The Sin War Box Set: Birthright, Scales of the Serpent, and The Veiled Prophet (15 page)

He surveyed the scene around them, seeing only the corpses of the Peace Warders and the two abominations. At least three of the former lay with bolts through them, a sign that Uldyssian had not been entirely responsible for protecting the party. Achilios even now stood at Serenthia’s side, giving comfort to the trader’s daughter.

“Forgive her carelessness, my love,” Lylia softly added. “She did not mean to endanger us.”

Uldyssian wanted to go to Serenthia and explain that he understood that Malic had seized control of her mind, but decided to leave the situation in the hands of the hunter. Achilios would do everything he could to see to it that the distraught woman calmed down.

“You were amazing!” the noblewoman continued, breathless. “Do you see now, my love? Do you see that nothing is beyond you, that nothing can prevent you from achieving what we dream?”

He had seen everything, naturally, and was still awed himself by the abilities that he had displayed. A high cleric of the Triune had set spellwork, men, and monster against him and had failed. What more could
anyone
fearing his existence do? Surely nothing…

But they
would
try…and the others, especially Lylia, would have to depend upon him until they, too, learned to fully awaken the force within them.

“Let them come,” he muttered without realizing it. “Let
him
come,” Uldyssian added, thinking of Malic.

Lylia came around to his side, her eyes glowing in the light of the campfire. “Uldyssian! Did you hear what the cleric said? Did you hear the name?”

“Name?” He tried to recall, but failed. “What name?”

Her lips drew close.
“Lucion,
he said. The cleric called out the name
Lucion
to the demons!” She turned her gaze to Mendeln, who was just approaching. Uldyssian’s brother started. “You. You heard, did you not?”

Mendeln visibly paused to regroup his thoughts, then nodded. “Yes. I heard that name from him. I did, Uldyssian.”

Lucion. The same name that the first demon had called out to before perishing. Now Malic had used it, too.

Was there some connection between the Temple and this Lucion? Between the
Primus
and this master of demons?

Uldyssian felt an intense uneasiness creep through him at the thought. Demons at the beck and call of the Temple. What did it mean?

And who, then,
was
the Primus, whose name might also be
Lucion?

Malic screamed again…and again…and again…

He screamed even though no one else could hear him, not in the sanctum of his master. He screamed for a release from the agony, even though he knew none would come until the Primus chose…assuming that ever even happened. It was within the master’s power to see to it that Malic’s pain became eternal.

That fear fueled the high priest’s screams anew.

Then, without warning, the pain ceased. With a gasp, Malic tumbled to the stone floor. The solidity of the floor amazed him, for he could have sworn that he had been floating in a sea of needles and flame.

“I could have sent a first-year novice in your place and achieved just as splendid results,” came the Primus’s voice. There was none of the gentle calm in it for which the elder cleric was known to his faithful. Malic, however, knew that chilling tone well. It had always been focused on others, though,
not
upon him.

And those upon whom it
had
been focused had, without exception, never left this chamber again.

“I am so disappointed in you,” the Primus went on. “I had such high hopes for you, my Malic, such high hopes! Who has been my favorite for far longer than any other mortal?”

The question was not a rhetorical one, Malic knew.
“I
h-have, Great One…”

“Yes…yes, you have, my Malic. Your life has lasted double that of any human and in that time you have witnessed the premature passing of several others, you may recall…”

Now the high priest of the Order of Mefis truly expected his end to come. He looked up, determined to face his master at the last.

The Primus gazed down at his servant from his grand chair, silent so long that Malic began to shiver despite his attempt to seem confident even in the face of death or worse. When the master deliberated so, it was generally to devise something particularly horrific.

The scholarly figure rose and with measured steps joined his failed minion. The Primus viewed Malic as if debating something. For the first time since he had managed to cast himself back to the Grand Temple, the high priest allowed himself a shadow of hope. Was he to be granted a reprieve?

“I have invested much in you, my Malic.” The Primus’s voice darkened further. Each syllable was venom, each word doom. The high priest hung his head again, certain that the sword would yet come down after all.

Instead, it was his master’s hand, reaching for his own. Trembling, Malic extended his. The Primus guided him to his feet.

“I am
his
son, my Malic, and answer to
him
as you do to me! I will give you your life this once, for there is in my mind a question that even you could not understand, one that might have bearing on this creature called Uldyssian…”

“I am truly grateful, master! I live only to serve you! I swear!”

Still holding Malic’s hand in his own, the Primus nodded. “Yes…you do…and to remind you of that, I give you a lasting gift.”

The high priest screamed anew as his trapped appendage flared as if on fire. To his shock and dismay, it then twisted and curled, transforming. Gone was the soft flesh and sinew and in its place a thing warped and dripping green. Thick scales scored the limb well past the wrist. The fingers grew gnarled and clawed, the last two digits fusing together to become one.

The agony continued long after the spell had finished. The Primus would not let Malic drop to his knees. He made the cleric stand and face him, the master’s gaze keeping the servant’s prisoner.

“My mark is upon you now, my Malic…my mark and that of my father.” The Primus finally released his grip. “Now and forever.”

Malic shook but refused to fall. Weaving back and forth, he kept his gaze down and gasped, “G-Great is Lucion, all-powerful and all-knowing…and greater still is—is his father, the glorious and benevolent—” The human dared look up again.
“Mephisto!”

Lucion smiled, his perfect teeth suddenly ending sharper, more pointed. His aspect became shadowed in a manner having nothing to do with light. Although it was but a glimpse of his true self, even still it was enough to make the high priest pale more than ever.

Then, as quickly as he had changed, the Primus once again looked his kindly part. He reached out and put his hand on Malic’s shoulder. The cleric managed not to flinch.

“You have learned your lesson well, my Malic! That is why you remain my
favorite
. For the moment. Now, come! We will better pursue this matter below, I believe…”

“As you wish, Great One.” Clutching his twisted, throbbing hand, Malic fell into place next to the Primus. He said nothing more, not wanting to revive his master’s anger toward him.

He whose true name was Lucion, son of Mephisto, led Malic not to the doors of the sanctum, but to the wall behind his throne. As they approached, the Primus drew an arc in the air.

A blazing crimson arc formed on the wall. It quickly lengthened, the ends reaching the stone floor before Malic could draw a second breath. As they did, the area within faded away…revealing a torch-lit corridor that descended into the ground as if toward some ancient tomb. More sinister, the walls themselves were flanked by row upon row of stonelike guards whose fearsome armor did not in the least resemble that of the Peace Warders.

As Lucion and the high priest of Mefis entered the subterranean corridor, the grim guards cast their gazes toward them. Immediately the ranks came to attention. Within black helms shaped to resemble the skulls of hornless rams, black pits—not eyes—stared out. The warriors’ flesh was the color of gravestones and their breastplates bore the emblem of their unholy calling, a bleeding skull transfixed upon twin swords entwined by serpents.

Malic knew their kind well—indeed, had chosen many for their ranks. Unlike their master, they did not frighten him, for their lot was to be led by the high priests in the name of the Primus on that day when the Temple would fully control Sanctuary and all pretense could be dropped.

Sanctuary
. It was a name known only to a few, most of whom were not of mortal flesh. Malic had learned the truth about his world from his master, who was in a position to understand the reality better than most. After all, was he not the blood—if such a simplistic term could be used—of the Lord of Hatred, whom some would call a demon and who was, with his brothers Baal and Diablo, master of the Burning Hells?

The concepts of good and evil had long ago become unimportant to Malic save in their most scholarly senses. The high priest understood only power, and that which the Primus represented was the ultimate power in
all
creation. Had it not been the Three who had come together to form the realm of Sanctuary and people it with the products of their imagination? And had not they been tricked by one they thought an ally and cast out of Sanctuary for centuries? Yet, despite that treachery, they now had a foothold back in the world of their making and soon they would rip it free from the one who had stolen it. That cursed figure believed that he now had a kingdom all his own, its inhabitants his to play with as he chose. But he had underestimated the Three and, in Malic’s august opinion, the son of one—Lucion—most of all.

It had been Lucion who had, after all this time, forced the betrayer to come out of hiding, to make his presence known to them. That was the first step toward retaking Sanctuary and returning it to what it had been intended to be…a place from which those few worthy—such as himself—would be raised up to help the Three transform
all
existence into a reflection of their true glory.

And for those like Malic, that meant more power than the entirety of the mage clans and petty nobles combined.

What exactly the Primus sought of this Uldyssian in this regard, even the high priest did not fully understand. To Malic’s mind, it was most likely that Uldyssian was to be the first of a new legion of warriors for the Three. What other use could there be? Malic saw the potential—had
felt
the potential—and so believed he was correct. His will properly broken, the farmer would readily succumb to Lord Lucion’s will. He would then become a perfect servant, obeying all commands no matter how dreadful.

Just like the morlu,
the cleric thought.

As if to reinforce that last thought, the corridor finally came to an end. A shimmering veil of poison green that Malic knew well confronted the pair.

Again, the son of Mephisto gestured. The veil faded to so much smoke, and dissipated…and, with a sudden, jarring clash of metal against metal, the lair of the morlu lay revealed.

This was the name that Lucion had given his ram-masked soldiers. The morlu. It was a word of power, two syllables steeped in the magic of the Primus’s sire. The morlu were more than just fanatical; they lived and breathed the desire of the Lord of Hatred. They did not sleep, anymore; they did not eat. All the morlu did was
fight
.

And as Malic and his master entered the vast, bowl-shaped chamber dug well beneath the grand temple, they came upon the morlu indeed doing just that. Illuminated by thick, scalding rivers of molten earth flowing randomly through the huge cavern, the scene was one out of a nightmare worthy of a demon. A tremendous sea of armored figures hacked and slashed and sliced and thrust away one another with utter abandon and absolute glee. Every warrior bled from scores of deep ravines across their bodies. Limbs lay strewn upon the ichor-soaked rock floor. Corpses by the scores littered the vicinity for as far as the eye could see. Malic beheld heads lolling far from torsos, the mouths—if the jaws were yet attached—still open in their death screams. Many of the faces lacked an eye or two or a nose or ear and they looked not at all different from most of the living, who, though likewise maimed and disfigured, were so caught up in the battle that they paid their wounds no mind. Bits of other body parts floated or lay on the banks of the lava rivers and each breath more were added by the zealous combatants.

A quick study of the scene below revealed that there was neither rhyme nor reason to the struggle, no identifiable sides in the conflict. The morlu did not have such. Every warrior fought for himself, siding with his brethren only long enough to accomplish some common goal…at which point they tended to turn upon one another. They cheerfully slew one another with the same titanic effort with which they would have any outside foe. Only against such were they truly united, for that was what their lord desired most of them. They were to be a plague that would strike down those who would not be converted, who very likely served the betrayer, be it willingly or as a dupe.

Lucion glanced up at the ceiling, although Malic knew well that the mighty figure was not at all interested in the rock formations there. The Primus looked beyond mortal sight into a place that all the training in the world could not reveal to the high priest or any other mere human.

“We have timed our visit well. The hour is nigh, my Malic,” murmured the Primus with something approaching the fondness a proud father might have for his children. “Let us pause and savor the beauty of it all as it refreshes itself…”

Turning his eyes back to the cataclysmic sight below, Lord Lucion gestured toward the very center, where the worst of the carnage had and was still taking place. In the midst of everything, a black gemstone nearly as large as a man sat embedded in a triangular column of red-streaked marble. “Blood marble,” it was named, naturally. The stone was called by Malic’s master the Kiss of Mephisto, although the cleric had, from past comments, reason to believe that it had once been named for another of whom Lord Lucion would not speak.

“Behold, my Malic…”

As if time itself ceased, every morlu warrior abruptly froze where he was. Blades paused halfway into guts. Severed heads halted in their tumble from the ruined necks. Utter silence reigned over the humongous lair.

The Kiss of Mephisto let out a burst of black light. Not darkness, but completely, utterly black
light
.

And as that light rushed over both the fighting and the fallen, they twisted and turned as if their bones had become fluid. Lost limbs flew up to reattach, gaping wounds sewed together. Mangled corpses shivered with renewed animation. Malic felt a twinge of remembrance concerning his own recent change and clutched his disfigured hand anew as he watched events unfold.

The ranks of the morlu reconstituted themselves. Even from the steaming, red depths of the magma rivers, the warriors emerged resurrected. Their armor momentarily glowed bright from the searing heat in which their corpses had bathed, then faded to the dour black.

It was a miraculous sight to Malic, this raising of the dead and healing of the wounded, even though he knew that in some sense it was not what it appeared. The stone did
not
have the ability to bring life back to the mortal remains. Those morlu who had been slain either this day or previous were not, in fact, even human anymore. Rather, they were cadavers animated by Mephisto’s foul majesty through the will of his son, Lucion. What existed within was a demonic essence that mimicked the life that had once existed. Every new morlu warrior quickly joined the ranks of the animated—so harsh was the constant battling—but they thought this an honor, believing that their souls were somehow still a part of all this.