Diablo III: Morbed

by Micky Neilson

  The hooded head rested against the grinding wheel that made up the seat back.

  Keep him talking, a feminine voice urged in Morbed’s mind.

  “Who built the bastion?” he asked.

  The stranger’s head straightened. He pointed a finger in the thief’s general direction, the nail of which had grown into a kind of claw. “Not built. Rebuilt. After! After the banishment of my ancestors.”

  A sharp edge overtook the other’s voice. “This fortress was transported, brick by brick, beam by beam. For more than two hundred years, this bastion has stood here on this island, but there was a time, whelpling, when the house of Bulkhan reigned over the lands of the Glooming Moors.”

  “I have heard of no such place.”

  The voice of the other grew louder. “Little surprise, that! No . . . no, you hear only of Westmarch!” The word was laced with venom. “So named after the coming of the interloper, the trespasser, the usurper.”

  Morbed thought back on what history he knew. Westmarch was named after the long journey of Rakkis, who brought the religion of Zakarum to the untamed lands of the far west. It was Rakkis’s tomb that King Justinian believed was being pillaged.

  “Rakkis?” he blurted.

  The figure’s upper body shot forward, hands gripping what passed as armrests. “Do not speak his name here!” The outburst was followed by another coughing episode.

  Taking a deep breath, the bandaged man relaxed slightly; his tone softened. “The house of Bulkhan ruled the realm, a dominion bought with blood. For my ancestors have always been . . . afflicted.”

  Lifting his hands, the figure pulled back his hood to reveal a bandage-laced head, the upper portion of the crown protruding bulbously. The skin glimpsed between wrappings was dark and weathered. A thick stream of green mucus clung to the chin.

  “No healer has ever eased this burden in my kin. It is said that in time beyond memory, my ancestors were beggars, derelicts. But there was one, one who rose above the shackles of his station and gathered men and women through wisdom and words but also . . . an ability. A gift for sorcery that none had seen, of which legends had only whispered. What he could not gain by kindness he took by strength. It was he who first ruled the land of the Moors. He it was who first raised the house of Bulkhan.”

  The stranger scanned his surroundings, licking parchment-dry lips. “So it was for many generations. It is said that the powers of sorcery in our bloodline diminished in that time. And then . . .”

  With a clenched fist the figure pounded the right armrest. “He came. With his grand ideas and honeyed words and his following. He turned hearts and minds against the line of Bulkhan, and so it was that the rightful master of the land was deposed. But rather than kill the proper lord, the usurper deigned, in his boundless magnanimity, simply to cast out my ancestor and those who remained loyal!” The other leaned forward in his seat, the timbre of his voice rising. “To banish them to this island, to dismantle House Bulkhan in both name and deed, to tear down the walls and transport them here, to be forever ferreted away and forgotten!”

  The old man’s cheeks lifted in what Morbed supposed was a smile. “But my forebears heard the rumors: a discovery in our homeland, pathways that led to ruins beneath the bog, far below the marshes. Scattered, sprawling remnants of a time and people long gone. What ancient relics, what artifacts and weapons of unknown power, might be found in such a place, hmm? Well guarded those ruins were, until Rakkis’s death and beyond. And Rakkis himself buried there! Staking his claim, even in death, to what was ours by right!”

  A coughing spell followed, more violent than the last.

  Remove your knife! Do it now! the female voice urged in Morbed’s mind.

  I can’t get to him in time, the thief answered.

  Do not let another opportunity pass. We can help you!

  What did that mean? Was it true? Did the lantern contain such a power? Perhaps . . .

  The coughing spell ended. The stranger hacked up more phlegm, then laid his head once again against the wheel.

  “Surely you possess a ship,” Morbed said. “Why stay? You could go anywhere. Start over.”

  Morbed could read the other’s scowl beneath the wraps. “There is no ship, not anymore. The hellspawn saw to that. Even so, beforehand . . . Where exactly would my bloodline, with our sickness, be welcome, hmm? What affection might be shown to a countenance such as this?” The bandaged hand, fingers spread, indicated the hermit’s face. “No. We stayed. And in order to further our line, we did as we had to do. My father and his father before him took unwilling wives, sired offspring. Sired me. And over the course of my life, though I was weakened by disease, a power awakened within me. I could feel it!” The wrapped hand clenched into a fist. “As though I could do anything! Anything but . . .”

  The hand fell. The shoulders slumped. “It is no matter. I learned the truth of our dynasty, and I have spent my final days reclaiming the Stolen Kingdom piece by piece. I have taken back from the descendants of Rakkis, and I have ventured into the lost ruins and seized that which was buried with the trespasser ‘king,’ and I have spat upon his grave. I’ve collected quite a bounty. And here it shall remain, guarded by the most terrible watchdog of all.”

  An understanding dawned on Morbed. He grinned widely, began to laugh, softly at first, then with increasing intensity.

  “Something is—hhough! hhough!—funny, boy?”

  Morbed transferred his weight to the balls of his feet, moving his hand ever so slightly closer to his dagger as he did so. “You can’t procreate, can you? That’s what you meant when you said you could do ‘anything but.’ For all your talk of strength and power, you—you lack virility!” Morbed laughed heartily.

  The wayfarer stood. “I’ll grind you—hhough!—beneath my feet, you insolent—hhough! hhough!—”

  “And the items of the lost ruins were never yours to begin with. Your dull-witted ancestors built atop the ancient city without even knowing it existed!”

  The deepest onset yet of coughing and hacking ensued. The old man doubled over . . .

  Now!

  What happened next transpired in the space of a hair’s breadth. Morbed reached for his knife and pulled it from its sheath; the vagabond recovered enough to enact a spell; a bending distortion of light appeared around his suddenly outstretched hand; the knife flew from Morbed’s grasp faster than he could have possibly thrown it; and the blade lodged itself to the guard in the diseased old man’s throat.

  The eyes between the wraps grew wide. The wayfarer shuddered, his trembling fingers reaching to pull the weapon free. A gurgling noise escaped his throat. Blood bubbled from the wound. The old man’s fingers brushed the handle as he fell into the nearest pile of equipage, causing the entire column to collapse on top of him.

  Morbed heaved a sigh of relief.

  Told you we could help you, the female voice intoned within his mind. The thief turned to his right and beheld for the first time the upper half of a full-length trifold mirror, its bottom portion obstructed by a jumble of large, dusty items.

  Within the grime-covered sections of glass, Morbed witnessed not his own reflection but an ethereal visage of Jaharra directly in front of him, eyes burning. In the mirror pane to his right stood a transparent Aedus, arms folded. To the left, Vorik, his gaunt face impassive. Morbed noted that a large shard of mirror was missing from the bottom of that segment. Looking farther to his left, the thief spotted it resting against a sheet-covered object, and reflected in its surface he sighted Clovis, standing in full armor, features hidden within his darkened helm. The entirety of the tableau was made more ghostly by the soft hue of the lavender lantern glow.

  “What . . . ?” Morbed began.

  Jaharra’s image spoke, and Morbed heard the words inside his head. The effect was unnerving. “I should think it mostly obvious,” she scolded. “Despite your best ef
forts, you are not rid of us. In fact, it would seem the opposite is true. We are now, the five of us, inextricably linked through the relic you hold in your hand.”

  Morbed looked down at the lantern, then back up, as he heard Vorik’s strained hiss. “While our mortal forms have been dispatched, our spirits remain captive. We are tethered to the lantern and, through it, also tethered to you.”

  The old seaman-who-claimed-to-be-a-fisherman’s words came drifting back to Morbed. Kept hearin’ his voice inside my head after we got here.

  But the not-fisherman was clearly insane, wasn’t he?

  “This isn’t real,” Morbed said suddenly. “My mind is bent.”

  Jaharra’s eyes drilled into his very core. “How convenient that would be, hmm? To simply dismiss us, to dismiss what you did.”

  “You had our trust.” Aedus spoke for the first time. “Why betray us?”

  “He’s a thief!” Jaharra spat. “Should we have expected any less?”

  “What you did was dishonorable,” Clovis intoned.

  “And what of it? What good has integrity done any of you?” Morbed shot back loudly. “What of honor?” His voice softened. “Cemeteries lack no room for the honorable dead.”

  Morbed was tired, more exhausted than he had ever been in his life. Spent, in mind, body, and spirit. “Yes, I’m a thief. I steal. I lie. I run, and I live. I’m not sorry for that.”

  “But you do feel guilt,” Clovis replied.

  “No!” Morbed protested. “Guilt accomplishes nothing.”

  “And yet here we are,” Jaharra persisted. “You heard the old man: he felt no guilt, and therefore no spirits vexed him. The sailor who led us here was rent by guilt, haunted by the death of the true fisherman. Our very presence here is testament to the compunction you bear.”

  Morbed felt that he could argue no longer. He desired now more than anything a way to silence the voices. “And so? What would be my fate? To cast myself from a battlement as the old man would have done?”

  “The sailor was, in a very misguided way, seeking to restore balance,” Vorik answered. “I believe this may be achieved through other means. Through acts of selflessness, perhaps you might purge yourself of regret, and also atone.”

  “Is that what you believe?” Morbed replied. “That the only way to be rid of you and still draw breath is to . . . aid others out of kindness?” The thief shook his head. “And no doubt risk my own life in the process.”

  “Not kindness,” Vorik corrected. “Selflessness.”

  The lantern hung in Morbed’s limp hand. “Yes, of course. It’s worth a try,” he lied. “Just as soon as we return to Westmarch, I’ll begin a search for endangered orphans or tormented widows. But first, I—we—must quit this cursed bastion.”

  “In seeking to deceive us, you deceive only yourself,” Aedus said. “You can no more hide your intentions from us than you could hide your nose from your face.”

  Morbed released a long sigh. “What do you ask of me?”

  “Your pursuit of salvation could begin with the extermination of our slayer,” Jaharra suggested. “Others are sure to come to this island and would no doubt face destruction. With our aid, you might defeat this demon.”

  Morbed laughed hollowly. “Or I might, more likely, get myself killed. And what of your precious spirits then? What if I fail?”

  “You would not fail,” Aedus said. “We can join our abilities and exert them through you. Without the master of the house and his magic-suppressing traps, and with the demon wounded, I’m confident we would emerge victorious.”

  Morbed’s tired eyes drifted over the mirror images. “And this would rid me of you?”

  The necromancer was first to answer. “This alone? I would say . . . most likely not.”

  “But it would be a first step on the path to redemption,” Aedus was quick to add.

  “A demonstration of faith,” Clovis offered.

  Morbed stood quiet and still, considering.

  “Or you could just do as you’ve always done . . .” Jaharra taunted. “And run.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Morbed raced through the darkened woods as fast as his feet would carry him.

  There had been no further deliberation. Instinct took command. Discovering a route that led from the room and out beyond the castle walls had required effort, but self-preservation lent vigor to Morbed’s exertions. In time he uncovered an iron-strapped door opening into a dark, musty corridor, then to a cramped drainage pipe, and with Jaharra’s assistance in defeating the bastion’s outer wards, the thief was suddenly free of the redoubt without crossing the demon’s path. In that much, at least, fortune was on his side.

  Now it remained for fortune to smile on him just a bit longer, to lay clear his path to the longboat, to the fisherman’s hulk, and on to the Great Ocean.

  Despite this enterprise, the voices of his companions had stubbornly refused to remain silent. Even as they lent aid, such as in the case of the wizard’s assistance in overcoming the wards, they derided and chastised him for choosing once again to flee.

  It eased Morbed’s anxiety somewhat to know just who and what the voices were, although a lingering doubt still dwelled in the back of his thoughts, maintaining that the thief had, in fact, gone insane, that the disembodied talk and visions were tokens of a fractured mind. If so, how long until his sanity shattered irreparably? As with all hesitations, second guesses, and reservations, Morbed pushed these nagging notions away.

  There was, after all, one scrap of cold comfort to be had in the thief’s predicament: despite their protestations, the spirits apparently had no direct control over Morbed’s actions. So far as he could tell, they could effect change only with his consent.

  Once to safety, Morbed would pick the lock on the manacle and toss the lamp overboard!

  You’re carrying an ensorcelled lamp that magically shackled itself to your wrist, the wizard’s voice interjected wryly. And you really think that will work?

  He would find out, one way or another. There was always the possibility of hiring a blacksmith to solve the problem.

  Ha!

  Failing that, there existed the potential of seeking out a master mage and employing said magic user to extricate him from—

  The thief stumbled over an encumbrance and pitched headlong into the loam. Cursing, he rolled over, sat up, and raised the lantern.

  In its violet aura he spied a corpse, broken and twisted, its limbs contorted at impossible angles. Around it lay dislodged branches, as if the body had plummeted through the trees. Morbed held the lantern away, directed his gaze skyward, and noted the stumps of sheared tree limbs against the starless night. Returning his attention to the dead man, he beheld a white beard and weathered, sunburned skin.

  Morbed leaned farther forward, holding the light close. He reached out and lifted the dead man’s hand, turning it over. There, across the palm, he saw scars upon scars, marks of lines and ropes abrading the skin throughout years of toil and hardship, of harvesting the bounty of the sea.

  The true fisherman, Jaharra’s voice spoke.

  “Yes, the fisherman. So he’s not . . . in there with you? His spirit?”

  No. Vorik this time.

  Jaharra rejoined, The impostor saved my life. He restored balance, and now the spirit of the fisherman is free. It is as Vorik said: acts of selflessness are the only way to even the scales.

  You should bury him, Aedus offered.

  “You’re a bunch of damned fools! There’s no time.”

  It is the right thing to do, Clovis added.

  Morbed turned to his side, gained his knees, and was soon back on his feet. “Bury this corpse, and I may as well bury myself with him,” he said as he lit out once more toward the coast.

  * * *

  By the time a heavily winded Morbed neared the edge of the forest front
ing the coast, the sky had begun to lighten. With a final surge of energy, the thief broke through the tree line.

  Yet where he should have seen the masts of the fishing hulk and the great bulk of the vessel itself, he beheld only ocean and lapping waves carrying debris onto the shore, where planks, spars, shredded sails, chains, wood, and various other evidence of wreckage lay strewn up and down the coast.

  The lantern hung in his hand as Morbed stumbled forward. He ambled out among the debris, where he spotted a shattered wooden spine—the keel of his party’s longboat. It lay inland, and Morbed realized with sickening dread that the tide had gone out, allowing the demon a less obstructed path to the fishing hulk.

  Not long after discovering the fisherman’s corpse in the forest, Morbed had heard a thunderous crashing sound, but in the thick wood, it had been impossible to determine its origin. The thief had imagined his pursuer to be raging through the forest, shearing trees to kindling, and he ran all the harder. Now he realized that the echoing clamor had been that of the fishing vessel’s destruction.

  Morbed dropped to a sitting position near the ship’s anchor, its yard-length of chain trailing out like the tail of a slumbering serpent. Twisted bits of iron lay about where the links were snapped at the end.

  Staring out along the coast, Morbed spied the massive, gleaming white whale bones he had noted upon his arrival. Grimly he wondered if his own skeleton would soon accompany them in their lonely vigil. Overhead, a bank of clouds unfurled in rippling waves, tinted red by the rising sun, a crimson ocean tide.

  Morbed had not been sitting for long when the noises came to him. He heard them faintly at first: great rending sounds deep within the timber. Over the next breathless moments, they grew louder. Nearer. Morbed’s stomach turned into a nest of snakes. His blood ran cold.

  You must face it, came the voice of Aedus. Let us help you.

  As he did in any life-threatening situation, Morbed weighed his options. He could just run. Run and keep running until some kind of rescue arrived . . .