The Order, page 11
Leah followed him obediently enough. If leaving her childhood home gave her any pause, raised any depth of emotion, she did not show it. As they made their way toward the city gates, Cain looked back only once and found James staring after them, still in the same spot where they had left him. He raised a hand in the man’s direction, but received nothing in return.
Outside the gates, a breeze picked up grains of sand and sent them skittering across the nearly empty road with a sound like fingernails across a board. The trade tents, empty now, flapped in the wind like the wings of gray birds disturbed in their sleep.
Cain led the way, Leah a few short steps behind. Now she dragged her feet, staring down at the dusty road, her head hanging like a convicted prisoner headed to the gallows. But she did not speak or utter a sound. Several guards looked the strange pair up and down but did not move to stop them. They were trained to keep the wrong people out of Caldeum, not prevent them from leaving.
The sun was beginning to lighten the sky, bringing a slight tinge of warmth above the mountains in the distance. They passed a small group of weary travelers in a mule-driven cart, the back piled high with colorful cloth. A small boy sat cross-legged on the top of the pile and stared somberly at them as the cart wobbled by.
A short distance farther on, they reached a fork in the road. Cain stopped, leaning heavily on his staff. To his right the road ran toward the sea, and held more travelers and was well worn; to his left, another road led toward Kurast, this one rutted and empty, weeds beginning to sprout through the dust.
Kurast. A dead city, full of rapists, murderers, and worse. What kind of place was that for a child? Yet they must go there, for the road to salvation led through it, if he was right; in Kurast, he would find an answer to the mystery of the book and the mages calling themselves Horadrim, who were there or somewhere just beyond. Cain hardly dared hope that they existed. But if so, they might be able to help with whatever was happening with Leah. And they might just hold the key to saving Sanctuary from eternal darkness.
As the two figures stood at the crossroads, it seemed as if the lightening sky turned black again, and a chill swept through the land, and Deckard Cain felt that same monstrous, unseen presence fill the night like a black cloud blotting out the stars. He thought of the protective spell that Adria had cast over her daughter’s whereabouts so many years ago, a spell that had remained intact until Cain appeared on Gillian’s doorstep. Even after that, it had held its magic. But the fire had changed something, had damaged the spell somehow, and now, whatever might have been looking for them had a window to peer through.
The voice of the demon in the Vizjerei ruins came back to him: Our master comes . . .
The chill crept into Cain’s bones and settled there, turning his aching knees to blocks of ice and sending a shiver through his body. Quickly he laid his staff down in the dirt and fumbled through his rucksack, the little girl just behind him all but forgotten in the urgency of need, his fingers like fat, dead things that would not obey his command. Finally he pulled a scroll free and cradled it in his hands as his heart raced in his chest and his blood thumped in his ears. An artifact left to him by Adria, saved for such a time as this.
They will find you before long, and if they do, this quest is over before it even begins . . .
His voice slowly gaining strength as he went, Cain uttered aloud the words of power from a scroll of misdirection and protection he had gotten from Adria long ago, casting an invisible cloak over them to hide them from sorcerers’ eyes, at least for a short time.
For so many years, he had denied the existence of Horadric power, banished the truth of his ancestry to the depths of dusty, forgotten trunks and musty, book-lined chambers, fought against his mother’s teachings, refusing to see behind the veil of what he perceived as madness. He had lived in denial, putting his trust in scholarly pursuits of a more mundane nature. But the world of magic, of demons and angels, had always been there, waiting for him to find it, the struggle of good against evil, playing out as it had for centuries, an eternal battle for control of Sanctuary and the souls of those men, women, and children who lived their lives in blissful ignorance. The power of evil was always present, and always close, like the hot breath of a beast upon his neck. Cain himself had tasted it long ago, and had spent the rest of his life trying to shut away the horrible memory, at least until the invasion of Tristram and the rise of Diablo had forced the truth upon him.
But darkness could not exist without light. Humankind was a study in contradictions, a mixture of the two, and the power to push back the darkness was there, as he knew well now; he had seen it in action many times, and had seen the things that battled against it.
As he spoke, the chill left the air, and the sky began to brighten again, until finally the words ended and Cain returned the book to his sack and picked up his staff. He was only an old man, but he had learned enough during his long years of study to keep them safe. For now. He could only pray that his search would lead them to others who were capable of far more than this. The battle that had begun in the hidden Vizjerei ruins had been fully joined, and who knew what hell might come, and how far they would all have to go before its end.
“Come, Leah,” Cain said. “It’s a long road ahead, and we must go as far as we can before night falls.”
The two travelers set off together as the sun came up over the mountains, making their way toward the dead city, and whatever else might be waiting there for them.
PART TWO
DARKNESS DESCENDING
NINE
The Cavern in the Hills
He watched the two figures walking in the dust, one tall and thin, the other smaller and ten steps behind. They did not appear to be on friendly terms, although they were clearly traveling together. From this distance their features were impossible to make out, but he knew that the tall one was an old man and the smaller one a little girl.
A thrill ran through the young monk’s body. He had found them. It had taken him months of fighting through false leads and misdirection; even now, across the vast plain just beyond the city’s edge, their figures were indistinct, wavering as if viewed through a wall of water. It was not simply the heat that rose as the sun baked the ground through the swirling dust. There was magic surrounding them, and only Mikulov’s intense focus and signs from the gods allowed him to see them at all.
He crouched down behind a large boulder and wiped a thin trickle of sweat from his eye. His breathing remained calm and even, his heart rate steady, but he was not satisfied with his state of being. Although he had waited for this moment, his reaction was unsettling, and thrills of excitement and beads of sweat were signs that his body was not in perfect harmony with his mind. His masters would have been disappointed. The Ivgorod monks held a legendary control over themselves created from years of study, and in moments of stress their minds often left the physical realm and ascended to a higher state of being, becoming one with all things, as the Patriarchs had intended.
Mikulov slipped silently away from his hiding place, working his way back into the hills. He moved like a ghost among the statues of dusty rock and withered trees; even the small, lightning-quick lizards that sunned themselves in the baking heat never moved at his approach. He would wait until the man and the child were away from the city before he revealed himself to them. The gods would provide the time and place.
The Patriarchs had taught him that he was a weapon, a living, breathing instrument. Through him, the Patriarchs would destroy the foul influences that corrupted this world. He must be willing to accept that destiny, and act upon it.
Mikulov had entered the Floating Sky Monastery as a young boy, as countless others had before him. He was quickly singled out from his peers because of his natural abilities of speed, agility, and a sharp mind, and his masters spent the next fifteen years with him, teaching him the ways of the gods, the tactics of battle, and the path to salvation. The gods were in all things, his masters said. They taught him to meditate for hours on end, to seek the quiet center of being, where self-consciousness dissolved and the human mind became one with all things, built to serve the Patriarchs.
But Mikulov had always been restless. He was not well suited to endless contemplation, and it was against his nature to be patient, although in his masters’ minds, patience was everything. He struggled mightily with this, until one day his studies led him to an ancient book of prophecies, and everything changed.
Through the book, Mikulov became familiar with the Horadric order of mages who had battled and conquered the enemies of this world so many years ago. Ivgorod’s own prophecies seemed to predict the Horadrim’s role in a coming battle, one that would eclipse all others in scope and horror: a battle that would usurp the will of the gods. It wasn’t long before he began to dream about this war between the gods. Although vague at first, his dreams were unsettling, and left him each morning with a feeling of unease and loss he could not overcome.
Over the following months, the dreams became worse, and far more specific: visions of the dead walking the earth, commanded by a terrible man with a shrouded face.
The Dark One. This man was consumed by a hatred that burned as hot as the sun, and he would lead Sanctuary into oblivion. But beneath the surface was something else, something far more ancient and deadly, that commanded the Dark One to act. If he were not stopped, the ancient entity would rise up and consume everything in its path.
Mikulov continued his studies with an increased sense of urgency, convinced that the war was coming sooner than anyone understood. The signs were everywhere, and the prophecies he uncovered foretold an event that would occur on the first day of Ratham, the month of the dead, when the stars would align in a moment of terrible power and destruction.
A lost city would rise, and with it, Hell would come to all of them. The gods had foreseen it.
Eventually his masters began to see the signs as well, and interpret them. The world’s delicate balance had been disrupted; a secret plague was descending over Sanctuary; evil was bleeding into the world, its minions becoming ever bolder, darkness spreading across the land. But in spite of his pleadings, the Patriarchs’ instruction was clear: it was not yet time to engage the enemy, and he was not ready.
Ivgorod monks simply did not defy their masters, and Mikulov spent many nights struggling to know what path he must take. He looked for signs from the gods. The dreams continued, growing in intensity, but the Patriarchs still would not act. Finally, in spite of his own turmoil and terrible sense of loss, Mikulov decided to leave the monastery and search out the Horadrim on his own to offer his assistance.
It was a life-changing decision, one that he knew might very well lead to his death. The monastery was the only true home he had ever known, and his masters would never welcome him back again. The Patriarchs might even order his execution. But he was haunted by what he saw when he closed his eyes at night, and he knew that he must act or his life would no longer have meaning. Either way, he would cease to exist.
If this was his path, he must take it. The gods would not rest until he did.
He set out on his journey with a heavy heart. Finding any trace of the Horadric order turned out to be more difficult than he had anticipated. The order had vanished from Sanctuary, the last of their kind apparently having died out long ago. But eventually he found that the demonic uprising that had spread to Kurast and Mount Arreat several years before had begun in the former Horadric monastery in Tristram. From there it did not take him long to find Deckard Cain.
This was his only link to the Horadrim, and Mikulov would not miss his chance. He followed the old man in secret for months, losing his trail in one place only to pick it up again somewhere else. More than once he was close enough to see Cain, but the time was not right to make contact.
He listened to the gods as they spoke to him through the wind, the rain, the rivers, and wildlife. He would engage with Cain when they chose for it to happen.
Perhaps soon, in the hills above Caldeum, he would get his chance.
There was evil here.
Mikulov sensed it, hovering somewhere out of sight. The wind whispered it to him as the sun’s rays gave a momentary pulse of heat. The lizards scurried to safety, puffs of dust marking their passage.
With a breath of air, the gods instructed him to look up. Far above his head, carried by the hot winds rising from the desert, black birds were circling.
A sense of great danger overwhelmed him. The ground ahead offered him shelter. He slipped between two large slabs of rock and into a dark, shadowed crevice, away from prying eyes.
The air was even warmer in here, and the crevice ran deeper into the hill than he had thought. Mikulov advanced slowly as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. His sense of menace had not subsided once he had entered the narrow cave. In fact, it had gotten worse, and as he moved ahead, he felt his consciousness expand, a dreamlike haze falling over his heightened senses.
Before him he found a set of ancient, rough-hewn steps descending into the darkness, and he began to walk down, his hands out before him, feeling the moist air. Thick, rope-like cobwebs brushed his face. There was some light coming from below, enough for him to see, and the walls fell away from him as he continued, so that he had the sense of entering a vast, open cavern far below the surface. There were both great wonders and terrible dangers down here, an entire world underground, and he thought of giant spiders spinning webs across piles of rotting corpses, lurking in the shadows of dusty alcoves with a thousand glittering eyes and fangs bared and dripping, waiting for fresh blood.
The stairs seemed to continue forever. Mikulov lost track of how long he had been descending, and stopped wondering where the walls and ceiling of the cavern had gone. He had the feeling that far above him stretched a night sky littered with stars—not the sky of his own world, but that of another dimension or time. The gods would speak to him through this canopy of stars and show him the way to salvation. Somewhere below he would find the answers to all that he had been searching for, but he knew those answers could destroy Sanctuary.
He looked below and saw a wagon wheel of old, leaning buildings, the ground littered with fallen stones, silent and still, with dusty, broken streets running like spokes in all directions, and sensed that among the shadowy corners and forgotten rooms lay moldering corpses, their bony, empty sockets staring lifelessly ahead for time without end.
The lost city.
Mikulov slipped on silent feet through a crumbling stone arch. The city stretched before him, as if frozen for eternity as it had fallen, centuries before. A temple loomed to his left, its doorway open and pitch-black. Beyond it was a wide boulevard that had cracked in two, and the crevasse that yawned like a toothless mouth was glowing, as if the fires of Hell were beneath it.
Something moved in the shadows of the temple.
Mikulov glanced at the open doorway. For a moment, nothing happened, and then, moving with strange, jerking steps like a toddler just learning to walk, a creature emerged from the darkness.
It was human, or had been once. What little clothing remained hung like ribbons from the creature’s shoulders. Shards of gleaming white bone thrust through strings of leathery flesh. Its face was little more than a skull with wisps of hair and skin and grinning teeth, but it stared forward and then turned back and forth as if searching blindly for something.
It paused, its empty eye sockets focused on Mikulov.
As it stood outside the temple, another emerged from the dark, this one with more shriveled meat on its bones, then another and another. Mikulov turned to see other corpses gathering all around him, lurching forward with bony hands up and grasping. He turned back, but more had gathered behind him, cutting off the stairs to safety, and as he stood there in shock, he could hear the thunderous sound of thousands of skeletal feet marching through the streets, just out of sight.
Mikulov darted through the closest of the risen dead, feeling their cold bone-fingers kissing his shoulders before he slipped beyond them and ran ahead. As he approached the wide boulevard, he heard a shout and saw a group of people surrounded by horrible, ghoulish creatures that scampered upon all fours like dogs, their flesh pale and withered, their balding skulls gleaming. The people were cornered, their backs against the stone wall of a building. There were about six of them, one taller and thinner than the rest, his long, white hair wild around his face.
Deckard Cain.
Mikulov stood helplessly as the creatures closed in on the small circle. More of them approached on all sides, too many to count. Just beyond them stood a shadowy figure in a black robe, his features hooded. The Dark One.
The creatures fell upon the group. A thin, high scream cut through the noise of marching feet, the sound of a little girl in terror.
Mikulov ran forward as the ground began to shake, and stopped short as the crevasse before him suddenly widened. Something gigantic began to climb out of it, monstrous, armor-plated claws rising up and bracing it on both sides and a three-horned head emerging with yellow eyes burning like pools of fire. The creature rose up and towered before him, impossibly huge, more eyes opening like glowing orbs, shining like the fires of Hell itself, and its gaping maw opened, showing bone-teeth in a glistening jaw.
There was no use in fighting such a thing. He averted his eyes. The sound of deep, jarring laughter brought him to his knees as he waited for it to descend upon him.
The feeling of rough stone beneath him brought him back with a sudden jerk, and Mikulov found himself staring at a blank wall. For a long moment, he kneeled, motionless; the heat of the narrow cave he had entered was oppressive, making it difficult to breathe.
He gathered himself, got to his feet and glanced around. The cave was no more than ten feet long, and ended abruptly. There were no stairs, no cavern beneath him. Nothing he had seen was real.
