Diablo III: Morbed by Micky Neilson

fortress was transported, brick by brick, beam by beam. For more than two hundred years, this bastion has stood here on this island, but there was a time, whelpling, when the house of Bulkhan reigned over the lands of the Glooming Moors.”
    â€œI have heard of no such place.”
    The voice of the other grew louder. “Little surprise, that! No . . . no, you hear only of Westmarch!” The word was laced with venom. “So named after the coming of the interloper, the trespasser, the usurper.”
    Morbed thought back on what history he knew. Westmarch was named after the long journey of Rakkis, who brought the religion of Zakarum to the untamed lands of the far west. It was Rakkis’s tomb that King Justinian believed was being pillaged.
    â€œRakkis?” he blurted.
    The figure’s upper body shot forward, hands gripping what passed as armrests. “Do not speak his name here!” The outburst was followed by another coughing episode.
    Taking a deep breath, the bandaged man relaxed slightly; his tone softened. “The house of Bulkhan ruled the realm, a dominion bought with blood. For my ancestors have always been . . . afflicted.”
    Lifting his hands, the figure pulled back his hood to reveal a bandage-laced head, the upper portion of the crown protruding bulbously. The skin glimpsed between wrappings was dark and weathered. A thick stream of green mucus clung to the chin.
    â€œNo healer has ever eased this burden in my kin. It is said that in time beyond memory, my ancestors were beggars, derelicts. But there was one, one who rose above the shackles of his station and gathered men and women through wisdom and words but also . . . an ability. A gift for sorcery that none had seen, of which legends had only whispered. What he could not gain by kindness he took by strength. It was he who first ruled the land of the Moors. He it was who first raised the house of Bulkhan.”
    The stranger scanned his surroundings, licking parchment-dry lips. “So it was for many generations. It is said that the powers of sorcery in our bloodline diminished in that time. And then . . .”
    With a clenched fist the figure pounded the right armrest. “ He came. With his grand ideas and honeyed words and his following. He turned hearts and minds against the line of Bulkhan, and so it was that the rightful master of the land was deposed. But rather than kill the proper lord, the usurper deigned, in his boundless magnanimity, simply to cast out my ancestor and those who remained loyal!” The other leaned forward in his seat, the timbre of his voice rising. “To banish them to this island, to dismantle House Bulkhan in both name and deed, to tear down the walls and transport them here, to be forever ferreted away and forgotten!”
    The old man’s cheeks lifted in what Morbed supposed was a smile. “But my forebears heard the rumors: a discovery in our homeland, pathways that led to ruins beneath the bog, far below the marshes. Scattered, sprawling remnants of a time and people long gone. What ancient relics, what artifacts and weapons of unknown power, might be found in such a place, hmm? Well guarded those ruins were, until Rakkis’s death and beyond. And Rakkis himself buried there! Staking his claim, even in death, to what was ours by right!”
    A coughing spell followed, more violent than the last.
    Remove your knife! Do it now! the female voice urged in Morbed’s mind.
    I can’t get to him in time , the thief answered.
    Do not let another opportunity pass. We can help you!
    What did that mean? Was it true? Did the lantern contain such a power? Perhaps . . .
    The coughing spell ended. The stranger hacked up more phlegm, then laid his head once again against the wheel.
    â€œSurely you possess a ship,” Morbed said. “Why stay? You could go anywhere. Start over.”
    Morbed could read the other’s scowl