Diablo III: Morbed Read Free Page B

the expanse, it seemed instead to flutter from her lips and die at their feet. “I heard tales that the wayfarer was versed in various magical arts.”
    Aedus was looking around, wide-eyed. “This is unnatural. Noise does not even carry here . . . almost as if a spell has been enacted to mask screams.”
    â€œOr the bellows of giant beasts,” Jaharra offered.
    Vorik spoke next, his words barely more than a whisper. The others crowded close to hear him. “I’ve seen summoning chambers such as this in my youth . . . in Kehjistan, once called Kehjan . . .”
    In his youth , Morbed thought. How many ages ago was that?
    The old man’s eyes seemed clouded. “There it was, in the distant past, that Vizjerei sorcerers tore at the veil between worlds and called forth demons . . . at first to learn from them but later, foolishly, to enslave, to bend the hellspawn to their own dread purpose. Summoning was quickly forbidden, but in time the Vizjerei once again set about their profane rituals. The Mage Clan Wars erupted. In a desperate bid to tip the scales of battle, the Vizjerei employed demons against their enemies. At the gates of Viz-jun, carnage gave way to chaos as binding spells broke. Brother fell upon brother. Great horned monstrosities rent flesh, bone, stone, and mortar. Walls tumbled, corpse mounds rose, and a red haze obscured all. It is said by the most gifted necromancers that the horrors of that final conflict left an indelible stain upon the fabric of our world.”
    When Vorik finished speaking, a pall of silence reigned. For a moment it seemed as though no one breathed.
    Morbed felt a draft and turned to the closest archway. The door set into the wall there was open. He quickly scanned the room, blurted, “The fisherman!” and tore off in pursuit.

CHAPTER TWO

    The goal of their journey should have been simple enough, but events had taken a sour turn since they had set out from Westmarch.
    It had all started with a summons from none other than Justinian, the king of Westmarch. Rumors of their band’s success against the Aranoch bandits had earned Jaharra and her compatriots no small notoriety.
    Within the gilded confines of his royal chambers, Justinian disclosed the existence of lost, inaccessible ruins sprawled beneath the realm, the time-ravaged remains of a long-forgotten civilization below the bogs—ruins that few living mortals had ever glimpsed.
    His Highness also divulged rumors of a prowling vagabond. Although the marauder’s activities were carried out on moonless nights, there were those who witnessed a shrouded figure toting cartloads of crates from within the city proper; still others at the riverfront docks told of deckhands in red tabards hauling covered items aboard a dark vessel that would arrive and depart before the rising sun, not to be seen again for several fortnights. Season upon season the elusive scoundrel had preyed upon the realm and its people. What distressed the king most, however, were hushed reports of the unnamed wayfarer stealing into the catacombs of the time-lost ruins beneath Westmarch’s neighboring bogs and plundering the tomb of Rakkis, the founding monarch of the kingdom. And so it was that His Highness enlisted Jaharra’s band to find the vagabond, kill him if necessary, and reclaim any stolen items or artifacts.
    Shortly after this audience with the king, Clovis threw in his lot. Rumors of the wayfarer’s possessing rare and unique artifacts sparked within the holy man a hope of discovering the remains of Akarat. Although he was greeted at first with suspicion by Jaharra, Clovis pressed his case and, on the merits of his piety and value as a warrior, was granted reception.
    They soon set about gleaning information. To learn more of their elusive quarry, they palavered with merchants, sailors, innkeepers, and the harlots who solicited along the docks. They elicited