Mario's hand trembled as he punched the pause button on the remote. The holographic display hovering above the crystal tri-d display stopped, the image looking somewhat blurred. Still, the words were clear-cut and evident. So was the number beneath them. His hands twitched, sweaty from nervousness as he bounded up from his couch.
Several times, he reached for the phone, only to back away again. Lights and noise came from outside, whenever an aircar would zoom past the apartment building, but they hardly registered on his mind. Finally, he took a deep breath, sat down in front of the phone, and punched in the number.
The screen displayed the standard ZI logo, and he remembered just in time to turn off the video display before someone on the other side answered. "Hello, and thank you for calling Employees Unlimited! How can I direct your call?"
He sat there for a moment, and then started stuttering. "Um, well, I-I saw a commercial with your number, and ..." He stumbled to a halt as she interrupted him.
"Of course sir, hold on while I look it up. What did you see in the commercial?" He looked back at the tri-d, a look of irritation crossing his face at the cheerfulness in her voice. The words and number had been haunting him for weeks now, no matter where he went or what station he changed it to, they would always appear within a few minutes.
"Um," he started again, then slowly read the words out loud. "I have an ex-parrot named Dave." A blush spread across his cheeks and down his neck as he realized just how ridiculous they sounded.
But if the receptionist on the other end thought it was odd, she didn't show any sign, just hummed tunelessly to herself for a moment. "Ok sir, I'll transfer you to your extention now." Before he could protest, the phone started playing the usual angelforsaken music.
It lasted for about two seconds before it cut off, and a deep, resonant voice answered. "Hello Mario, I was wondering how much longer I would have to wait for your call. You're surprised, I know," and the man had actually leapt out of his chair by now, "But that message was magically sent out for you, and only you. I'm here to offer you a purpose. You've spent your whole like looking for something big and dramatic you can do to affect the world. Meet me at McSwiney's down the street in twenty minutes."
Mario ran to the door, and had his hand on the knob before the voice spoke again. "But for angel's sake, throw some clothes on first!" He stopped moving completely, looking down at his naked body and turning sheepishly towards the closet as his phone turned off.
Nineteen minutes later, he stood in line at McSwiney's, staring blankly at the menu and wondering what he was supposed to be doing here. It was true, he'd spent years knowing that he was somehow different from the people around him, the sheep who wandered from home to work, supporting the Empire of the Setting Sun without a second thought. Could that person on the phone really have something that he could sink his teeth into, something he could grab ahold and ride to his destiny?
"Hey man, you gonna order or not?" The teenager behind the counter was glaring at him, and Mario dropped a gold Rugen on the counter, mumbling his order and waving away the change. He picked up his Barbeque Burger and moved to a table, unwrapping it lethargically and taking a bite. More than likely, this was all some scam by one of his friends.
"Mind if I sit down?" The same voice from his telephone spoke, this time from less than ten feet away, and he looked up in surprise. Belial stood before him, no more than human height, dressed in innocuous clothing and holding a cheap plastic tray. "You are the only person who can see the real me, so let's not make a scene, alright?" he added quietly, sliding into the chair across from the human.
A few furtive glances around the restaurant didn't help to settle his sudden attack of nerves. He swallowed twice, trying to work past the lump of fear and excitement in his throat. "Why don't they notice you?" he whispered, automatically jerking his hand towards the nine-to-fivers waiting in line to bring home some artery-clogging food for dinner.
The Lord of Lies chuckled, kicking his feet back on the next table and pulling out a few fries. "You're different, Mario. You can't be fooled by tricks or illusions. Magic just doesn't work around you the way it should." He munched on a few fries, making a face that would have been pure ecstasy, were it human. "You might have noticed that over the years."
He did remember suddenly all the broken tri-d sets, the failing aircars, luck spells he'd buy for a test that went awry. "I have," he said guardedly, finally putting down his burger. "What does that have to do with you?"
The demon smiled, swinging his feet back to the floor and leaning in closer. "Like I said, I'm here to offer you a purpose. Are you interested?" He carefully extended one hand, the gems inset to his talons glinting in the harsh fluorescent lights.
Mario stared at the hand for almost thirty seconds, then finally wiped the grease off his fingers and shook. "Now what?"
Belial smiled, sitting back and unwrapping his own burger. "I hope you like things hot," he said, before taking a giant bite from the sauce-smeared pork. "Because tomorrow, you'll be flying first-class to Lut Gholein."
Returning to his own burger, the human felt something inside him slowly being filled as his new boss outlined his plans.
"Your honor, the defense would like to call Otto Jeffries to the stand." Her voice was rather bland, but curious comments started up from the people filling the room, and confused looks went flying through the jury box.
The judge peered at her curiously, using the gavel to scratch his nose. "Ms. Young, I hope you did read yesterday's paper. Mr. Jeffries died of a heart attack two days ago, brought on by a bad batch of medication."
She smiled, and turned to a young man standing behind the rail, sitting somewhat nervously at ease. "Yes, Your Honor. That is why the defense has asked Mr. Dewey, from the Society of Rathma, here for the afternoon to act as an interpreter." The courtroom erupted in bedlam, as the prosecution's lawyer started screaming vehement objections and the crowd behind the railing ramped the volume on their conversations up a notch.
The media were loving the whole bit, of course, as Judge Barrak broke his gavel in half shouting for order. Not until the bailiffs moved in to silence the crowd did everything quiet down - but the distinctive glow of LDCs (long-distance voice crystals) could have lit the room by themselves. Irritably, he used the broken handle to gesture the two lawyers to the front of the room. "Your Honor, this is highly irregular. This case is just a simple murder trial, and despite the defendant being a high-profile member of the Zakarum church, this is uncalled for."
Before she could do more than open her mouth, the judge waved her down. "Yes, Ms. Young, I know there's precedent, and yes, I know that objection is the biggest load of dog shit I've ever heard in my courtroom in twenty-five years on the bench." His eyes turned further back, to the non-descript olive-skinned man sitting, hands in his lap, behind the defense attorney's table. "But I'm afraid you'll have to find another member of the Society. You can't bring my nephew into my courtroom," he said loud enough for some of the crowd to hear as he overrode her, "and expect me to remain impartial."
The youth smiled, standing from his seat. "It's ok, uncle Barrak. My oath prohibits me from being anything but truthful and impartial, regardless of the actions of anyone else in the courtroom." After a long few minutes of glaring, he finally motioned with the broken gavel for the Rathman to come out from the seats, and take his place on the witness stand.
The reporters, of course, were practically beside themselves with glee. It was very rare for anyone, prosecution or defense, to spend the high amount of money it required to bring an accomplished Rathman summoner to the stand, and many of those who had learned the hard way that a fee of ten million gold Imperial Rugens (whether in real gold or paper credits) did not guarantee a testimony beneficial to their position. Even with those tremendous fees, there were some cases that a Rathman would simply refuse to touch. And now, one of them was on the stand, ready to summon the soul of Otto Jeffries, a well-known retired general from the Zakarum army.
Of course, it couldn't live up to the hype. The man simply sat on the witness stand, pulled out a small wand of bone, and said the name. The room seemed to dim, and a transparent figure of the legendary general was suddenly standing in the middle of the courtroom. The bailiff held up a copy of the Collected Prophesies, somewhat nervously, but the general merely chuckled. "There'll be no need for that, lad," he said with a smile, "I know my duty. I recognize a courtroom, been in a few. With a Rathman at my back, I can't help but tell the truth anyway." His smile melted away at the last part, and he turned stoically towards Ms. Young as she started to question him, every person in the courtroom hanging on every word.
She started out with fairly standard questions, asked of every witness who had taken their place on the chair so far. Even with truth spells, it was possible to wiggle your way out of revealing things - but not when faced with a Rathman. Their control over the dead, even the souls of those passed, was iron, and they always told the complete and total truth, no matter how embarrassing or self-incriminating. "What were you doing on Midsummer's Night, at approximately an hour past sundown?" she asked, finally getting around to his whereabouts on the night of the crime.
"I was with Archbishop Michael, in his cottage on the grounds in Tristram," he said simply. The Rathman narrowed his eyes, but said nothing, and General Jeffries offered nothing more.
"Was anyone else with you? Specifically, do you remember Sarah Winslow being present?" Her voice was gentle, but her eyes were cold and hard. This next answer would be crucial to whether or not her client, the Archbishop, would have a conclusive alibi for the murder. All of the evidence, everything, was inconclusive, only giving the Archbishop as the most likely suspect.
General Otto Jefferies opened his mouth for a moment, then closed it unhappily as the Rathman magic clamped down on him. "She came to visit, hoping to seduce the Archbishop even though her previous attempts had failed." That sent a ripple through the courtroom, and a pained look to Michael's face. "He sent her away without telling her I was there." He stopped, but the magic ratcheted down another notch. Pain on his face, and his eyes downcast, he finally admitted, "He didn't want her to find out that we were lovers."
That caused the courtroom to be cleared, as the crowd started shouting, the reporters especially trying to suddenly fight their way to the front of the room where the Archbishop had burst out in tears. The bailiffs threw everyone out, taking some evident pleasure at breaking the broadcast crystals the reporters were using. Twenty minutes later, the courtroom only held the judge, defense and prosecution, and the jury. The doors were barred, with a pair of visiting Clan mercenaries volunteering to guard the doors. "You can continue your questions, Ms. Young," the judge said, his voice quiet and still shocked.
"Did you see her again after that, General?"
He gulped, and nodded. "Yes. She burst in through an unlocked window, catching Michael and I, um, in flagrante delicto." Even as a shade, his blush was quite evident. "There was a great deal of shouting, and she stormed out. I put my clothes on, and convinced Michael to let me handle it, then chased after her. She hadn't left the grounds yet when I caught up to her. I had hoped to talk her out of revealing it, but she was obviously too angry that her fantasy of marrying Michael had been ruined." With an unneeded deep breath, Otto raised his eyes and looked at his lover. "So I took the dagger off my belt, and stabbed her in the heart. I didn't realize until later that I had grabbed the wrong pair of pants when I left - we're the same size."
"No further questions, Your Honor," Ms. Young said, sitting back in her chair with a shellshocked look. Her client was innocent - which she had been sure of, of course - but this was not what she had expected.
"The prosecution would like to drop all charges against Archbishop Michael."
Smiling, Mr.Dewey lowered his wand, and the ghost vanished with one last forlorn look.
The stadium was huge, a varied battlefield in the shape of a rough circle and almost a mile across. In a special clearing, two men approached each other while a referee waited silently. Hovering in the air were dozens of broadcasting crystals, and dozens more were hidden around the arena.
For this month's clash, buildings of grey stone had been rapidly constructed, and the air was heavy with grey smoke. Recorded screams echoed on the broken ground, giving the almost perfect illusion of a piece of Hell, transported to Earth. The stands, filled with thousands of fans, were hidden from view by the smoke and the high walls, but neither really cared. "Lorekeeper," one spoke.
The other nodded, smirked, and said, "Lorekeeper," back. "How's your niece doing anyway?"
The referee started to sputter as the two opponents picked up the small talk. "Ah, you know how most girls are at five summers. She wants to run away from home and join the Amazons. I heard your sister married into the Crane clan?"
"Heh, yeah, bright fellow too. Not a warrior, but we can't all be perfect." He glanced up at the referee, then grinned broader. "Oh yeah, I forgot. Ahem. I, Burning Tail, Lorekeeper of the Second Wolf Brigade, shall show you the meaning of defeat today, girlie man!"
It took the other Lorekeeper a moment to stop laughing, and his mouth was still curling up at the corners as he spoke. "I, Crushing Paw, Lorekeeper of the Fourth Bear Brigade, shall bury your honorable corpse here after our battle!" He fought back another bit of laughter. "Angels above, why do we say this nonsense anyway?"
"Because the audience at home eats it up, remember?" He winked, mouthing back, "For great justice!"
The referee glared back and forth between the Lorekeepers. "You know, we could just start right now. I'm sure that such skilled warriors as yourselves don't need to know the layout of the arena." In an instant, both of the leaders were silent and attentive, and she smirked. "Much better."
Turning towards the nearest crystal, she spoke clearly, both for their benefit and the audience, watching the arena live or in holograms at home. "This month's arena has been modified to appear like a piece of the City of the Damned in Hell. With that fitting location, the arena will momentarily be stocked with balrogs, stygian hags, and tainted - all specially caught for the occasion.
"In addition, the arena has been laced with traps to stop the unwary - blasts of hellish flames, collapsing buildings, and sudden sinkholes. As always, any soldier can activate their shield amulets to escape from a trap, and any soldier ruled to have received a mortal blow will have their amulet automatically activated. Still, accidents happen, and we at the arena encourage you not to allow your children to watch, in case of an accident."
The two Lorekeepers shared a worried look. "This is going to be a lot worse than the living Kehjistan jungle, isn't it?" His opponent merely nodded.
"Enough talk," she said, glaring at them. "You've both had a chance to see the arena. Back through the doors to meet up with your teams, before you're released into the arena. The Wolves will enter from the north, and the Bears from the south." With a last smile at the crystal, they vanished behind the steel door, and the demons were let loose into the arena.
Burning Tail and Crushing Paw (their stage names only, as no self-respecting mercenary would ever use a name that trite and hackneyed for real) met up with their respective squads, detailing the layout of the arena and the opponents they would be up against. "This is no joke," the Bear Loremaster said grimly. "The worst aspects of fighting in a city combined with a demonic army ten times the size of both teams put together."
In an almost identical room, on the opposite side of the stadium, one of the Wolves perked up. "Hey boss, I think I got a feed." He twisted the crystal in his hand and the silver wires attached to it, and a grainy hologram sprang into being. For the moment, the broadcast crystals were silent, but they still picked up the image of the stadium. "I bet that Caleb's hacked the feed too, the bear's pretty crafty."
Burning Tail looked over his squad and nodded. Two of them lifted massive miniguns, each of the Protectorate guns custom built for their squad and weighing at least twenty pounds. Then they were layered with enhancement spells, both from the Loremasters and from Zann Esu sorcerers. All of them had standard side arms, and the three brawlers hefted vibro-axes, the wire-thin blade edge as tall as their torsos. "Are you guys ready to go out there and kick some ass?" The shout, bellowed from two-dozen strong Barbarian throats, rattled the room and actually broke one of the lights.
The Loremaster glanced at the timer on the wall, counting down - five more minutes left. Then they'd have to raid the arena, find the beacon (as always, hidden somewhere out of camera view), and get it back to their bunker before the Wolves beat them to it. "Caleb, what's the demon situation look like?"
Despite standing at least seven feet tall, and normally wielding a maul made of a solid, magically created diamond, Caleb's voice was unusually high pitched. "I'm counting at least two dozen balrogs, about twice that of Tainted. Those dogs are roving in packs, natch, about ten a piece. The hags have split up into two groups of about eight or nine each, staking out flanking positions near the doors." He looked up with a glittering sparkle in his eyes, eager for the battle to begin. "Little bastards won't know what hit them."
"What're the likely locations for the beacon?"
Crushing Paw bent over the map, considering the question. "I'm guessing that some of these larger buildings - houses, or stores, the ones with the roof still on." He glanced at the timer again, and then started chanting. At ten seconds to go, the room was halfway full of fog, spilling out through the cracks in the door into the arena, making the thick, acrid air even harder to see through.
The buzzer echoed through the stands, and cheering fans leaped to their feet to watch the outcome. The Wolves stepped straight out of their door, the miniguns opening up to slaughter the Hags before a single worm could be sent against them. The others, armed with an oddly eclectic mix of axes, swords, and rifles, easily took down the charging squad of balrogs without a single injury. "Alright men, move out, formation Alpha! First site, move!" Burning Tail emerged from the doors last, transformed into a werewolf nearly eight feet tall, steel claws donned for the coming battle.
Fans of the Bears were disappointed at first, as the jumble of fog poured out, enough to cover several blocks, thick enough that even the protected cameras mounted in the wall around the door saw their exit as little more than a dark rushing shape. When the fog finally cleared, ten minutes later, the Bears were well into the square mile of arena, and the hags and balrogs gamely took up the chase as the fans cheered, realizing the deviously clever idea of getting the demons to follow them - hopefully, right into the unsuspecting Wolf team.
Half an hour into the combat, neither team had found the Beacon yet, and both teams were supporting wounded members. Unknown to the teams, this battle had a nearly limitless number of demons, and for every fiend they killed, another was let loose into the mock-landscape of Hell. Running short on ammo, both sides had been reduced to melee weapons, saving their last few bullets for their desperate exit once the Beacon was located.
Only the audience members knew where it was located, thanks to the glowing arrow above the fray, visible only in the stands and in projected holograms in homes around the world. Hidden on the unstable second floor of a building that might once have been an inn, the green glow of the coveted trophy barely reached the windows. But now both teams were converging on it, having exhausted their other likely locations.
Burning Tail roared, rearing back and making a throwing motion with his hand. The small rock shot forth, expanding in size and bursting in a fiery explosion against the pack of worms chasing them down the street. His werewolf form had flown away as his strength ebbed, but the dozens of cuts and bites on his arms and legs failed to hinder him as he leaped through a window, the members of his squad forming up to protect each other as they fled into the building, hoping that it was not a death trap.
From the other direction, Crushing Paw had finally taken his werebear form, larger than the next two squad mates combined. Caleb let fly with his maul, sending a worm flying through the air hard enough to rip the wing off an over-eager balrog. One of the other barbarians slammed into the door, easily crushing it and the hag waiting behind it. They poured down the hallway, keeping the demons at bay in the enclosed space. "There's the stairs!"
Both groups came around the corner, stumbling to a halt as the lead members regarded each other uneasily. With a painful growl, the werebear form slipped away, and the two Lorekeepers stepped together to confer in whispers, inaudible over the din of battle. Spectators at home watched nervously as the rear guards fought desperately to keep the hallways clear, the army of demons pressing their advantage of numbers.
Then in unison, the Lorekeepers charged up the stairs, and the Beacon, that little golden cup that signified the winning team, sat in plain view on a table, filling the room with a pleasant green light. Grinning, they each grasped one of the handles on the cups, and the announcers went berserk as they ran back down the stairs. Both the Wolves and the Bears had lost a half-dozen of their members, the men lying on the ground, paralyzed and unconscious but protected by the special amulets they wore for these competitions.
With their hands still linked on the cup, they raised their free hands, pressed them against the other wall, and roared. Druid magic surged through them, and the wall blasted away as a tornado shredded the building apart, leaving a free passageway to the outside. One balrog in the wrong place at the wrong time got picked up, the tornado throwing him a hundred feet into the air. The demon spread his wings, diving towards the stands, only to hit the magical barrier and hang there for several seconds as a few thousand volts surged through his body.
Working in unison, the squads made their orderly retreat from the building, and again the Loremasters held a hurried whispered conference, barely two words. Then, shouting orders, they started a charge towards the edge of the arena where they had both met before the match began those long forty-five minutes ago. The men fought desperately, melee weapons in one hand and pistols in the other, every strike a perfect kill. Even so, another five of the men fell before they reached the steel doors.
"I can't believe the nerve of these two," one of the announcers said piously as they banged the Beacon against the door. "This is supposed to be a competitive match, and yet they join up the moment they find the trophy they're supposed to be battling for. The quality of the warriors this month is just pathetic, I mean - what the blazes are they doing now?"
The last words were shouted, as she leaped from her chair and almost threw herself into the hologram, shouting at the cameraman to zoom in on the picture. Down below, the remaining warriors stood in a tight semi-circle around the two Loremasters, who had once again taken their were-forms. Then with their free hands, they scooped them into the gray soil of the arena, lifting and roaring, infusing the giant ball of dirt and rock with fire, and hurled the missile at the door.
Above it in the stands, spectators screamed and fled, jumping over seats and running down the rails to either side as the boulder smashed into the doors, blasting them completely off their hinges, and the warriors of Wolf and Bear clans backed inside, again closing the space down and forcing the demons into a death trap. "Open fire!" Crushing Paw shouted, and the few miniguns opened fire with the last of their ammunition, clearing out the tunnel mouth for the moment.
The announcer skidded to a halt at the base of the corridor, as armed and armored security personnel (fortunately with demon-specific weapons for the match) came charging up behind her, taking up positions at the tunnel mouth to allow the beleaguered warriors a chance to rest. "By Baal's Foot, what do you call that debacle out there?" she shouted at them, face red with fury.
The two Loremasters looked at each other, and then in unison chucked the Beacon at her, bouncing it off her forehead and knocking her unconscious. "A tie, you twit," Burning Tail grumbled. "Say, after everyone's recovered, want to get everyone together down at the Kingsmarch Gardens for a pint or two?"
"I'm game," Crushing Paw said as he inspected the damage to his greaves, "As long as you're buying a plate of those mozzarella sticks. I love those things."
"You're on!" he laughed, shrugging out of his own plate mail. The audience at home watched as the picture faded out to the "Arena - Barbarian Deathmatch!" logo, and almost universally changed the channel. Morgan the Teenage Zann Esu could never be half that entertaining.
It ought to be cold on New Year's Day, Victor thought grumpily as he mopped sweat from his forehead. Cold, with snow falling over Tristram, piling up to your knees, light and fluffy enough for a proper snowball.
Instead, he stood in the middle of the white-gold blazing expanse of sand, a large but thin straw hat resting on his head as he wiped the damp handkerchief over his forehead again. "Where are those Mazu, anyway?" he asked his companions, but they all merely shrugged.
"Pardon our latefulness," a voice suddenly hissed from before him, and Victor jumped as a section of sand reared up. The pattern of scales was almost hypnotic, only dulled slightly by the snake's passage through the hot sands of his homeland, a place almost completely inhospitable to humanity. "There is a sandstorm to the southwest, three of your miles away. We must conclude our business swiftly."
More sand moved, clearing into another four of the Mazu, unwrapping bundles with their tentacles and spreading them out on the sand. Two were of some kind of silk that the snakes manufactured, gleaming a bright emerald green, almost like the color of their eyes. The others were gemstones, polished but uncut, and they would be worth a fortune back in civilized Zakarum society. Of course, he had to get their caravan back there first.
"Right then," Victor mumbled, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a few small items. They were simple things, and he wasn't sure why his occasional trading partner had requested them specifically. The tentacle, dry and smooth like well-oiled leather, brushed against his hand, taking the two LDCs and inspecting them, then casually flipping them to another Mazu as he inspected the Protectorate gun. "That's just a basic model," Victor said, somewhat nervously, as the snake turned it and examined it from several angles. "It's not loaded."
Glittering green eyes suddenly fixed on him, and the human trader automatically took a step back. "We requested ammunition as well. I was very clear about that." With a shaking hand, Victor motioned to one of the others, and they pulled out a small metal box, opening it for a different Mazu. They had a half-dozen types of bullets and a few needles as well. "Very well then, the gems are yours."
As the humans scrambled to wrap up the stones and the silk, the Mazu gathered together again, hissing sibilantly in their native tongue. {The sandstorm is too close. If we do not offer them guidance, then these humans will perish.}
{So? They are merely humans. Their fate is not our concern.}
{They have been valuable trading partners in the past. Honest and discrete. It will take much time to cultivate a new partnership, and our fortunes maybe worse next time, Striker.}
{Very well,} said their leader, and he calmly slithered back over to Victor as he prepared to jump onto the small wagon, wrapping up his face again. "Wait. The sandstorm will be here soon. I will guide you to safety."
He missed the jump completely, barking his shin painfully on the iron corner joist. "You're going to help us?" he asked incredulously. When the Zakarum had first encountered the Mazu, and discovered that despite their knowledge of Heaven and Hell, they gave aid and comfort to neither side, they had almost gone in to exterminate the snake-ish beings. Now they existed in an uneasy neutrality, where neither side did much to help the other. "Why?"
Striker hesitated a moment. "For the moment, having you as an ... ally ... is to our advantage." Ignoring further questions, he started moving, pausing only to spit out a small piece of the silk humans prized so highly, holding it visibly in a handling tentacle so that the apes could follow him. {Return to the All-Mother,} he ordered his companions. {Expect me back tomorrow to make my report.}
{It shall be done,} they replied in unison, their voices lost in the rushing winds, and completely unintelligible to the humans. Most of them, anyway.
The entire village was turning out into the square, prepared for the ceremony celebrating the longest night of the year. Despite the cold weather, no one missed this occasion, not the ceremony to celebrate and worship their great lord Baal. Many of them had traveled here from smaller villages nearby for this night, risking their lives to the bandit-covered roads for this.
The high priest stood on the platform, dressed only in the ceremonial paint for the summoning, ignoring the snowflakes drifting down from the sky. Families, both rich and poor, gathered up around the raised platform with the engraved pentagram, the poor dressed in their finest clothes, the rich surrounded by their goatman guards. Many had their eyes on the high priest, others on the trio of succubi that laughed and gyrated behind him at the center of the pentagram, and a certain nervous few kept their eyes locked on the large clay pot, easily large enough to fit a person inside, resting on the first step down from the platform.
The moon was just over a quarter, moving towards the new moon and barely visible in the sky when the clock in the demonic cathedral struck the midnight hour, the deep, echoing bell rolling through the crowd like a visible wave of water. All conversations stopped, everyone in the village dropping to one knee, heads bowed facing towards the platform. The high priest remained still for a moment, then reached into the clay jar before him and drawing forth a small clay tablet, reading the name pressed into it.
Trembling, a man rose from the crowd, kissing his family and walking towards the platform. He shed his clothing as he mounted the stairs, and the succubi moved from the quiescent pentagram and lifted smaller pots, painting his body with a dark liquid. The high priest picked another dozen names from the pot, and one by one the people emerged from the crowd, climbing onto the platform and being anointed by the succubi, a strange cross-section of the population of all ages and backgrounds. At last they all knelt on the platform, a small circle of humanity at the edge of the summoning circle.
One by one, the chosen villagers began a chant, their voices blending discordantly on the breeze as the slow snowfall covered the crowd in a thin blanket of white. At last the high priest joined in their words, the resonant baritone causing the platform to shiver as the succubi knelt, silent, behind his feet. Small traces of red fire were starting to race through the engraved lines as their chanting filled the air, and all at once it burst into life with a blast felt only to those who knew magic.
Andariel rose from the opened circle and the assembled crowd shouted their allegiance to her master Baal who sent her to them, their voices shaking the village. The Maiden of Anguish turned slowly in a circle, surveying the crowd and the thirteen chosen sacrifices, her giant face bursting into a grin. Then she turned back to the high priest, her voice low and reaching every person intimately. "Tonight, for the services your people have rendered the great Baal, he has instructed me to take only six back with me."
An almost imperceptible tremble swept through the thirteen chosen who still knelt around the pentagram, then one of them rose slowly to his feet. As though in a dream, he stepped carefully over the line and knelt at Andariel's feet. Then an elderly woman rose to her feet, joining him in the circle and the position of obeisance. As three others rose, one by one to the middle of the circle, the high priest's face deepened into a frown.
He opened his mouth to speak, then his body froze to almost statue stillness. As Andariel watched him, her eyes filled with curiosity, he stepped over the lines of the circle and paused, then moved slowly to take his place in the semi-circle gathered in front of Andariel's feet. One of the spike-tipped arms that grew from her back moved in a blur, spearing him through and yanking him off the ground, even as the succubi reveled in the spray of blood.
The crowd roared in glee as she bit his head free, swallowing it as she looked out across the village, the loudest voices calling her name coming from the eight painted humans right outside the pentagram. Then her eyes found what she was looking for.
Azka met the stare with ease, her body immaterial and resting in safety inside the wall, only her face sticking free to watch the ceremony. You dare to interfere with this worship ceremony to Baal? the demonic, feminine voice of Andariel echoed through her head.
Funny, I'd never picture your mental voice as being a soprano, Azka replied, her mouth quirking into a grin. As for my interference, I don't see you complaining.
Andariel laughed, another arm spearing one of the other sacrifices. I care little which human dies and which lives. You are nothing but ants to us, she shot back, her words ringing with music. But my brother may object.
The Ghost merely rolled her eyes. The last time Baal took on a Ghost, he was slain and banished from Sanctuary for a century. Would you like to test my abilities? They locked gazes again, and the Maiden broke first, grabbing the last four victims with all of her arms and rending the life from them. As the cheering crowd shook the foundations of the village, the great demoness sank back into the circle, the hellish light winking out in an instant.
Slowly the crowd dispersed, the forsaken sacrifices slowly donning their clothes and rejoining their families, forgetting about the paint that still covered their bodies. Some shivered in the cold now, the excitement of their yearly worship ceremony worn off with the unusual ending. Like her position implied, Azka slipped away from the village, out into the bandit and demon-filled wilderness and towards the border of the Protectorate.
Not bad for two years of undercover work, she thought. But it was definately time to get back to real civilization.
Detective Elijah Bailey, Kingsport Fourth Precinct, hated trying to run down a suspect in the rain. And this wasn't just rain, oh no - this was what had been, up until two weeks ago, a major hurricane before it narrowly missed the Amazon Isles, and was taking the opportunity to dump as much water as a storm could on the streets of Kingsport.
On top of that, he was running uphill.
His suspect, running with more desperation, but no more speed, was less than a hundred feet ahead of him. He couldn't have been more than thirteen, fourteen at the most, but Detective Bailey knew most of the officers in the City Watch would have been running just as hard - in another direction. The kid was a danger to everyone, and he probably didn't even realize it.
Tearing around a corner, the kid almost slipped, and Bailey grabbed onto a lamppost to keep from doing the same, making his turn into more of a barely-controlled skid across the smooth sidewalk. A few cars were on the street, blaring their horns as they fought to keep from running down the two clearly insane pedestrians cutting across their lanes.
Fortunately for Elijah, he had worked this section of the city as a beat cop before he got promoted, and had a pretty good idea of where the kid was going. There was a warehouse, about two blocks away, that was often used for raves and drug parties. But at nine o'clock in the morning, the place should be deserted. Sure enough, the kid cut left across another lane of traffic, racing down an alley. Grinning, the detective let him run, passing by the alley in favor of a more subtle entrance.
Five minutes later, he was climbing in through the fire exit on the second story, standing on a catwalk that crossed the width of the building. He crouched down, creeping silently towards one of the ladders as he listened to the kid, breaking the back door in the offices. Muffling the sounds of his descent completely was impossible, but he reached the floor without alerting his quarry, and crept across the cracked concrete floor towards the back.
Sure enough, a moment later the kid yanked the door open, rushing out to exit the front of the building, and tripped perfectly over the foot sticking out across the doorway. He screamed in fear, rolling over onto his back even as Detective Bailey started shouting at him, "City Watch! You are under arrest for the illegal use of psionic powers!"
He would have said more, but the kid threw a hand towards him. Elijah felt nothing, of course, but he watched as the youth started to tremble, then convulse fully. Sighing, he pulled the billy club from his belt, still talking as he knelt. "You have the right to remain silent, anything you say will be used against you in the Imperial Courts. Continuing to use your psionic abilities on the police can be punishable by death, you know."
The billy club made a light thud against the boy's temple, and he slumped into unconsciousness. Not too soon, either, he thought, because it would have been a damn shame if he'd died of psychic burnout. He pulled his LDC from his belt, tapping the activation button twice to make it glow green. "This is Detective Bailey. I caught the runaway psycher."
A burst of static came through, and he winced before the other voice spoke back. "Roger that, Detective. We'll alert the Protectorate. What's your location?"
"The abandoned Wesson warehouse, near King William and Fifteenth streets." He paused for a moment, then added humorously, "You think the Protectorate folks will have a problem dealing with a null like me?"
"That's their problem, not mine," the response came back with a small chuckle. "I just work dispatch. HQ, over and out." Bailey dropped the LDC back into the pouch on his belt, and glumly sat down on the cold floor to wait.
"Kingsport mission control, this is the Lucky Money. You finally track down that errant signal?" Gene sat in his seat, rather bored, with a book propped open by a finger. The thick glove, that he was supposed to be wearing at all times due to regulations, was resting in his lap underneath it. His partner, Roger, was asleep in the other chair.
"One of the wires pulled out of a plug. It's being fixed as we speak." The voice on the other end was just as bored, but much more interesting to listen to compared to Roger's snoring. "Hold up, they just came back in." There was some muffled voices through the intercom, and the joyous woman's shout woke up Roger. "Alright, Lucky Money, this is Kingsport mission control. We are back on schedule for one hour from now. Copy?"
"Hell yeah, mission control!" Gene said back, quickly shoving a rubber band around the book and clipping it into a magnetic pocket underneath his chair, wrestling the book back into place. "Lucky, you ready to go?"
A flat, almost toneless female voice echoed around him. "With the repairs completed, all of my interior systems reading are perfect." Roger calmly rebuckled his safety harness, reaching for the fishbowl helmet sitting on the console in front of him.
"Good to know," Gene said, attaching his own helmet. "Ready to be the seventh pair of men to go outside the atmosphere, Roger?"
His partner just shrugged. "It's getting to be routine. Last trip up, the media barely covered it at all. Kind of sad, that the only reason they're here is because you're a null." He stretched his arms, wiggling his fingers and ensuring he could reach all the important parts on the console.
Making a face, Gene imitated him, then leaned back in his seat. "Well, they have to find out sooner or later. Might as well be sooner." Roger simply shrugged, remaining outwardly silent as the psionicly built computer ran through checklists with him mentally.
Over the next forty-five minutes, they went through a dozen simple checklists for emergencies, listening over the intercom to the ground crews finishing everything and the soft rumble of the fuel tanks being filled and prepped by the fire mages. Then they were down to the final countdown, waiting, both of them filled with nervous energy.
The computer on the Lucky Money started the final countdown at five minutes, and Gene and Roger stopped their nervous twitching and settled down, waiting for the last second and flipping switches as their training and the preparations called for it.
"Ten." They were down to the last seconds now, and Roger gripped his Zakarum cross tightly. "Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Ignition."
The rocket shook as the spells took hold, blasting away at a pressurized stream of potent alchemical potion, enough to drown a city block in, and it slowly lifted off the ground. The metal holding arms easily fell away, waiting earth mages catching them and lowering them gently to the ground to wait for the next mission. The two astronauts saw none of it, of course, as they were fighting the sudden thrust as they attempted to start their mission on a good foot.
Twenty minutes later, they were crossing out of the atmosphere. The view through the front, triple-thick and heavily enchanted glass, was spectacular - millions of stars crossed the sky, thicker and more brilliant than could be seen from the surface, even from as tall a mountain as Mount Arreat.
"Lucky Money, this is Travincal regional communications station. How's the weather up there?" Gene almost broke a switch off as the sudden, unexpected voice chattered from the speaker.
Roger chuckled, tapping a button on his helmet with a slow, even movement. "Roger, Roger here. The weather is beautiful. Clear as a diamond and twice as valuable." He moved his hand back to the panel with the practiced ease they taught, preparing the astronauts for the weak, magically created gravity. Boy, did he pity the first mission sent up here, who didn't believe that gravity would stop!
Before they could receive an answer back, one of the warning lights suddenly lit up the console with an ugly, red glow. "Warning," the computer intoned aloud and painfully in Roger's mind, "radar says that there is an object directly ahead of us at a distance of one mile. We will impact it in four seconds."
Both of them swore as they leaped into action, fighting against the weak gravity and the restrictions of the safety harnesses to try and activate the thrusters, even as the Lucky Money herself was trying to dodge as well. A sudden, painful lurch hit the ship, and the whole room vibrated with a loud metallic clang. "Lucky?" Gene half-shouted as he furiously worked the micro thrusters to try and adjust them back into their previous flight path. "What the blazing hells just happened?"
There was a moment of silence as the shuttle stopped the strange, almost graceful spinning relative to Sanctuary. "We were struck by a metallic object approximately twenty-three centimeters in diameter," the computer intoned. Roger looked grim as it relayed more information to him. "The left wing is damaged. We do not have the parts to complete all of the necessary repairs while in space."
The two men shared a bleak look, and then Roger voiced his concerns out loud. "We only have enough food for ten days up here, Lucky. Can the ISA send up another shuttle for a rendezvous before then?"
Another tense moment of silence ran through the room. "That is beyond my ability to assess, captain." The warning light slowly faded out on the console, and everyone seemed to take a moment to try and regroup their thoughts. Then the light blared to life again. "Warning, another impact in -"
A brilliant white light flared to life in the sky above the mountains that separated the Zakarum and the Protectorate, then faded away.
Greed was bent over a microscope, watching the slow chemical interaction with great interest. Unfortunately, as much as he wanted to, he was unable to focus his full attention on it. With irritation and a small amount of reluctance, he raised his face, looking across the table at the man making the noise. "Really, Jack, must you eat so loudly?"
He shrugged his fat-covered shoulders. "You don't see me complaining when you duck outside every ten minutes to check your stock quotes," Gluttony shot back at him, licking his lips and casually tossing the stripped chicken bone into the trash can, already overflowing with pizza boxes, empty cartons of stir-fry and egg foo yung that the suffering Gheed was sure he had licked clean.
Still, in the interest of his master Asmodan's plan, he bit his tongue and looked back at the microscope. "It seems to be proceeding just the way we wanted it to." He glanced to the end of the table where their third member was sitting, legs propped up on the table with a notepad and a calculator in her lap. The fact that the delectable Lust was wearing less than a billboard underwear model was another fact he had been trying to ignore for most of the last two weeks. "Any brilliant ideas?"
She sighed, sitting up in a graceful movement that caused both mens' hormones to reach up and grab them around the hearts. "If we distribute this drug as an injection, the odds of an overdose are too large. Same with smoking it." She turned her face towards Jack, raising an eyebrow. "But I think, with a bit of your specialty, we could package them in something like a gumdrop."
He sat back, the rolls of fat shifting about like a turbulent ocean wave as the chair creaked ominously. "The gelatin mix would slow the absorption rate of the drug, true. What about the chemical reaction with sugar though?" he asked, all business even as he dipped one hand back into the bucket of fried chicken.
Lust tossed the notebook down the table, and Gheed caught it, glancing over his notes, trying to remember as much of his college chemistry as possible. After all, his position as Greed led him to focus on accounting, not drug interactions. "It doesn't seem to be a problem," he said, setting the notebook down on the table. "Now who do we test it on?"
Both of them looked at Jack, who had picked up the bucket and was looking at the empty container forlornly. "I'll call out for pizza; I know one of the delivery boys is a druggy. Mostly minor stuff, dreamweed and the like, but for a free sample, we could probably get him to try it." He tossed the bucket towards the trash can, missing and ignoring it as it spun on the floor. "Do we have anything else to eat?"
Gheed sighed, looking down into the microscope as he fought down a wave of revulsion. "I think there's some sandwiches left in the fridge." He stopped, realizing what he said, and looked at the doorway to the kitchen. "Um, the blue fridge, that is."
Diane shook her head, thin fingers quickly rebinding her flowing hair into a braid. "No, he had that for breakfast," she said with a measure of shared revulsion. "Let's take that sample, and see if we can get one good gumdrop made from it."
They spent the next ten minutes mixing the chemicals into a measuring cup, pouring it into a small jello mold and setting it in the freezer, while Gluttony spoke on the phone to whoever the teenager was. Doubtless every delivery place in Kurast had his address memorized.
Fifteen minutes later, a knock came to the door, and Greed and Lust hid back in the kitchen, their mixture prepared while they listened to the ball of fat in the living room talking to the delivery boy. Then he stuck a hand through into the kitchen, and she dropped the small gelatin cube into his outstretched hand, waiting to see the reaction.
The kid apparently paused for a moment, as they felt Gluttony's magic work on him subtly, encouraging him to try the tasty treat. He swallowed, and the drug hit him like a freight train. All three of the Deadly Sins could feel their own focus of power coursing through the young body; the rush of hormones, the desire for power and the feeling that you deserved whatever you could set your eyes on, the stuffed satiation only possible from a meal of the highest quality.
For thirty minutes, they basked in the flow of emotions and subtle magic that the drug invoked in their first victim. Then the teen started jerking on the carpet, fighting for breath, as the power of the drug started burning out parts of his body. Gheed and Diane drifted out from the kitchen, watching him breathe his last strangled breath before expiring in the middle of the carpet.
"Well, that was a disappointment," Greed said. "We'll have to reduce the dosage before we can start marketing it." Gripping the corpse by the ankles, he dragged it into the bathroom. "I'll bribe a couple of hit men to dispose of the body."
Throwing on a raincoat, Lust nodded. "So, where are we supposed to start production first?" Her brow furrowed and she looked at her fallen notebook in confusion. "What are we going to call it, anyway?"
Heaven, or perhaps just H for short, said a voice familiar to all of them. Start distributing the drug in Tristram, Viz-Jun, and Raveil. It will spread from there, Asmodan said.
Successful, the three of them all shared a bow towards each other, and the two Deadly Sins left. As Jack returned to the fallen dozen pizzas, he wondered whether or not a human really did taste like chicken.
He sat on the rather beaten plastic couch, ignoring the smell of disinfectant that barely covered the other smells of blood and vomit. Par for the course for a hospital like this one, he thought, and his hand momentarily strayed to the small, silver cross around his neck beneath the pressed shirt.
When the door to his left opened, he looked up expectantly, and put on his best smile as the harried woman looked out at him. "Come in, come in, don't just stand there all day," she admonished him, vanishing back into the recess of her office. "What did you say your name was again?" she inquired, picking up a set of spectacles from the desk and sorting through the massive stack of papers to find his file.
"Arthas," he said, sitting down across from her. "Arthas deBeers," he added, pausing for a moment before extending out his hand. But she didn't notice as she read the paper (again, he hoped), and he lowered it after another moment of awkward hesitation.
With a snap, she closed the folder, dropped it into the trashcan next to her, and leaned forward to stare him down like a saber cat. "Well then, Arthas, I must say it's not every day that a prospective paladin turns up at my office in the glamorous John J. Lepetomaine Memorial Hospital," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You want to be a medical intern for a year to satisfy the terms of your initiation into the paladin orders?"
He nodded slowly, doing his best to hold up his show of confidence. From the moment his Arbiter had told him which hospital he'd be fulfilling his request of a medical internship in, he'd been regretting it. Almost, he'd begged for the chance to change his mind, to go on a demon-hunting crusade into the Aranoch desert instead, but a paladin does not falter. "That's right," he said. "Three months in surgery, three months in the burn unit, and six in the emergency room."
She raised an eyebrow at that, and leaned back, the ancient office chair creaking in protest. "I fully expect you to be walking out of this hospital at six months and one day," she said, "slinking back to your Arbiter and begging for another assignment. Something simple and safe, like singlehandedly disrupting the yearly worship ceremony to Baal in Caracun." She snorted, looking up at the ceiling. "But, angels know how much we can use any set of helping hands. Get your butt up to the fourth floor, and talk to Doctor Fox."
He rose from his chair hurriedly, giving a quick but graceful bow, and launched himself out the door. When this was over, and he was a full member in the Paladin Order, he was so going to kick his older brother's behind for this.
"Rrasi?" he said quietly, both hands holding the compound longbow easily, an arrow pulled back and ready. The last thing she'd said was something about hearing their quarry, a small pack of ghouls. When they could eat live prey, ghouls were some of the more dangerous undead, being both swift and cunning in addition to the unnatural undead strength. But they'd been chasing this group for three days now, hardly stopping to rest, so by now the ghouls would be weakening, losing some of their speed and strength.
"Rrasi?" he called again, wondering where his partner had vanished to. For the third time since he'd arrived to be partners with her, he was regretting his assignment. He sighed softly, slipping between a pair of bushes and looking up at the snow-covered mountains, so close to the east, that separated the Zakarum theocracy from the demon controlled kingdoms on the other side.
A sudden scrabbling noise made him turn, raising the bow and firing the moment he saw the ghoul. It tried to dodge, but weakened by days without feeding the arrow caught it in the shoulder, slamming it backwards into the fallen tree that had, a moment ago, been its shelter. Snarling wordlessly, the ghoul yanked on the arrow, but the barbed magnesium head was stuck firmly in the log, and the shaft was designed to take a beating. Vladimir drew another arrow, carefully lining up the shot, and pinned the ghoul's arm to the log as well.
"Say g'night, you filthy bastard," he said, drawing forth a lighter from his pocket. The arrows had a core of magnesium, with a small piece sticking from the base of the shaft, just for situations like this. While the ghoul raged impotently, still trying to attack him, he flicked the lighter and held the orange flame against the base of the arrow, his eyes almost squeezed shut. With a quiet hiss and a blinding flame, the magnesium caught fire, and he leaped away as the ghoul screamed. The burning metal had already started melting away the shaft, dripping molten aluminum into the core of the rotting body.
"Yeuch," he muttered.
"Could you be quieter?" He looked up at the voice on the branch above him, catching sight of Rrasi at last. "You're going to scare away the rest of them," she muttered, her tail tip barely flicking as her sharper ears and nose tried to find the other three undead remaining.
Closing his eyes, Vladimir took a deep breath, then picked up his bow and set another arrow to it. His ghoul had already stopped twitching, filling the forest with the stink of burnt flesh and melted plastic. "Where are they?" he whispered at last.
Looking up, Rrasi had vanished again with the usual silence of a saber cat on the hunt. "Remember, you moron," he muttered to himself as he walked around the fallen tree, "you requested this assignment."
His rant probably would have continued, but something smashed into his back, sending his prepared arrow flying off to vanish in the fallen leaves even as he rolled forward, accepting a nasty laceration on his forearm to protect his bow. Rolling back to his feet, he pulled out another arrow, stabbing the over-eager ghoul through the eye with it and ducking around a pine sapling, trying to stall for enough time to back away and fire another arrow at it.
To his surprise, the ghoul just stood there, trembling, as it tried to pull the barbed arrow from its eye socket. "Oh, the hell with it," Vladimir said, yanking the flare gun from his belt as a second ghoul emerged behind the injured one. It was unarmed, and ignoring the branch that had so effectively clubbed him, charged. At the last moment, the scout turned, hitting it in the chest with his palm and shoving the barrel of the flare gun between the ghoul's teeth.
When he pulled the trigger, the rotting head exploded, showering him with putrid flesh and impaling bone splinters in his skin. Spitting, he tried to wipe his eyes free, and almost groaned. Rrasi was standing a few feet away, leaning against a tree, having already disposed of the wounded ghoul. "I thought human males were supposed to be intelligent," she sniped.
"I'd be doing a lot better if you'd bother to teach me anything, like you're supposed to!" he shot back, pulling a large, squishy piece of unidentifiable flesh from his hair. "This is only my first assignment as a scout. You're supposed to be my mentor."
They glared each other down for a moment, then the saber cat turned around and casually leaped over the fallen tree. "There's a stream back here," she said over her shoulder as her tail vanished. "I'll start a fire so you can clean up.
Still muttering about all his stupid ideas, Vladimir followed her.
"Dad was right, I should have gone into training as a Fire mage instead," Julie said irritably as she measured out powder onto the scale, almost grain by grain. Her voice was quiet, as a breath at the wrong moment would scatter the careful work all over the countertop, and require her to spend another half-hour calibrating the scale for the fourth bloody time, and was really not in the mood for it.
"You'd have hated it," Thomas replied in his usual tone, sounding as though his mind was somewhere in orbit.
She inhaled sharply, cutting herself off halfway as the powder stirred in the small plastic tray, then carefully turned her head away to take several deep breaths. "When this is over, you are so going to drown in your own coffee, you vapid air mage," she spat at him before turning back to her own work.
"Hey now, you're the one who chose to work in research and development. Don't take it out on me." He leaned back from his own scale, the chair squeaking as he turned around. "Ready when you are."
Julie held her breath, watching the scale as she carefully brought it up to the exact measurement, calculated to the microgram. She backed away slowly from the counter, moving into the more open area of the room. "Go for it," she whispered, crossing her fingers.
Raising his hand, Thomas reached out with his magic, and two streams of powder combined in the air, mixing with each other until they had solidified into a small sphere about the size of a ball bearing. "Hurry up," he said, some of the magical strain creeping into his voice, and she wordlessly hurried across the room with the flask, an ugly brown liquid sloshing around inside. Almost imperceptibly, the powder drifted down in a perfect spiral into the flask, the water swirling around to mix perfectly.
When it was done, they both stood there gazing at the small flask and the electric blue liquid contained within. "Think it'll actually work to cure the Horribus plague in the Entsteig provinces?" she asked nervously.
"Only one way to find out," he said, and moved towards the door to the next room. "Time to kill some rats."
Grimacing, she slid open one of the drawers, pulling out a pair of syringes and a pair of clean needles, and that was when the door burst open from an explosion. "Not again," she growled, as the unmistakable uniforms of those insipid animal protection mental cases. "Not again this week!" she shouted, and Thomas turned back from the door to the room as one of them leveled a pistol in his direction.
Truthfully, the Animal Protection Society Squads had never been very successful in attack research facilities like these, because it took very powerful and skilled mages to do most of the research. To their own detriment, it never stopped them either. A blast of hurricane force wind hurtled across the room, toppling sensitive equipment, sending chairs flying, and hurling all but the two most tenacious rebels back outside. "Don't you people ever learn?" Thomas asked in a bored tone, hearing the retort of the pistol and the disconcerting feeling as it shot through his immaterial body and tore a chunk out of the door.
Outside on the lawn, the wind-tossed intruders were regrouping themselves when all of the sprinklers suddenly erupted. What would normally have been an inconvenience suddenly turned into a deadly trap, supplemented by Julie's magic. The water slapped at them like hailstones and slicked the top of the grass like oil. Their weapons, normally fairly immune to the elements, suddenly started rusting away as they fought to retain even a crawling position outside.
Then the security squads drove up in their jeeps, brandishing weapons and magic themselves. Handcuffs and ropes flew through the air, attaching themselves to victims as they were levitated out of the destruction that had been the doorway. Rubbing her hands together as though cleaning them, Julie climbed down from her perch on the counter, leaving the professionals to do the cleanup. "Now, tell me again why I shouldn't have been a fire mage instead?"
Her partner just smiled that tiny smile, the barely-lifted corner of his mouth as he shook his head and straightened his hair. "Because, annoying as they are, it is technically against Imperial law to kill them." He almost said more, then caught sight of the flask on the counter, shattered by one of the bullets that had missed or gone through him during the fighting. "You know what?"
"Fuck the job, let's take the day off?" she asked hopefully.
"Yeah. I'll buy the first round."
"Fire in the hole!" Rama shouted, ducking backwards behind the wreck of the police car. The metal door, reinforced with sheets of steel by the drug runners hiding inside, crumpled inward with a disappointingly soft whump. Erratic gunfire spattered against his car, and a few of the others, as the S.M.A.S. (Specialized Magic Assault Squad) hefted shields and weapons and charged for the door.
Rama pulled out his short rifle, popping up over the hood of the car long enough to see the windows. Three windows facing the street, all of them boarded over. The one on the left had a gap, and a glimpse of moving steel inside. The first two bullets shredded the side of a board, and the third blasted splinters of wood inside to rake the room. He heard someone screaming even over the noise of gunfire and the clashes and clangs of melee combat. He didn't envy the cops, that was for sure - but as the third window exploded outward in a blast of fire, sending some unfortunate soul with it, he had no sympathy for the drug runners, either.
That was life in the ghetto of Haven, he thought darkly. He thought it was rather stupid for the late King Roland to rebuild it, especially after his great-uncle had gone to such great lengths to burn the forsaken place down four and a half centuries ago. Then a bullet skipped off the hood of the car, breaking his chain of thought, and he rolled his eyes, following the angle easily and killing whatever poor bastard had climbed onto the roof of the small tenement building. Rama strolled around the car, moving for the door, figuring that he could at least help any injured cops back outside. The armored van was, after all, waiting two blocks away, after the first roadside bomb they had hit.
He snickered, reaching into a pouch hanging on his belt, where one of the other four was waiting for him. Gabriel's mercy, he thought, what clumsy idiots - he was surprised none of them had blown themselves up by now. He scanned the dim hallway, as skeletal beams of light illuminated the disturbed dust. "Well, at least no cops are dead yet," he muttered, stepping over some nameless criminal who hadn't been so lucky. Most of the doors had been kicked open, others just weren't there, so he could easily scan the main rooms of the building.
Of course, what he really wanted right that moment was a potion to stop his sense of smell. The entire building reeked of urine, stale sweat, and he'd just crushed a rat under his boot. Looking down at the blood-matted fur stuck to the treads, he growled in irritation, then stopped at the rickety stairwell. He closed his eyes, extending his rifle towards the dark shadow under the stairs as he tried to ignore the fighting going on above his head.
His eyes popped open in shock as he recognized the taint of a demon-trained psionicist, and then jerked. A face emerged from the shadow, connected to the arm holding the knife now buried in his intestines. Grimly Rama pulled the bomb from his belt, and took a deep painful breath as his opponent's eyes widened.
"Fire in the hole!" he screamed, and hurled the block of explosive down the hidden stairwell into the basement. S.M.A.S. members hurled themselves out of the windows, most of them able to land safely or levitate down, and ten seconds after his scream faded away, the entire building collapsed with the shock wave from five pounds of plastic explosive going off next to the building's gas line.
"Oh bugger, not again," Duke Campbell rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "Have you honestly changed a single important thing in that plan of yours since last year?" He waved a hand at the folder sitting in front of General Sherwood. "I mean, we're not honestly going to go to war against the Zakarum, so why are we bothering with that again?"
The General, chairman of the Subcommittee on Military Planning, shrugged his shoulders. "As you know full well, Duke, all of our countries have battle plans against all the others, just in case someone else gets subverted by demons." He pushed the folder slightly closer to the center of the table. "It's a formality, and if you just look for the parts I highlighted, we can be done with it in ten minutes."
"Yes, please," Senator Kelly said, removing her glasses to clean them on the edge of her shirt. "After all, Duke, some of us would like to go to lunch." She glanced pointedly at the clock.
Grumbling, the Duke reached over and opened the folder, flipping quickly through the hundred or so pages, then finally closing it with a snap. "So, the updated plan is to basically ignore the Navy, in favor of the infantry and air support?"
Senator Kelly sighed. "I don't suppose you looked at the results of our last joint training mission with the Amazonians, did you?" She smirked as he frowned and shook his head. "The only time we won a naval engagement against them, without losing more than fifty percent of our fleet, we outnumbered them four to one, and had air support."
General Sherwood nodded. "I've been trying for years to convince the planners, and the Emperor, to go along with this. But until I got my third star," he tapped his shoulder bar for emphasis, "they wouldn't listen to me."
"Yes, of course," Senator Robin muttered, "nothing like a little problem like inherited rank get in the way of what's right."
"We don't have time for another of your rants about how the nobles need to be stripped of their ranks, money, and homes, Senator," the General growled. "All in favor?" Four hands reluctantly raised around the table. "Good. Let's break for lunch."
In a swirl of a blue shawl, the Countess Geller rose to her feet. "At last! Well, is anyone else going to join me at the dining hall before this afternoon's debate?" Finally smiling, Duke Campbell offered her his arm, and they walked out together, perfect examples of the quality of the Upper Senate.
Senator Robin was left alone in the room as the others departed, watching the doorway and still, as always, feeling the resentment he had towards the nobility, born into their wealth and power without any of the effort that others needed to attain it.
Detective Bailey sat at his desk, scribbling half-heartedly at the stack of forms in his in-box. Most of them were unnecessary for anything except a bit of ass-covering, but it was one of those things that the bureaucrats, petty and otherwise, swore would cause things to end if it didn’t get completed in triplicate by the proper deadline.
What really got him was the sudden outbreak of drug overdoses in the last two weeks. Most of the cops knew what went on down at the Wesson warehouse – raves, with teenagers drinking illegally and passing around home-made dreamweed cigarettes, but they’d had to close the place down. Twelve deaths in as many nights, all of them collapsed out on the dance floor, as though they’d literally partied themselves to death.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” he muttered to himself, writing what little he’d been able to find out by interrogating one of the small-time dealers he’d stumbled upon. The girl had been trying to crawl out the bathroom window when Bailey was responding to a call for backup.
A shadow fell across his desk, and he looked up, blinking in surprise. “Detective Bailey?” the man asked. Elijah nodded, taking in the man’s clean-cut black suit and almost military-regulation haircut. “I’m Agent Gray from the Royal Investigative Bureau. Could you come with us, please?”
“Probably,” he said slowly, “but not unless I know what this is about first.” There were lots of rumors – but never anything more than rumors – about people who’d gone away to talk with RIB agents, and then vanished. Of course, he doubted they’d ever tried to spirit away a decorated detective before, but you could never be too careful.
Chuckling, the agent pulled back out his wallet, reaching inside and pulling out a card. Elijah stared in surprise at an ID card of himself, made out as though he was a RIB agent himself. Damn, it’s even a better picture than my police card, he thought, and then looked up in surprise. “This isn’t yours yet, Detective. But you have a damn good record, and we think this case is something that might spark your interest.” He stepped back from the desk, slipping the card into a pocket, and Agent Gray gestured towards the bank of elevators. “Shall we?”
They rode in silence down to the basement, where another pair of black-suited agents stood in front of one of the interrogation room doors. The one on his left passed a scanner in front of his eyes, the red beams blinding Elijah for a moment, then she opened the door and they ushered him in.
Bailey blinked, wiping at his eyes to try and rub away the afterimages from the mind-scan, and then blinked again in surprise as he saw the person sitting at the interrogation table. “Duke Campbell,” he said, hurriedly bowing deeply, and then turning to study the elderly woman sitting next to him. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize you,” he said, and glanced at the agents. Gray had taken up a position in the corner on the inside of the door, and the other two had retreated back outside, closing him in.
“There’s no reason you should, Detective Bailey,” she said in an iron-toned voice, clearly used to ordering around people far more important than himself. “I’m Katharine Lorrah, the Deputy Secretary of the RIB.” She waved a hand at the seat opposite herself and the Duke. “Please, sit down.” He nodded, coming forward uncertainly and sitting gingerly on the edge of the chair.
“For Tyrael’s sake,” Campbell muttered. “Relax, detective, we’re here to offer you a job. One that your record,” and he tapped the closed (and fairly thick) manila folder lying on the table, “tells me you are amply qualified for. Agent Gray, if you would?”
Elijah turned as the tall agent stepped over to a tri-d set, and manipulated the controls carefully. The image that sprang into view was fairly familiar, a McSwiney’s restaurant. He didn’t recognize the blurry view of the street out front, but that was hardly surprising. The image suddenly jumped and blurred as someone stepped into view, waiting in line. He watched intently, trying to hear the words through the pops and hisses, and realized after a moment that the distortions were only centered around that one person. It was a man, Bailey could tell that much, but it was the oddest damn thing he’d ever seen. The man took his order, sitting down at a table next to the window, the distortion moving to follow him. After a moment, a well-dressed businessman sat down across from him, and they talked for a few minutes, their words inaudible due to the distortion and the security crystal placement.
Then they reached out to shake hands, and both of them vanished from the display, the distortions instantly vanishing with them. He cried out in shock, surging to his feet, and lunged around the table, his hands playing with the controls, jumping it back to watch that part through five times. Finally, his hands shaking, Elijah returned to sit down at the table. “Belial’s returned to Sanctuary.”
Campbell and Lorrah shared a look, and the elderly woman nodded. “Exactly right, detective. He’s been absent from mortal affairs for almost half a millennium, and now he’s returned.” She sighed, and picked up the top piece of paper from her stack. “This man was Mario Ramirez, a shift manager for a janitorial company. Three weeks before this recording, he was complaining about a problem with his tri-d set. Two days before, he stopped coming in to work, and all of his belongings had been removed from his apartment in a very professional cleaning job.”
Bailey whistled, and the Duke nodded. “The RIB had been starting to investigate him due to a little theory of mine.” He smiled humorlessly at the detective. “You, as a null, are aware of how valuable skill that is for law enforcement and governments to have. But so far, we’ve only seen evidence of psychic nulls. Why not magical nulls?” They sat in silence for a few moments, Elijah’s eyes growing wider at the implications. “Exactly so. You noted the distortions on the recording; his very presence is enough to wreak havoc on magical devices and enchantments. And over the last ten years, his abilities have apparently been growing even stronger.”
“Now he’s signed up with the Lord of Lies, in the demon’s first appearance in mortal affairs since the days of Jaresh and the first Paladin Council. I’m sure you understand just what kind of threat we’re talking about, Detective,” Secretary Lorrah said. She snapped her fingers, and Agent Gray tossed the RIB card across the table to land in front of Elijah. “As a null yourself, we’re hoping that you’ll be somewhat less susceptible to the effects that Mr. Ramirez will have at his disposal. For the moment, you’ll be partnered with Agent Gray. Your police department will tell anyone looking for you that you’re taking a long paid vacation.” She glanced pointedly at his record. “You do, after all, have almost a hundred days saved up. Dismissed.”
In something of a daze, Detective Bailey (wait, no, Agent Bailey, he thought) let Agent Gray usher him out of the room, and then into a car that almost screamed “Unmarked Police Vehicle!” They were pulling away from the curb before he shook himself back to reality. “Where are we going, anyway, Agent Gray? And do you have a first name?”
Gray chuckled. “My full name is Leo Gray-Skies. I usually just stick with Gray, though. You want me to call you Elijah?” He turned on the radio, a violin concerto softly filling the car. “Right now, we’re going to your apartment so you can pack. Then we’re going to the airport, and Lut Gholein.”
“This might sound like a foolish question,” Elijah said slowly, “but how do you know that Mario Ramirez, brand-new servant of the Lord of Lies, would head for the Jewel of the Desert?”
Gray chuckled, pulling onto the freeway with a casual ease that Bailey envied. “He boarded a plane with a ticket bought on his own credit card. But on the security videos, there’s very clearly a ticket agent accepting a ticket from mid-air.” The rest of their ride was spent in silence, the detective (Agent, darnit!) lost in thought.
Victor sat quietly in the back corner of a pub in Jasmine City, sipping slowly at his beer and watching the tri-d display. They had two more days before the caravan was supposed to arrive back in city, and they could pack up the latest shipment of gems onto the Stormwind and sail back to civilized lands. “Not soon enough,” he muttered to himself sourly. They’d been stuck down here in the Searing Desert for two months, waiting on their other trading partners to come back from the mines. Not to mention that bizarre collection of goods he’d given to the Mazu, in exchange for about ten pounds of silk.
Lost in thought, he didn’t at first hear the buzzing of his LDC, but when one of the other patrons narrowly missed him with a peanut, he sat up, blinking in surprise and fumbling in his pocket for it. It should have been displaying a name or an icon, if it was any of his crew of trading partners, but instead it was disturbingly blank. He fumbled for the activation point, setting down his beer and gesturing to the bartender for another. “Hello?”
For a moment, he thought it was only static, then the hissing and pops resolved into a voice. “Hello, VictorArumOfTristram,” and he almost dropped the crystal onto the table. “We would like to arrange another meeting before your ship departs for the northlands.” In shock, he stared at the LDC, completely ignoring the waitress swapping out his empty pint for a full one. “Are you still there?” the voice came back, empty of the concern that a human caller would normally have displayed.
“Um, yeah, yeah, I’m still here,” he stammered out. Leaning further back, all the way into the corner, he brought the crystal closer to his face and lowered his voice. “What can I do for you, and how the hell did you get those crystals working?” His engineer liked to dabble in electronics, and had assured him that while there was nothing actually wrong with the LDCs they’d traded away, that no pickup station would relay a signal from them.
A light hissing came through the crystal, the Mazu laughter, he supposed. “We have always had talents that humans discount. Meet us tomorrow at the location where we delivered the silk to you.” There was a pause, as though the snake-like being was thinking of the proper words in human tongue. “We will need to give you an advance deposit against a shipment of goods.”
Victor stared at the phone, blinking and trying to think through a haze of alcohol. “Alright, we’ll be there,” he said, and the crystal went dark as the connection ended. “I have no idea how I’m going to get out into the middle of the desert in one day without a caravan, but I’ll be there.” Standing up, he downed half of his beer, and dropped a couple of Rugens on the table. “Marty, go find the rest of the boys!” he shouted towards a group playing dice at a bigger table. “The Mazu said they’ve got another request for us.”
A small, rat-faced man leaned back from the table, two dice held up in his hands. “How the hell do you know that, cap’n?” he drawled out around a cigarette.
“Because they’re better with these things than you are,” Victor said back, waving his LDC in the air. “I’ll be at the docks grabbing our equipment. Meet me there with every else in,” he paused and squinted at the watch on his wrist, “three hours. They want us there by tomorrow at noon.”
Ignoring the cries of outrage from his engineer, and the laughs from around the dice game, he stepped out into the street, pulling his hat down to his eyebrows to shield himself from the sun. “Angels above, I need a vacation,” he said, spitting into the dust piling up against the wall of the bar from the wind.
Azka stood silently at attention, her mind open and the whirring sound of the fan filling her ears. After a moment, she felt the first brush against her mind, then the torrent of images and sound, everything she had done the last two years, hiding out in Nestoria and following around one of the more powerful priests of Baal. The few times she’d been nearly captured, the papers and conversations she’d overheard, the plots and intrigue among the various priests and warrior-princes as they vied between each other for Baal’s favor.
At last the dizzying sensation went away, and she closed her eyes, drawing back up her mental shields and centering herself. “Well done, Azka,” came the first voice from the council. She opened her eyes, blurry afterimages still dancing across her eyes. “From the files you read, we should be able to halt the next group of demonic invasions.”
One of the others stirred, swirling around the ice in her glass with barely a nudge of psychic power. “What made you choose to expose yourself at the Emergence Ceremony and eliminate the high priest Taltoran?” Her voice was low and quiet, her voice hidden by the veil of snow-white hair that fell across it.
Azka swallowed down a moment of nervousness, then turned slightly. “Mistress Lum, the priest Taltoran was the most powerful servant Baal has bad for several decades. He has avoided dozens of assassinations and power coups, both overt and subtle, and ruled Baal’s kingdom with almost complete control for seven years.” She glanced around the half-circle table, looking in vain for support, or condemnation, or in fact any emotion at all. “I pieced together the plans for this attack largely through luck, and that ceremony was the only opportunity I saw where I could safely eliminate him.”
They could see her memories, of course, but as nine minds probed through her own, they never picked up the same impressions from what she had been through. She’d been a Ghost for almost twenty years now, and this was merely the latest and longest in assignments. Mistress Lum had been on the Council almost that long, and a Ghost herself for longer than that. She was ancient now, sipping slowly from her glass of ice-water, scarred face hidden behind her hair.
“We have a new assignment for you, Ghost,” came the deep voice from one end of the table. “I’m aware that this is slightly irregular, after returning from a mission of such length and importance,” he said the last with emphasis, glancing at Lum, sitting silently at the center of the table.
Merely dipping her head in response, Azka’s voice was equally quiet and calm. “Desperate times, Master Gallios?”
“Indeed.” For the first time today, she heard a hint of laughter, emotion in a voice of the Protectorate Council. “Two months ago, a man named Mario Ramirez vanished from the city of Raveil. Less than a week later, a well-known police detective in Kingsport went on the first vacation in five years, accompanied to the airport by a RIB agent.” A brush passed across her mental shields, and she found herself with the mental image of two men, one blurry from a distorted surveillance crystal, the other with a badge. “We do not know why they search for him.”
Lum stirred again, leaning forward. “The detective is a null,” she said quietly. “He is also a frequently decorated officer, who worked his way up in rank. The RIB had considered approaching him before, but this Mario forced his hand.”
Bowing her head, Azka considered the information and her images of the two men. “You wish me to aid the Imperial agents?” she asked.
“Find out why they search for him.” Gallios took a noisy sip from his own glass, the rest of the Council remaining quiet. “If you deem it necessary, aid them in capturing or killing this Mario.”
Eyes wide, Azka bowed formally, turning smartly on her heel and exiting the room. She kept a strong hold on her emotions as she exiting the non-descript office building in Lao Wai, descending into the subways, traveling across the city to a small apartment she paid a tiny fraction of her (very large) salary for. Other Ghosts might take their money and squander it on toys and leisure during their time between missions, but she had never seen the need to throw away money.
Finally, after her palm reader opened the door to her apartment, and she closed the door and felt the magical and psychic shields close around her, she relaxed. In less than a second, she was collapsed across the floor, a step short of hyperventilating as her mind, free of the need to protect itself, whirled around her latest assignment. Right up until the moment Gallios had spoken, she had been expecting condemnation, a demotion, some form of punishment for just how far she’d disobeyed her orders to simply gather intelligence.
Instead, she had been given almost carte blanche to do what she pleased, so long as she could explain herself to the Council when she returned. Gasping, she threw out a hand, and heard the shower turn on. She crawled to the bathroom, shedding her clothes and managing to crawl into the tiny cubicle, letting the hot water blast over her.
There were only two explanations for this assignment. Either they were grooming her to take a place on the Council. Or they expected her to screw up, and were giving her enough rope to hang herself.
She rocked herself in the shower, her hair draped across her face in an unconscious imitation of the leader of her order.
Baal paced angrily, back and forth across the small chamber, ignoring the shrieks of pain from the damned souls ground under his feet. The mere fact that he had gotten here unchallenged was worrying for him enough. “Where is he?” came a growling voice, and Baal turned.
“He’s not here, obviously,” spat the eldest demon, gesturing at the deserted chamber with one taloned hand. “If he was, I’d be busy tearing new holes in his flesh.” He turned with a growl, ascending the short dais and smashing a hand into the disturbingly unadorned throne. “What in Hell’s name is he up to?”
Diablo spread his own hands pleadingly. “All of our spies are searching for where he could have gone. All we know is that he’s not in Heaven, because such a change in power would have been obvious by now.” Terror started pacing himself, in small circles near the entrance. “The only place we can’t search is in Limbo, but it’s impossible to set up a permanent base there.”
With a roar, Baal threw the throne aside, a spray of blood splattering against the wall. “If I hadn’t tried myself to forge a foothold there, I’d be venting my anger on you, brother,” he growled. “Keep looking for him, and don’t come find me until you do.”
He started out of the cave, only to stop as Diablo coughed softly. “We don’t know where he is,” Terror said smoothly, ducking his head as a furious claw came whistling through the air. “But we do know where he was.” He gulped nervously as the fabric of Hell started to ripple with Baal’s clenched fist. “A few days ago, he was in Tamoe, in a McSwiney’s, where he seems to have recruited a mortal to his service.
Baal stood there, his eyes blank as he thought, then with a scream of rage slammed a fist into the wall, bringing down the cave, huge blocks of stone smashing into the two Prime Evils as they crushed the tortured souls once entrusted to Belial’s care. “Find him, and find him now!” A second punch followed, and Diablo hissed in pain as he heard one of his ribs grate.
Eventually, Terror extracted himself from the rubble that had once been Belial’s sanctuary in Hell. “He’s got to stop watching all of those Tamoe blockbuster movies,” he muttered as he brushed the stone dust off, limping back towards his own stronghold on the River of Flame. He looked up once, squinting to see through the ever-present haze, trying to catch a glimpse of the grey wastes of Limbo, and that tiny sparkling gem of Heaven. Was his brother really hiding in the ever-changing realm?
Meanwhile, somewhere on a beach on the Amazonian isles, Belial ordered another Long Island Iced Tea.
Arthas wrinkled his nose as he carefully lifted the sheet. He could feel his healing aura falter a little bit, and he breathed shallowly as he examined the wound. The burn was still festering, a black pus oozing out, and he tried not to wince. Fortunately, the woman was under magical sedation, a potion dripping into the IV and keeping her from screaming. He had just been starting his shift when they brought them in, victims of a cult of Asmodan with a leader claiming to be Anger.
Carefully he replaced the sheet and stepped back, checking on the other patients in the row. When he stepped outside the room, he almost ran down a skinny man. “Um, excuse me, but can you tell me how Rebecca Stamos is doing?”
Arthas blinked, then looked at the clipboards hanging on the inside of the door. “She’s stable,” he said, “but no one in here is allowed to have visitors until they’re much closer to healed.” He glanced backwards towards the patient in question, then at the visitor who had asked. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you really don’t look like a family member.”
“Oh! Um, no, I used to go to school with her, and I thought I recognized a picture of her on the tri-d.” He shrugged in embarrassment and turned to leave, when Arthas reached out for his arm. “What are you doing?” he cried out in astonishment.
The paladin’s gaze was stonily angry. “You’re lying,” he said simply. “And it’s a really stupid idea to lie to a paladin.”
With a growl, the skinny man slammed a hand into Arthas’ chest, and he screamed as something surged through his body, shutting down his healing aura and sending him to the floor in a screaming fit of pain. He barely heard footsteps running, and the grip of hands pulling him out of the doorway, warm against the icy pain covering his skin.
Ten minutes later, the pain had subsided, and Arthas sat in a grimy plastic chair, holding an ice pack over his chest where the man had struck him. His skin was red, and might blister, he thought gloomily. On top of that, whatever the man had done also disrupted the healing spells in the room, and now two patients were dead. Surely, right now his apprenticeship was coming to a crashing halt. He’d have to sit through dozens of meetings with a new Arbiter, to determine whether he was even fit to be given a new trial.
At the sound of the door opening, Arthas raised his head enough to see Madame Wahl gesturing gravely out at him. He carefully walked into the office, trying to put as little movement through the burn on his chest. He sat down in the chair opposite her desk as she returned to her own seat, and then gestured to the phone and the display sprang into life. “Hey, bro. Nice burn mark you got there.”
Flattening his eyebrows, the prospective paladin nodded. “Hello, Arbiter DeBeers,” he said formally to his older brother. “It should heal up in a few days. Good thing I was already in the hospital.” He took a deep breath. “When will my first meeting with a new Arbiter be?”
His brother blinked at him in surprise, then looked at Madame Wahl. “You didn’t tell him anything?”
Scowling, she leaned back in her chair. “I haven’t had a chance to, Rousse. I’ve been trying to find out how a room full of advanced magical regenerative machines all failed at once. Pardon me for not taking a moment to coddle your younger brother on his initiation.”
The older paladin blanched a little, and bowed his head in respect. “I don’t mean to make light of the situation. But yours is only about the twentieth such attack we’ve been made aware of.” He looked back at his brother. “So far, Arthas is the only one to survive direct contact with the attackers. Surveillance crystals have come up completely empty in every case we’ve had a chance to check.”
In a grim silence, the two brothers locked eyes. Drawing himself up officiously, Rousse stared out at the initiate. “Initiate Arthas, you are currently advanced to the status of Novice Paladin. Your orders have changed. You will report to the nearest Zakarum cathedral and confer with the commander, reporting all relevant information as to the identity of the attackers, and make yourself available for whatever mission is decided to strike back against them.”
They saluted, a little painfully on the younger man’s part, and the phone turned itself off. Arthas started to rise, and Madame Wahl reached out a hand towards him. “Paladin Arthas,” she said quietly, “catch whatever bastards are behind this, and string them up by their intestines. I daresay that had you stayed here another two months, you’d have better knowledge of just how to do that.” With his eyes a little wider, he left the office, collecting the few things he kept at the hospital, and headed out into Haven.
“Well, that’s the third one,” Julie said, ejecting the used needle into the neon yellow container. “How many more of these mixtures do we have to test?”
Thomas looked briefly over his shoulder, then went back to gingerly prodding the rat they had infected. “Four, I believe, though you’ll have to check the paperwork to be sure.” The corner of his mouth twitched, the closest he ever got to a smile. “I did recommend that we test this on random bureaucrats from the Imperial Magical Use Department, but it was turned down as being cruel and inhuman.”
The water mage blinked, tossing the empty syringe into the cleaning container. “Making us work around them every day? Can’t say I’ll argue that point.” She stepped outside the door, pulling off the rubber gloves and shedding the apron and face shield.
“Actually, they meant it would be unfair to the rats.” Joining her, his protective garments floated away from his body, dropping into the “Used” bins for later decontamination. “At least the day is over,” he said, letting the hot air wash over him with a contented sigh. “Just a few forms to fill out, and then I can go home, watch the match between Crushing Paw and Blinding Raven, and pig out on McSwiney’s.” He chuckled softly as his coworker smacked him gently upside the head.
Rolling her eyes, Julie went over to her own workstation, shuffling through the pile of boring paperwork to pluck out only the most important forms, jotting down as little as possible before signing them and placing them into a dreadfully empty out box. “I’m glad I work with you some days, Thomas. It makes me feel like I have a social life.”
Laughing, the air mage sent a paper airplane soaring over the large microscope that separated their desks. “Going out to that karaoke bar again, hmm? Going to try and catch the eye of that bartender you spent all of last Monday talking about?” He snickered again, then cried out in outrage as a bubble of water burst against the back of his neck. “That was quite uncalled for,” he said, sticking his tongue out at her.
Before she could respond to Thomas’ taunting, the door to their laboratory burst open, and their manager scurried in. “Good angels, this place looks like a mess! Hurry up, get this place squared away and cleaned up!” At their matched expressions of bored ignorance, he heaved a sigh, glancing briefly at a pile of papers before pulling open a random drawer and thrusting them inside. “Senator Robin is visiting the facility today! He’s specifically interested in your work on a cure for the Horribus plague, and he’s supposed to be here in the next ten minutes!”
“Skinner, why didn’t you possibly tell us this important information sometime around the start of the day?” The air mage waved a hand, and the papers and books on his desk straightened themselves out. “So that maybe we could have some time to prepare before another Senator with more money and good looks than intelligence or common sense showed up?”
Their manager cleared his throat officially, and Thomas turned around to see Senator Robin standing in the doorway, a slightly annoyed smile on his face. “I might not be a genius, but I was a medical student before I went into politics.” He shrugged, walking into the room and glancing around. “Besides, I don’t care what the place looks like, I want to know how the research is progressing.” He smiled charmingly at Julie, who flushed. “A clean table certainly won’t tell me that.”
With Skinner stammering sycophantically, they led the Senator and his two bodyguards through the procedures for donning the protective gear. To their surprise, none of them complained about the delay, and only Skinner (quietly under his breath) said anything about the limited visibility of the face shields. “We’re currently testing the third batch of potential cure,” Thomas said in his usual working monotone. “The first two worked, but the strength and frequency of the side effects are too high for human testing.”
“What happened?” the Senator asked, staring in one of the cages at the skinny rat, his fur falling out in patches to show off mottled skin stretched tight over his ribs.
Thomas cleared his throat delicately, and pointed at the small panel leading into the autopsy room. “From the first batch, almost ten percent died vomiting blood. The second batch, a large number went blind.” He gestured to the set of cages Julie had injected this morning. “We should have results on this batch in about a week, and if they don’t pan out, we still have four more to try.”
“After that, it’s back to the drawing board,” Julie said glumly. “That plague is one of the most subtle things Andariel has ever accomplished. It’s amazing we found a vaccine at all, let alone one that works ninety percent of the time.” She fell silent, watching the rats, all of the creatures cowering at the back of their cages, ears and whiskers flat against their skulls.
Senator Robin gulped heavily, and nodded. “I think I’ve seen enough today,” he said, and they led him back through the decontamination, taking more care than usual to ensure that nothing untoward happened to their rare VIP visitor. After all, most VIPs had enough sense to stay in the ‘safe’ areas of the laboratory complex. At the door, he paused. “Thank you for the tour,” he said. “I hope your work turns out alright.”
After the Senator, his bodyguards, and their annoying manager Skinner had left, Julie and Thomas sagged in their chairs. Rolling his head, he glanced at the clock hanging on the wall and groaned. “I’ll be lucky to make it home on time to catch the match,” he complained, rising and throwing on his coat. “See you on Monday,” he said, disappearing out the door, an unconscious gust of wind ruffling papers and her hair as it followed him outside.
Head propped on a stack of folders, the sleeping water mage didn’t hear him.
Bors sat quietly in a corner of the bar. It was nice, only two blocks from his house, and while he rarely visited, the bartended remembered how he liked his ale prepared (an inch of crushed ice in the bottom, and no foam), and his wife didn’t worry too much if he popped down for a drink or two. He wasn’t one to get deep in his cups, despite some of the memories he had. But the best part was that no one in here was going to recognize him as Crushing Paw without his war paint on.
It was, oddly enough, a game night, and he was probably the only person in the room not paying attention to the floating displays above the bar. Instead, he sat there, sipping his ale, and flipping through the Sunday paper. He wasn’t really reading anything, so much as skimming over things, trying to catch the world events he’d missed spending most of the last week in training with his squad. “Excuse me,” came a sultry voice, “but are you Bors Maille?”
He looked up, catching the shock of blond hair before his eyes scanned the rest of her, noting with silent precision the location of two guns, four knives, and possibly a garrote under the collar of her jacket. Holding up his hand, he flashed the simple platinum band on his left thumb. “Sorry darlin’,” he drawled, “but my wife wouldn’t be too happy if I came home with a woman almost as pretty as she is.” Whoops, make that five knives, or was that extra one a one-shot instead?
The woman smiled thinly, and sat down opposite from him anyway. One hand reached inside her jacket, and then paused as an almost inaudible click came from underneath the table. With the smile finally reaching her eyes, she withdrew her hand very slowly, laying an envelope on the table. Keeping her other hand carefully flat against the table, she opened the envelope, holding the opening towards him, showing a single, folded piece of paper inside.
Bors reached inside, pulling it out and scanning the letter, before bringing his other hand out from under the table and putting the safety back on. “Sorry about that, but you never know these days.” His gun vanished back under the table as he shifted slightly, then turned his full attention to the letter. Raising an eyebrow when he finished, he let the paper drop, and examined the inside of the envelope again. “Funny, it mentions an advance payment.”
The blonde laughed, and again reached inside her jacket, tossing a much thicker envelope to him. Bors counted it quickly, and nodded his head. “So, what kind of demon infestation does the Amazonian government have, that they need to hire a squad of Barbarian warriors, Agent Yvon? Last time they needed outside help, they’d already lost several hundred warriors before they turned to us.”
She smiled again, more predatory than last time, and leaned forward over the table. “This is more of a goodwill operation, Loremaster. Some of our trading ships have been hearing reports of claw vipers on the southern continents harassing and killing the Mazu.” Nodding towards his pocket, and the full envelope it now held, she continued. “That ten percent is just the down payment.”
Turning his head, he spit out a mouthful of ale and started coughing. “This is just ten percent?” He hacked a moment longer, before clearing his throat and catching the towel tossed his direction by the bartender. “What’s the catch?” His voice was low and dangerous, and he’d reached back into his pocket.
With a sigh, Yvon looked down at the table’s surface, pitted by countless number of knives and bar fights. “The Mazu are aloof, unfriendly to outsiders, and the most bizarre trading partners we’ve ever run across. Frankly, most of them won’t deal with anyone outside of one randomly chosen trading partner. We, and by that I mean my government, hopes that with a gesture of goodwill – eliminating the demons plaguing them – we can earn a greater share of their trading.”
Bors pulled out the envelope, turning it over in his hands as he thought. “What happens if we wipe out the claw vipers, and the Mazu still won’t trade with you?”
“As long as you and your warriors didn’t make any move to antagonize them, then that envelope only holds one quarter of the full payment.” Her smile vanished from her eyes, even as it remained plastered to her face. “If it is the fault of you and your men, then it’s only half.” They remained silent, watching each other warily.
Tapping the money-full envelope on the table, Bors nodded slowly. “Alright, we’ll do it. Have you arranged transportation, or do I have to use this?” He held up the envelope one last time, before making it vanish swiftly back into his shirt.
Yvon rose from her chair, subtly adjusting her jacket. Yep, it was a fifth knife. “There’s a cargo ship anchored in Lut Gholein. The captain is Khanduran, but most of the crew is Amazonian. They’ll be expecting you in two days.” Another smile, this one full of emotion as she leaned forward towards him. “I look forward to hearing from you after your mission is over.”
Snickering, he rose as well, sliding his empty mug across the bar as he shook his head in amusement. “Girl, I know damn well that my wife is the one who wears the kilt in my family. She’d skin you alive if you made a move like that in her hearing.” He wasn’t sure if the sulk on her face was genuine or not, but he walked home with a merry step, looking forward to telling the lovely Mrs. Maille that he’d just arranged a family vacation to the southlands.
At least, he hoped she’d buy that story. She hated him taking trips for work.
“Buy now, before this amazing offer means that you’re the only person on your block without the new,” a brief burst of noise cut off the rest of what the commercial was spewing, as Gheed changed the channel. He flipped it a few more times, pushing the button on the remote, before dropping it into a drawer on his desk as violin and harp music filled the air.
“Note to self,” he said aloud for the benefit of his secretary as he wrote on a notepad, “review security recordings of my office for last two days.” He could feel the trembling in her emotions, wondering whether her extra hours (and subtle blackmailing of one of his underlings) was going to get her in trouble. Gheed might even forgive her for it, if she hadn’t left his tri-d set on one of those angel-forsaken shopping channels. He might be the living embodiment of Greed, but even he had limits.
He was leafing through several pages of cost analysis for the pharmaceutical research facility in Badoun, when his secretary tapped lightly on the open door. “Sir? There’s a Mario Ramirez here to see you.” She had a puzzled look on her face, as though her eyes weren’t completely focused.
Gheed thought for a minute. Reaching into the bottom drawer of the desk, he shuffled through some papers until his hand closed over a cold piece of metal. “Send him in, Clarise,” he said calmly. Nodding absently, she vanished back into the outside office. A moment later, a chubby, tan-skinned man strutted through the door, and Gheed felt himself go numb. “Who are you?” he whispered, as Mario closed the door behind him.
“No one of consequence,” he said simply, pulling out one of the chairs before Gheed’s desk. “I’m just here to deliver a message, from my master to yours.” He slammed a hand down, and a ripple of power flew outward, cracking the crystals in the phone and the tri-d unit. “Interfere in his plans, and every one of the Sins will die.”
Clearing his throat nervously, the wiry Greed brought his hand carefully into his lap, hiding what he held from sight. “That’s a bit non-specific,” he said, his voice not betraying the panic he felt, at every gram of his decades-long magic being stripped from him in an instant. “Are you going to tell me who your master is, or do I have to sit here and guess?”
With a broad smile, Mario rose from the chair. “My master is Belial, the Lord of Lies, and soon enough he shall own this world and every soul on it.” He turned back towards the door, and Gheed struck, rising from his own chair and lunging over the desk, slashing with the knife.
He awoke in a hospital bed, blinking fuzzily up at the harsh florescent lights above him, laying still until someone in a black suit moved into his field of vision. “What happened to me?” he asked weakly, leaving his magic dormant for the moment.
The man in the suit removed his sunglasses, looking down as he stroked his goatee. “We were hoping you could tell us, Mr. Gheed.” He slipped the glasses into a pocket in his jacket, and pulled out a badge. “I’m Agent Gray, this is Agent Bailey, of the RIB. Three hours ago, a Mr. Mario Ramirez entered your office. What do you remember?”
As he opened his mouth to deny everything, Asmodan spoke in his head. Tell them, the Evil said unhappily. If Belial has set himself against everyone again, they might be easily distracted cannon fodder in thwarting him.
Clearing his throat, Gheed reached for the paper cup of water on the table next to him, stalling as he formed sentences in his head. After all, betraying himself as one of the Seven Deadlies would be tantamount to suicide, so why would some criminal hunted by the RIB come to visit him. “Well, I’m not entirely sure,” he started off. “But he walked into my office, and shattered my tri-d set with a wave of his hand.”
The two agents shared a significant look, and Greed smiled to himself. Whatever this Mario had, they wanted it, and maybe he could play them right now. He took another sip of water, and continued his short tale.
Striker, second patriarch of the Mazu, lay curled up quietly in an underground tunnel. The All-Mother had requested his presence, to talk with him about the human traders and the demon invasion that was causing him difficulty. The tunnels here were delightfully cool and secure, buried beneath hundreds of feet of packed sand. He waited silently, his tendrils still, his mind meditating while he waited for the right signal.
Some minutes later, a faint tremble passed through his body, and he opened both sets of eyelids, raising his head and scenting the air before slithering forward, into the chamber of the All-Mother. He ignored the desiccated corpses of the claw vipers, now weeks dead, left there after the first incursion had been repelled. {I am here,} he hissed in the language of the Mazu, dipping his head low in greeting and respect.
{What said the human Victor of your new demands?} Her form shifted slightly, sending up a faint puff of dust, as she observed him closely.
Striker took a moment to consider. Now, as with so many times, the All-Mother was unreadable, as though she knew what he would answer before he said it. {He seemed both confused and eager,} he hissed finally. {I believe we can rely on him to arrive in time.}
Her eyes unfocused, and her head dropped. {There will be others coming with him, human warriors,} she replied. {They desire to destroy the demons to gain our favor.}
His tentacles curled forward in an expression of amusement, as Striker raised his head for the first time. {They do not know us well.}
{That matters not,} she rebuked him, and he accepted it silently. {Their aid could be valuable. But we must delay them. Should they destroy the demons too swiftly, they will depart with equal haste, and I may have use of them.}
He bowed his head again, dipping his muzzle to the cool sand at the base of her resting place, and turned about on his own length, departing the cave calmly. His warriors had told him of the vipers’ nest, and they seemed to be preparing a new one as well. Certainly there were enough empty tunnels, out in the shifting sands, that they could send the human warriors into many of them to search. After all, he didn’t know whether it would be in vain or not.
Alone in the darkness of the room, the All-Mother closed her eyes, watching the world above her youngest children with her magic.
Azka stood in the lobby of the hospital in Kingsport, listening to the pay phone ring as she waited for someone to answer. The psychic scans to verify the identity of a Protectorate agent took a great deal longer when using the crystal phone networks, but she had to hope that they answered before the null came downstairs. Mario Ramirez was somewhere in town, she was sure.
“Speak, ghost,” came a voice suddenly, and she glanced reflexively at the crystal display, knowing that it would be blank. “Why have you contacted us?”
Swallowing reflexively, she continued to scan the lobby of the hospital, watching the entrances and the bank of elevators. “Mario has made a move,” she said. “He attacked a business leader, before vanishing from the top floor of a crowded, fully-guarded office building. The agents are interviewing the victim now,” she paused for a moment, trying to put her vague feelings into words. “But the attack itself does not make sense.”
There was a hiss of static for a moment before the voice continued. “Ignore the man for now, follow the agents and try to pick up Mario’s trail.” The line went dead, and she stepped away from the booth.
One of the elevators dinged, and the doors opened, and then the power went out. While other people started screaming and shouting, a few small lights came on around the room as the smokers pulled out simple mechanical lighters. Azka knelt down, sliding backwards underneath the phone ledge, fighting her instinct to blend into the wall. Something this major must have something to do with Mario, she was sure of it.
Sure enough, from the direction of the elevators came a gunshot, then two, and a strangled cry. She darted towards it, her psychic powers trying to adjust to the darkness. There was at least one null somewhere ahead of her, the police officer, plus whatever Mario was, so she drew a katar out of a sheath against her back. There was fighting of some kind, so she grabbed a lighter, ignoring the cry of protest, and turned the flickering flame into a blast of fire, illuminating the hallway.
One of the agents was grappling with Mario, their hands locked around each other’s necks, while the second lay unconscious against the wall, a trail of blood showing where he had struck. A gun lay on the floor, ignored by the fleeing visitors and doctors. Azka let the flame die again, throwing herself sideways as a blast of power ripped through the air.
Listening carefully, she slid along one wall, sliding into the elevator while she used the feeble light to determine which combatant was which, then moved forward. Her katar sliced out, cutting flesh and sending a spray of blood into the air. One of the two men cried out in pain, then another blast of power rolled over her, sending her tumbling back into the elevator, dropping her blade hurriedly.
Azka picked herself up quickly, cursing herself for her lack of practice with the ancient weapons of the Protectorate, and reached out carefully, bringing her weapon flying through the air back to her hand. But before she could move out of the elevator, the lights sprang back to full brilliance and she stumbled as she raised a hand to shade her eyes.
When she brought her hand down, she was staring down the barrel of a pistol, the cold eyes of Agent Bailey glaring her down from behind it. They locked gazes for a moment, before he slowly lowered the weapon. “Any sign of where he went?”
Disappointed, she shook her head. “No. I cut him during your fight, but he used some kind of power to knock me down.”
Snorting, the agent holstered his gun carefully, adjusting his jacket over the holster. “Actually, you managed to tag both of us.” He held up one arm, the sleeve cut and covered with blood. “Mine’s pretty minor, though. But you need to tell me, what is the Protectorate doing sending a ghost here?”
Smiling, she wiped her katar clean of blood on her sleeve and slid it home carefully. “I was ordered to find out why the RIB was interested in a man named Mario Ramirez.” She stepped out of the elevator gingerly, feeling several bruises start complaining as the adrenaline of combat was wearing off. “With the power he just demonstrated, I believe I understand.”
Together, they stood over Agent Gray, standing guard while they waited for the doctors, and the inevitable arrival of the local police. That’s when the real fun would start.
Tyrael sat at the table, looking calmly at Gabriel and Hadriel. Then he smiled, and laid his cards down on the table. “Gin,” he said, and his brothers rolled their eyes as they tossed out their own cards. “So, what have you been able to find out about Belial’s plans?”
Gabriel shrugged, stacking up the cards and preparing to shuffle. “It turns out I was wrong, he still had a group of Silent Liars somewhere.” The soft flipping of the cards filled the office in the back of the heavenly library. “He realized that Mario is the first magical null we’ve seen born, and managed to get to his before I did.”
Hadriel drummed his fingers on the smooth cherrywood table a moment before he spoke. “I can tell that the series of attacks weren’t entirely based on Mario’s nature. Somehow, Belial has figured out how to ‘borrow’ a moment of the anti-magical aura that surrounds him, and concentrate it and pass it along to his followers.”
“Except that doing so with any method I can think of would have already left the poor mortal dead,” Gabriel said, tossing out the cards. “But he’s still running around somewhere in the Empire.”
Tyrael picked up his hand, glancing through them briefly before taking one off the top of the pile. “I’ve been hunting, but I still don’t know what he went to Lut Gholein to find. The city’s had a strong paladin presence since Jaresh destroyed the last of Na-Krul’s worshippers, and he didn’t stay long enough to commit any kind of sabotage.”
Hadriel picked up the discard, mixing it into his hand and dropping another one down. “I’ve been tracking down the Silent Liars, though, and I think I know where they came from,” he said dispiritedly. “But if Belial managed to keep a group of his followers hidden for the last four centuries, when he’s been in self-imposed exile in Limbo, there could very well be another group out there.”
Shaking his head, Gabriel swapped cards as well. “Well, until they show themselves again, we’ll just have to keep on inspiring the faithful and doing our best to keep humanity safe. Gin,” he smirked as Tyrael reached for a new card, and laid out his hand. “Too bad Belial’s a bit sneakier than Baal is.” At that moment, one of the angels stepped in the door, holding a report of the latest assault of the walls of Heaven by demonic forces. “I guess break time is over.”
Victor’s ship sailed calmly into port, the men pulling their hats tighter on their heads as the desert wind picked up. The sun beat mercilessly down, barely noticeably cooler than it had been three months before when they first arrived on the shores. “Well, we’re here,” he said simply to the towering Loremaster who stood beside him. “We should have lodgings available at one of the inns on the edge of the desert, and the Mazu are expecting us in three days.” He glanced up, squinting into the sun that blazed through the windows on the bridge.
Bors nodded, shrugging his shoulders and readjusting the mallet on his back. “Just let us know when you’re planning to leave. We’ll be spending time getting adjusted to the desert.” He inhaled deeply, then grimaced and stepped outside the door, leaning over the railing and spitting into the ocean. “Yep, just like the Aranoch. Everything we eat is going to taste like sand.”
Within an hour, the two dozen barbarian warriors had headed into town, passing by the inn to head out into the desert itself, the better to adjust to the harsh conditions, one of the few places worse than their homeland. Bors didn’t want to rush into things. His squad was full of hardy men, well experienced with their weapons, but only half of them had combat time outside of the arena in Raveil. He didn’t think that a bunch of lousy claw vipers would claim his men, but the desert could, and so could collapsing tunnels when they went demon hunting.
On the third day, Victor and his men were prepared, and the barbarians of the Fourth Bear Brigade all looked slightly more tanned. Two wagons, pulled by tamed sand maggots, were ready to go, and the warriors were loaded up with water and their weapons. The sun had barely climbed above the horizon when they set out, moving across the sliding sands, moving around giant, twisting blocks of sandstone. Few talked as they worked to ignore the heat.
At noon, Victor climbed one of the small patches of rock and looked around, shouting directions to his men as they hauled on the reins of the insects, and the wagons ponderously turned. Within a half hour, they waited in the shade of a sandstone cliff, not too different than the ones that lined the Aranoch. “You know,” the captain said conversationally as he lifted his hat and poured some tepid water over his hair, “some Imperial scientist said he thinks that these continents used to be underwater a few thousand years ago, before humans showed up. Same as the Aranoch.”
Several seconds passed in silence as Bors stared at him impassively, before raising one eyebrow. “Hey, I just thought it was a bit curious,” Victor said nervously, leaning a bit further back against the stone. “Makes you wonder how long the Mazu have been around. Seeing as how we didn’t know these continents were here until two hundred years ago.”
“That was long before the time of the Mazu,” came a voice from a section of sand, “but there is evidence, if you know where to look.” The shape materialized out of the sand, and Bors motioned quickly for his men to put their weapons away as another four of the snake-like being took efforts to drop their camouflage. “I am grateful for your usual promptness, Victor. As agreed upon, we have ten lengths of silk.”
They set about trading, the warriors grouping off to the side together. “Sir,” Caleb said softly, one hand nervously caressing his maul, “we really have to come to the aid of these snakes? I mean, they look like I could tear one in half.”
“That’s what we’re getting paid for, corporal,” he said, emphasizing the younger man’s rank. “I don’t want to be here for a bunch of reasons, but you know damn well that selling posters and toys won’t pay all the bills. The Bear clan needs us to go out every once in a while, and earn our keep.” He shrugged again, and rolled his neck, easing the kinks out. “We listen to the snakes, because that’s what we’re paid to do. Get over it.”
He strode over to the captain and the leader of the Mazu, who were talking quietly over one piece of equipment. A pistol, Bors thought curiously as he stepped up next to them. “I swear, it was working perfectly well when we gave it to you! I test fired it the day before we exchanged goods,” Victor protested.
Without a word, Bors reached out and picked the gun out of the smaller man’s grasp, ignoring the protests of both man and Mazu as he examined it carefully. Snorting, he clicked off the safety, aimed at a small rock a few yards away, and pulled the trigger. An almost invisible pulse of green light spit out, shattering the rock, but his hand barely twitched with the recoil. “See this switch,” he said, holding the gun back towards the Mazu. “It’s called a safety. When it’s in the ‘on’ position, you can’t fire the gun. It’s designed to prevent an accidental firing.” Handing it back into the snake’s tentacles, he somehow managed to keep from flinching as the dry, warm flesh brushed over his skin. “You’re trading them weaponry? Why did we come along then?”
Striker tossed the pistol to one of his guards, moving his tentacles to signal amusement, even though it was wasted on the monkeys. “We have asked for only one gun, warrior. You are here because the All-Mother told us you would come to destroy the demons. Are your men prepared to follow us?”
Bors looked over at his men and quirked a finger. Caul glanced around and nodded, flicking the lieutenant bars on his arm. “How fast are we going?”
The snake moved his tentacles into that odd position again, he noted. “How fast can you go?” Two of the others pulled out pieces of green silk, and started off across the sands at an easy jog, the barbarians quickly forming up and singing chants as they followed the Mazu. By twilight, they had only stopped once, the hardy warriors keeping up the pace the whole way. “I am impressed,” Striker said when they stopped near a dark hole in the ground. “We have never met a human who could match our pace. These tunnels we believe to be empty of the demons, so you should be able to rest safely within. I will return at dawn to discuss tactics with you.”
“Sure, no problem,” Bors said, turning away to signal orders to his men quickly. But when he turned back, all five of the Mazu had vanished. “Baal’s foot,” he muttered unhappily. “Alright boys, our hosts said we’ll be camping down below. They don’t know if we have to evict the current occupants, so gear up for battle right now. Caleb, Caul, you’re on point, and keep gunfire to a minimum!”
Weapons ready, they slid down into the tunnels in a spray of sand, ready for action.
Mario’s blood was racing, and he fought to calm his heart. His escape in the hospital had been a close one, and apparently now both the Imperials and the Protectorate knew enough about his abilities to track him, somehow. He muttered a curse under his breath, and kicked an empty can down the alleyway as he walked behind the hospital. “Bad luck strikes everyone sometime,” came a familiar voice from behind him.
Turning suddenly, he gave a quick bow to Belial. “How did they know to arrive before me, master?” he asked, hating the whine in his voice even as he recognized it. “I accomplished what you told me, but I got cut trying to escape.”
The Lord of Lies stepped up, taking his hand and looking at the shallow wound. “It should heal soon. But they weren’t there waiting for you. The agents had shown up to question Greed – nice work on him, by the way.” The demon started walking again, and Mario fell into step quickly. “He should be out of commission for a month or so. The way his magic is right now I’m amazed he hasn’t had a nurse slap him or something.” He giggled as they turned the corner onto the street. “Really hilarious, to see a jumped-up pawn like that realize that they’ve been played by the better Evil.”
Mario cleared his throat nervously, and Belial’s eyes flicked to him. “Oh come on now, Ramirez. You know I don’t mean you.” A taloned hand reached out and patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. “You’re a unique man. If Greed dies in that hospital, Asmodan’s got a hundred others he can choose from. You,” he stopped, turning, and pushed a finger gently into the human’s chest, “are an irreplaceable commodity. You can do things that no other human can, accomplish things that humanity never dreamed possible.” He giggled again as they started walking. “But, I know you’re starting to get tired of this penny-ante bullshit. Ready for a real mission?”
“Sir?” Mario’s pulse jumped again, and his hands curled up as he thought about it. True, the events so far, passing unseen through hospitals, jails, malls, cutting off the magical powers that kept the world around him running, they had been exciting at first, but were starting to pale with familiarity. “What is it now?”
Draping an arm over his shoulder, Belial steered him around a corner. “Mario, my lad, you are going to be responsible for the first assassination of a paladin Elder since they took over the Zakarum council.” His other hand sweeping out before them, Belial continued to prattle on, planting the instructions unconsciously in Mario’s mind, even as he siphoned off more of the anti-magical aura the human carried.
Julie sat slumped over a notepad and a set of display crystals, all of them competing to project the medical reports inscribed on it. “This is ridiculous,” she said, her voice barely carrying across the room.
“I know that, you know that, possibly even Skinner has removed his head from his rear end long enough to read the memo about that.” Thomas pushed back away from his own desk, stretching his lanky body with a number of painful sounding pops. “But the esteemed Mr. Gheed, who owns this company and therefore pays us our lovely immense salaries, either does not know this, or does not care.”
Groaning, she slid away from her desk, rising out of her chair and doing a series of stretches. “All I’m saying, is that coming up with an antidote to a drug addiction is hardly in our area of specialty.” She shook her head, snorting. “It’s his money he’s wasting.”
Thomas smiled, swirling his jacket off his chair and moving for the door. “If he’s inclined to pay us for a job we’re not trained for, it’s money in our pocket. Another year of this, and I can retire.”
They headed outside towards the parking lot, chatting amiably in the brisk January air, and the building was left empty. For an hour or so. Then Gheed approached, waving a security card at the door, listening to the satisfying but quiet clink as it unlocked. He was still limping, and he’d have a small scar on his cheek once the bandages came off, but time stood still for no man and no Evil.
It didn’t take long for him to find the notepads and the data crystals the two mages had been working on, and an even simpler matter to use a small bit of magic to change a few of the formulas. “There,” he muttered to himself. “That should just about do it.”
This is taking too long, Asmodan spoke in his mind. I have little time before Belial uses his newest power source to strike again, and this must be ready by then!
Wincing against the shouting voice in his mind, Gheed slipped back out of the laboratory, sliding into the back of his limousine, and checking the latest financial reports on his company as he rode away, back towards his mansion. He had a dinner date with Lust, mostly to talk business and a little bit to fan the flames of rumor and keep his reputation intact. He was so preoccupied with his business of keeping the pull of Greed alive and well in the hearts of his competitors that he forgot one important little fact.
The door to the lab was still unlocked. Unnoticed in the rear view mirror, it slid open, and a figure snuck inside.
Baal paced the inside of the summoning circle, staring down at the thirteen priests prostrating themselves before him. “I have only two more years, before I am free to roam this world again,” he growled out, and his followers quaked. It was difficult to restrain his temper, knowing that Belial was hiding somewhere in Sanctuary, running some new devious scheme. But ruining this summoning circle would mean further delays as his followers sought to gather information. “Belial must be stalled until I can deal with him personally. That means your forces must wage a full-out assault on the Zakarum lands. Tomorrow, begin the preparations to open a portal to Abydos, and I will have the mightiest of my forces waiting for your commands.”
With a blast of flame, Baal vanished, and the priests were knocked backward. Swiftly, each picked him or herself up, straightening their weapons and jewelry and moving for the edges of the room where their clothes awaited. “How shall we divide the demonic armies?” asked Viri, the sorceress quickly tying her hair back with a blood-red ribbon.
“For an assault of this magnitude,” rumbled Gaul as he fastened his pistols on over his jacket, “it will require all of us to go, to hold open the passes. Baal will not skimp on soldiers if it means a chance to capture the Lord of Lies.”
One of them stepped up to the front of the group, settling a gold circlet over his head, a small shard of yellow stone glinting at the center of his brow. “I will remain here, to coordinate the armies and protect against any Protectorate attacks,” Jonas said, and the other priests of Baal lowered their heads, despite many glares of hatred directed towards the new leader of their nation. “You three,” he pointed at them in turn, “will muster the human armies and attack through the Inarius pass. You two,” he pointed at Viri and another sorcerer, “will take our navies and sail south to attack the southern shores. You four,” he pointed at Gaul and the others who had risen from the ranks of the warriors, “shall take half of Baal’s army and use the pass of Na-Krul. And the last of you will take the Kaltos pass.”
One by one, Jonas stared down his fellow demon-worshippers until they nodded their agreement. “In four months, we must be ready to enter the mountain passes and attack the Zakarum. Any more, and our master will be most displeased with all of us.” He rubbed a wicked scar on his chest, where he had been punished by Baal for allowing the death of his predecessor, and one by one, the priests of Baal filed out.
Left alone at last, Jonas moved more slowly to dress himself. The ceremonial daggers were finally belted on, and he had almost reached the door when the Lord of Destruction’s voice rumbled through the stone on his brow. If Belial is unaware of your actions yet, he will know soon, and take steps to ensure your attack does not ruin his plan.
Hesitantly, before he reached for the door, Jonas asked the question weighing most heavily on his mind. “Lord of All Evil, what does your traitorous brother have planned?”
If I knew that, came the highly annoyed voice, I could give you more specific instructions. To his surprise, the presence departed swiftly, abandoning the shard of Soulstone and leaving the human to his tasks.
Bors shouted a warning, ducking as the viper in front of him stabbed out with its tail. Caleb’s hammer came smashing down a moment later, shattering the demon’s flesh and bones, and Bors threw another flaming ball of rock down the passage, saving Caul from a probably poisonous bite. “Twenty!” he shouted, and a couple of grunts came answering him back.
“Twenty-two, sir,” Caleb said, smacking his hammer gently against the side of the tunnel. “But this stretch should be empty.”
Bors sighed, letting his own mallet rest against the floor of the tunnel. “Alright. Caul! Get ready to start collapsing these tunnels. Caleb, take Lar up to the surface and make sure they don’t sneak up on us until we’re done.” Pulling a rag from his belt, he started cleaning the gore off the hammer, the tough Scosglen wood not even scratched from the latest battle.
He stepped out onto the surface himself, shading his eyes and quickly marking the location of his two soldiers, nodding in satisfaction at their competence. Lar was limping a bit from yesterday’s battle, but Bors wasn’t worried. He wouldn’t forget to watch the floor for weak spots again. “You are much greater warriors than we had expected,” came a voice, and he turned in time to see Striker rising out of the sand. “If you continue to kill the vipers at this rate, you will have exterminated them before the end of the summer.”
Bors frowned, before remembering that this far south, the seasons were reversed. “Yeah, well, we’re good at what we do, and we’re getting paid good money for it.” He examined his mallet one last time, then quickly returned it to the straps on his back. “What about defending your own people? I mean, haven’t the vipers attacked you?”
The Mazu moved his tentacles in a pattern, one the Bors was starting to recognize, even if he didn’t know what it meant yet. “We are capable of keeping them out of our own tunnels easily. But few of our numbers are bred to be warriors, and they are not enough to strike at the vipers outside.” Slithering silently over the blazing red sands, the Mazu shuffled to the top of a nearby dune. “The females of the lava-lands sent you here, yes?”
Again, Bors frowned in confusion before he put together the meaning behind the words. “Oh, yeah. We call them the Amazons. Good people.” He was used to being a bit of a diplomat, as the Loremaster for his brigade, but it was a great deal harder when the person you were trying to read didn’t have any obvious emotions. “They’re hoping to gain a greater amount of trade with you after these vipers are killed.”
Tentacles moved in the same pattern, and Striker doubled back on himself to face the human once more. “Is that so? I shall recommend it then. These vipers have troubled us for nearly four generations. I believe that is around three hundred of your years.”
Bors almost took a step back in surprise. These damn snakes lived longer than he would! And he was almost fifty, for angel’s sake! “Well, we’re just glad to be of assistance.” A low rumbling interrupted him, and a gout of sand burst out of the entrance. “Sounds like the tunnels are coming down right on time.”
“Indeed,” the Mazu said, and by the time Bors turned back towards him, the snake was gone again, vanishing into the desert sand. Shaking his head, the barbarian had his warriors start forming up, to head back to their shelter.
“So, that’s all you know about this Mario Ramirez,” Azka said, putting down a can of soda, staring at the holographic display hovering against the wall. “It doesn’t tell us where to find any of his new friends, the servants of Belial.”
Elijah shrugged his shoulders, the chair creaking underneath him. “It’s the best we have, and there’s not a great deal the Protectorate has been able to share with us either.” She gave a brief nod in acknowledgement as Agent Grey opened the door, bursting in with a rush of greasy-smelling air. “I hope that’s either really good lunch, or you have news for us.”
Almost absently, Grey looked down at the paper sacks of McSwiney’s, and dumped them on the table, ignoring the spill of fries. “We might have something,” he said breathlessly. “A group of Zakarum priests along the Scosglen border were found dead yesterday. Murdered in broad daylight at a coffee shop, and no one noticed a thing until the priests suddenly weren’t talking.” He held up a crystal, and almost jogged around the small table to reach the tri-d display. “The security recording shows it all.”
They watched, munching on cold fries and greasy burgers as they watched a blurred figure set upon the four priests, one by one, without a reaction from anyone – including the victims themselves. Then, the figure wiped his knife clean on a napkin, and turned toward the recorder, smiling as his face suddenly came into focus, not quite long enough for a human eye to catch the face. Azka paused the playback, rewinding it frame by frame until the man could be seen clearly. “Mario Ramirez, we are led to believe. But given he is working for Belial, I am not thinking we can believe this image.”
Bailey frowned, taking the control away from her and playing through the scene, slowing it down once or twice to take in the details. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, and took a sip of his soda, grimacing at the watered-down dregs. “I’d say it’s him.” He glanced at Grey, who nodded. “Just a hunch, maybe, but showing his face is the kind of thing Belial wouldn’t want. His usual actions in the past have been subtlety and misdirection.”
Grey stood up, clearing away the tattered remains of their lunch. “Either way, our superiors want us in Kurast by this time tomorrow, in the hopes of helping the Zakarum Council catch Mario before he does whatever the hell he’s supposed to be doing there.” He shook his head, dropping the paper sack in the trash can as he held open the door for the other two. “It’s starting to feel like a wild goose chase. We never did find out what he wanted in Lut Gholein, either.”
Thinking silently, all three left the room, to board a plane for the Jewel of the East, the port city of Kurast.
Tyrael stood next to his two younger brothers outside the gates of Heaven, and stared at the empty plain. It was littered with the refuse of a demonic army, broken weapons and armor pieces tossed where they had fallen, atop the corpses. “Weren’t they just here an hour ago?” he asked rhetorically. “I swear, Baal has no stamina these days.”
Hadriel snickered as he kicked half a helmet aside. “The Limbo fogs rolled in, and rolled back out maybe five minutes later, and the army was gone. Baal packed up his whole army and vanished.” He stopped, bending over and picking up a horn, rubbing some of the grime off. “I think I need a new paperweight.”
“It means he has all of the others on his side,” Gabriel said, his hands still in his pockets. “No way to move the whole army without every single Evil opening portals. Even then, I’m surprised they got the whole army out of the way before the fog receded.”
The three brothers paused in their walk, and shared troubled glances. “Belial?”
“Doubtlessly,” Tyrael nodded to Hadriel. “Which means, as much as I’d rather not, we might have to go intervene.” He glanced at Gabriel. “Personally.”
Holding up his hands, the Angel of Knowledge took a step back. “Hey now, just because I’ve never been killed on a mission to Sanctuary doesn’t mean I should go!”
Stepping up, the Angel of Strength patted his younger brother on the wing. “Don’t worry, we’re all going. Heaven will be in capable hands for a few weeks.” As if to underscore his words, a horrendous crash echoed from atop one section of the walls, and a fireball arced up into the air and detonated. “As long as we don’t leave Jezebel running things,” he teased, his voice suddenly amplified enough to reach her ears.
“That’s not the point,” Gabriel complained as they headed back inside the walls. “Something is very wrong in the world right now, and I can’t figure out what it is without my library!” Casting a last glance at the endless grey fog, he stepped inside the gate, closing it with barely a thought.
Story Notes for Diablo 2001 | Go back | Main index | Story Index
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