Diablo III: Morbed (5 page)

Morbed retreated further, back through the open gate.

Help him! Help him!

Clovis endeavored to remain upright. Rather than attempting to use the holy man's flail against him, the demon simply swung its closed hand toward the crusader's helm. Clovis spun and raised his shield in time to block the blow, but he was still blasted off his feet and into the wall, where he collapsed onto his right side. The sharp whine of the devices grew in pitch.

The creature moved to a position facing the crusader, extinguishing the torch. The only light remaining was the ghostly lavender radiance of Morbed's lantern. Despite the screeching of the crystals, it was all the thief could do not to pass out from the screaming in his own head as he shut the gate, reached through the bars, removed the key, and retrieved the ring.

Standing before Clovis, the demon closed its mammoth hand over the crusader's helm and squeezed. Metal crunched as the fist clenched. Clovis's feet kicked out, shuddered, then stilled.

Without a sound, Morbed withdrew further into the crypts.

*  *  *

An outcry of rage blasted the thief's mind. The starburst flare of the lantern threw light onto the walls, pillars, statues, and tombs. Morbed tossed down the key ring as the screaming of the crystals finally died away. He lowered his hood and raced on until movement over one of the pillars caught his eye—a hunched figure adorned in robes, not a statue like the others. With a swift motion, it depressed a jutting stone in the wall. The disc atop the pillar spun, revealing a secret passage. As it rotated, Morbed spied a carving, identical to its fellows, on the other side of the cutout. When the rotation ceased, the figure was gone, replaced by a statue as if the other had never existed.

A rending of iron echoed through the crypts. The gate.

Morbed weighed his options: continue deeper into the crypts or . . .

Using a low tomb as a foothold, Morbed gripped crevices in the stone. He gained purchase with both hands, allowing the lantern to dangle from his wrist as he scaled the wall beside the pillar. The stone shook, nearly dislodging him. With renewed effort he reached the point in the wall that activated the revolving door. Dust fell from above, and with a quick glance over his shoulder, Morbed could see the tiny ember-glow of the demon's approaching eyes. Grasping the crouched statue, he maneuvered until his weight hung from it; then he pulled himself into a seated position, embracing the carved image. He cast about for the rock, pushed on it, swung the lantern up into his grip, and felt the disc beneath him slowly spin just as the behemoth drew within reach.

*  *  *

The crawl space barely allowed room for Morbed to scrabble on hands and knees, but the thief was determined to put as much distance between him and the nightmare-thing as possible. He clamped his teeth on the ring atop the lantern's ventilator. The chain, linked to that same ring and then to his wrist, provided a short leash for his left hand, but once he adjusted his capote to allow freedom for his knees, Morbed made do with quick shuffling motions.

An instant later, there was a shuddering impact that threatened to dislodge the thief's teeth from his mouth and sparked a sudden terror that the masonry would collapse around him. Morbed knew without seeing that the statue outside the passage was now obliterated.

As he scrambled on, Morbed suffered a sensation similar to the feelings of judgment and reproach, only this was akin to hearing a whispered conversation where one was unable to discern the words being spoken—a conversation taking place inside his head.

Ignore it and focus on getting out of this alive
, he told himself.

His efforts were soon rewarded as he came upon a larger, short passage ending at a ladder that disappeared into the heights of a musty shaft. Morbed ascended. His body ached, and the voices still lingered on the fringes of his consciousness, as he pushed on and quickly reached a closed trapdoor.

CHAPTER FIVE

Morbed hauled himself up and into one side of a room choked with clutter. Beyond the small clear space around the door, mounds of equipment—clothing, furniture, artifacts, relics, and bagatelles—were packed floor to ceiling. As he looked closer, Morbed identified what might be a navigable path deeper into the room.

There was no indication of where his unseen observer had fled. The faint conversation in the fringes of his mind continued as he stepped over and onto the many items that still clogged his way, reaching out to the piles on either side of him to maintain balance, wary that at any time, the towering stacks might collapse and bury him. The lantern threw shadows in all directions as he progressed.

Farther on, a gleam caught his eye: the ivory-hued blade of a necromancer's bone knife, resting on a shelf of debris.

Seize it!
a voice urged from within.

Morbed possessed a blade of his own. Still . . . what harm in having more than one weapon? He snatched the bone dagger in passing, tucking it into his boot before moving on.

After picking his way into the center of the large room, Morbed rounded a heap and beheld a throne of sorts, built of various items: a grinding wheel, a cooking pot, a training dummy, bellows, bits of armor, and other things Morbed could not readily identify. There on the crude seat waited the robed figure, legs apart, his right elbow resting on his right knee, chin planted on the knuckles of a cloth-wrapped hand. He regarded Morbed silently. The lamplight reached just far enough into the hood to reveal what appeared to be a bandaged countenance.

“See you found the lantern,” the figure rasped in a phlegmy baritone, lowering his hand. “Heard legends about it, passed down from the forefathers. They say it feeds on the guilt of those who sin against themselves.” The stranger leaned forward, and his dark eyes, yellow where they should be white, widened. “I've never felt the faintest stirring from it. What does that tell you, mm?” Then began a coughing fit, and the man's body shuddered violently.

With just the slightest movement, Morbed reached for his dagger.

“Don't—
hhough! hhough!
—bother. While not the world's most accomplished sorcerer, I am more than a match for you and your rat-sticker.”

Morbed held fast.

The other man continued. “You are the last of them, mmh? Your friends did not fare so well.”

The impression of judgment flooded through Morbed once again. His features tightened, and he strained to maintain a sense of awareness, a readiness to capitalize on any opportunity to improve his situation. “It seems your pet has slipped its leash,” he replied. “How long until these walls come down around you?”

His tormentor laughed mockingly, a thick chuckle that turned into another coughing fit, after which he spat a great stream of phlegm that did not fully escape his mouth. “Birthed in darkness, bent on destruction . . . it will do as its nature commands. Besides”—he waved his bandaged hand—“it would not be the first time these walls had been razed.”

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 efforts, 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.”