Diablo III: Morbed by Micky Neilson Page A

beneath the wraps. “There is no ship, not anymore. The hellspawn saw to that. Even so, beforehand . . . Where exactly would my bloodline, with our sickness, be welcome, hmm? What affection might be shown to a countenance such as this?” The bandaged hand, fingers spread, indicated the hermit’s face. “No. We stayed. And in order to further our line, we did as we had to do. My father and his father before him took unwilling wives, sired offspring. Sired me. And over the course of my life, though I was weakened by disease, a power awakened within me. I could feel it!” The wrapped hand clenched into a fist. “As though I could do anything! Anything but . . .”
    The hand fell. The shoulders slumped. “It is no matter. I learned the truth of our dynasty, and I have spent my final days reclaiming the Stolen Kingdom piece by piece. I have taken back from the descendants of Rakkis, and I have ventured into the lost ruins and seized that which was buried with the trespasser ‘king,’ and I have spat upon his grave. I’ve collected quite a bounty. And here it shall remain, guarded by the most terrible watchdog of all.”
    An understanding dawned on Morbed. He grinned widely, began to laugh, softly at first, then with increasing intensity.
    â€œSomething is— hhough! hhough! —funny, boy?”
    Morbed transferred his weight to the balls of his feet, moving his hand ever so slightly closer to his dagger as he did so. “You can’t procreate, can you? That’s what you meant when you said you could do ‘anything but.’ For all your talk of strength and power, you—you lack virility!” Morbed laughed heartily.
    The wayfarer stood. “I’ll grind you— hhough! —beneath my feet, you insolent— hhough! hhough! —”
    â€œAnd the items of the lost ruins were never yours to begin with. Your dull-witted ancestors built atop the ancient city without even knowing it existed!”
    The deepest onset yet of coughing and hacking ensued. The old man doubled over . . .
    Now!
    What happened next transpired in the space of a hair’s breadth. Morbed reached for his knife and pulled it from its sheath; the vagabond recovered enough to enact a spell; a bending distortion of light appeared around his suddenly outstretched hand; the knife flew from Morbed’s grasp faster than he could have possibly thrown it; and the blade lodged itself to the guard in the diseased old man’s throat.
    The eyes between the wraps grew wide. The wayfarer shuddered, his trembling fingers reaching to pull the weapon free. A gurgling noise escaped his throat. Blood bubbled from the wound. The old man’s fingers brushed the handle as he fell into the nearest pile of equipage, causing the entire column to collapse on top of him.
    Morbed heaved a sigh of relief.
    Told you we could help you , the female voice intoned within his mind. The thief turned to his right and beheld for the first time the upper half of a full-length trifold mirror, its bottom portion obstructed by a jumble of large, dusty items.
    Within the grime-covered sections of glass, Morbed witnessed not his own reflection but an ethereal visage of Jaharra directly in front of him, eyes burning. In the mirror pane to his right stood a transparent Aedus, arms folded. To the left, Vorik, his gaunt face impassive. Morbed noted that a large shard of mirror was missing from the bottom of that segment. Looking farther to his left, the thief spotted it resting against a sheet-covered object, and reflected in its surface he sighted Clovis, standing in full armor, features hidden within his darkened helm. The entirety of the tableau was made more ghostly by the soft hue of the lavender lantern glow.
    â€œWhat . . . ?” Morbed began.
    Jaharra’s image spoke, and Morbed heard the words inside his head. The effect was unnerving. “I should think it mostly