made him shiver. Angels and demons. He could not imagine why even Inarius had not seen fit to eradicate them early on.

  But that would happen soon enough. Tyrael could sense the others fast approaching, and the only question he had was why it had taken them so long. There was more to this place—this Sanctuary, as he now knew it to be called by the renegade—than appearances suggested. There was some force, some vast reservoir of power, that Inarius had come upon that might be the reason. Tyrael was still investigating that. Likely it was what had caused the delay of the host. In the long run, it would not matter.

  He returned to the subject of the angel/demon spawn. Abominations they not only were, but their unsettling potential—which he recognized as easily as the demons he smelled surely had—ultimately demanded their extinction. They offered the possibility of throwing the eternal war utterly on its head, which even he could not fully fathom. True, after he had first seen them, Tyrael had briefly contemplated suggesting their use as soldiers for the High Heavens, but immediately after, the thought of any demon-tainted strain beside him in battle made him completely reject such a notion. No, the humans—and all else here—had to be cleansed from existence.

  The angel drifted among the clouds that overlooked both the city and Inarius’s sanctum. He had focused much of his energy on shielding himself from the renegade’s sight and magic so that he could more readily observe events as they played out. There was little else the angel felt he needed to do; now he was content to watch and wait. Soon the others would arrive, and they would see that he had acted accordingly, opening the way for the cleansing.

  Soon, Inarius’s blasphemous creation would be no more.

  Malic bowed as low as the marble floor allowed. He had no choice. The face of the woman Amolia was covered in black lesions. Before he had come to this place, the specter had looked over the rest of his body and discovered the same held true for his limbs, his torso…every part. The body was nearly spent. He had little time remaining.

  Finding a new host had proven harder than he could have imagined. Malic needed one that not only would hold him until he seized Uldyssian’s but also had magical ability of its own.

  The trouble was, the mage clans had proven quite adept after the slaughter of their council in alerting all their ilk to just who the assassin had been. At the time, Malic had assumed that he would already have Uldyssian’s body, and so he had lost valuable opportunities. Then the mage clans’ enforcers had begun hunting for him in groups that prevented him from picking off one of their number.

  Thus it was that Malic had been grateful when Inarius had given him what seemed a gift—Uldyssian’s accursed brother, Mendeln. As it had been Mendeln who had, through some arcane force, brought him back to existence, Malic had found the use of his body a priceless jest.

  That incident had turned into the final debacle, though, and led him to this sorry state. He had been forced to make a new deal…and now grovel before one he hated almost as much as Uldyssian.

  Inarius stood before him not as the angel but as the youthful Prophet. Malic no longer sneered at the image; he was now desperate for the first time in his life…and afterlife. This had to go as planned.

  The angel was clad in gleaming silver armor that hinted of his true status. In fact, a stylized winged warrior was the centerpiece of his breastplate. Over his golden hair, he wore a rimmed helmet with an arched metal crest that ran all the way back to the base. At the Prophet’s side hung a scabbard containing a sword with a jeweled hilt.

  Under other circumstances, Malic might have laughed mockingly at what he thought was such a gaudy vision. After all, the figure before him was so much more powerful than what his mortal flock saw. These trappings were nothing but stage dress so that Inarius could look that much more
impressive when he destroyed the fanatical edyrem.

  “I have given you more than one opportunity, Malic,” Inarius said. “Opportunities that you have squandered!”

  “Circumstance was against me,” the high priest dared reply. “And, in one case, betrayal! The water demon was to have secured Uldyssian for me but chose to give in to his hunger instead.”

  “A matter that you would best take up with the Lord Diablo…if you can find him.” Inarius allowed his human aspect to sneer at the absent demon. “He ended this farce of a pact quicker than I expected—which perhaps shows he has some wisdom, as I was about to turn it all against him, anyway.”

  “He tried to take the Ascenian for his own purposes,” offered Malic. “Tried and failed.”

  “Not unlike yourself.” The angel gazed down at the bent form. “Still, there is, perhaps, some use left in you….”

  Malic glanced up. “Whatever I must do, I will!”

  “That you shall—and, if possible, for that I will yet grant you the heretic’s body.”

  A heavy cough escaped the high priest. Malic was unable to prevent himself from suddenly throwing up on the pristine floor.

  Inarius frowned. Under his baleful gaze, the disgusting spill vanished.

  “F-forgive me,” the specter managed.

  “If you do as I command, I shall.” The Prophet gestured, and Malic rose to his feet like a puppet. “But that shell will no longer suffice. You need a better one.”

  The entrance to Inarius’s chamber opened. Out of the corner of his eye, Malic saw an older but quite athletic woman in the robes of a senior priest standing somewhat startled at the doors. Her hand was still formed into the fist she had intended to use to knock politely.

  Immediately, the woman bowed her head. “Great one, you summoned me.”

  “That I did, Oris. Approach us.”

  For the first time, the woman saw Malic. Her brow furrowed as she strode toward the pair. Behind Oris, the doors sealed tight.

  With a fatherly smile, the Prophet said, “My loyal Oris, you know there is no one closer to me than you.”

  The priestess’s cheeks reddened. Malic realized that she loved her master not only as a believer but as a woman loved a man. “I live to serve you….”

  “So you do.” Inarius held out his hands to her. Oris approached him. The angel gently took hold of her by the shoulders and leaned forward.

  The kiss was short and little more than a grazing of the lips. To Malic, it was clear that the kiss meant nothing to Inarius. The woman, however, stood stunned and redder than ever.

  “My dear, lovely Oris,” the Prophet began anew. “Your devotion to me has been commendable.”

  “Proph—Prophet! I—” She looked entirely confused by his action.

  “Please, Oris. I have need of you. I wish you to help this unfortunate wretch.”

  For the first time, she studied Malic closely. “What terrible disease is this that plagues her?”

  “One you need not concern yourself about. What she needs most right now is your comforting hand.”

  “Certainly!” The priestess turned to Malic. “Come, my young one, let me help you.”

  The specter smiled. “Thank you.”

  Oris had no chance to scream. If the bodies were burning out faster than Malic desired, at least his possession of a new one was taking less and less time also.

  He watched as the mage’s limp body collapsed in a heap at his feet. Malic had to admit that Oris was a healthy and strong specimen. She would last longer than his previous host.

  “There will be no more need of this,” the Prophet murmured, gesturing toward Amolia’s corpse.

  Malic watched as the spellcaster’s body turned to dust and blew away into nothing. He was grateful not to be in it any longer. At most, he had likely had a day left.

  The angel nodded in satisfaction. “That shall suffice for the time necessary. All that remains now is for you to be clad appropriately.” He casually flicked his hand toward Malic, adding, “Thus!”

  The body of the female priest now also wore a breastplate and helmet. A mace with four jagged hooks on the crown hung on the left hip.

  Eyeing the changes, Malic looked confused. “What’s this for?”

  Inarius eyed him as if the ghost were a fool. Malic immediately put on a humble expression.

  This appeared to satisfy the angel. “It should be very obvious to you, high priest,” the Prophet replied. “What else can it be for?” He smiled just as he had before betraying his loyal servant. “We are going off to war.”

  “We’re not entering Kehjan,” Uldyssian informed the others. His eyes and power continued to search for Mendeln, but to no avail. “We leave the city alone.”

  “After all this?” blurted Serenthia. She pointed in the direction of the slumbering army. “We could walk in and take the capital without anyone stopping us!”

  “That was never the reason. The reason always had to do with Inarius. Well, he’s thrown down the gauntlet. He’s inviting us to come to him, can’t you feel that?”

  They could not. Even now, as powerful as the edyrem in general had become, they could not feel the angel’s touch. Uldyssian did not like that.

  “What do we do, Master Uldyssian?” asked Jonas, the gaunt Parthan ever ready to obey.

  “We’re not far from the grasslands between the city and the Cathedral of Light. We turn in that direction.”

  Serenthia frowned. “And then what?”

  “Then we fight for our lives…again.”

  Despite the abrupt change in their intended route, Uldyssian’s followers argued little when told. Yet again, they trusted in their leader and what he planned. Uldyssian hid from everyone the fact that he had no true idea what to do save face the angel himself. In his mind, the rest of Inarius’s followers were nothing. Inarius was the one who had to be defeated.

  And even that might not be enough to save Sanctuary.

  The edyrem wasted no time in moving on, their easy victory over the Kehjani army spurring their spirits. The grasslands, an open area in the midst of the all-consuming jungles, were believed to have been the reason the Cathedral had originally chosen a northerly location for its base of operations. It allowed for an easy path for pilgrims going to and from the shining edifice and the capital.

  It now made for the perfect place for war.

  As the edyrem marched, Uldyssian kept watch for any covert strikes by either Inarius or one of his minions. However, nothing happened. At first, he did not understand why the angel would let all of them travel unmolested, but as the journey progressed and still nothing happened, it slowly dawned on him just why that might be.

  But it was not until Mendeln returned—with Rathma beside him—that Uldyssian was able to confirm his suspicion with Inarius’s offspring. Guiding them and Serenthia slightly away from the others, he asked Rathma his opinion.

  “Yes, that is exactly it,” the cowled Ancient agreed. “You have come to know my father well. He is indeed preparing a spectacle that will show all those in Sanctuary that his is the ultimate power. He intends your defeat to be a glorious one!” Rathma shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips. “And that even if the world itself should exist no more than a few minutes past his victory. Such madness!”

  “He might not even have the few minutes,” Uldyssian pointed out. “The angels could arrive before that.”

  Rathma grew grimmer yet. “You have no idea how true you speak. They were distracted by Trag’s ploy, but that is no more. They now know exactly where Sanctuary is. Time flows differently for them, but I would say that we have maybe a day or two before they fall upon us.”

  The others—even Mendeln, it appeared—looked aghast. Uldyssian could not help but gape. “As little as that? I thought maybe a week—”

  “A week would be a blessing.”

  “Damn Inarius for not listening! There might’ve been some hope against the angels if he had.”

  Rathma said nothing. Uldyssian
looked around at the others. His expression grew stubborn. “We don’t tell anyone else! If we’re all to die, better we die fighting! If somehow we defeat Inarius, then we can worry about anything else. No one else must know. Agreed?”

  He received no dissension. They rejoined the edyrem and moved on.

  Uldyssian had hoped to make it to the Cathedral that day, but his estimation of their pace proved too ambitious. They barely reached the edge of the grasslands just after dark. He knew that to go on was to play into Inarius’s intentions yet could not help feeling that to stop would do the same.

  “He will not attack this night,” Rathma finally informed him. “My father wants the slaughter of the edyrem—and, especially, your downfall—completely visible to his followers. No, he will wait for daylight, foolish as that might seem to us.”

  “If only we could reach the Cathedral during the night and still have the strength to fight him…”

  The Ancient glanced out at the night-enshrouded grasslands. “I cannot say exactly why, but I feel that if you would attempt that, you would regret it. There is something out there, something best left for the light of the sun.”

  Frowning, Uldyssian stared at the landscape ahead. Now that Rathma had mentioned it, he, too, noticed something unsettling about the visually tranquil grasses. The view was innocent enough; the tall brown and green grasses swayed gently in the breeze. A few creatures called out, most of them insects or the occasional night bird. There was nothing that in any manner hinted of threat.

  Yet he felt that Rathma was right.

  The edyrem made camp just within the jungle. Aware of how inviting the grasslands looked, Uldyssian was adamant in his decision that no one, not even the sentries, step a foot beyond the last of the trees.

  But it turned out that there was one who did not obey. Once most of the edyrem were asleep, Uldyssian waited for Achilios to join them, yet as the minutes passed and the hunter did not appear, the son of Diomedes believed he knew just what had happened.

  “He’s out there, isn’t he?” Uldyssian asked Rathma.