Diablo III: Morbed by Micky Neilson Page B

obvious,” she scolded. “Despite your best efforts, you are not rid of us. In fact, it would seem the opposite is true. We are now, the five of us, inextricably linked through the relic you hold in your hand.”
    Morbed looked down at the lantern, then back up, as he heard Vorik’s strained hiss. “While our mortal forms have been dispatched, our spirits remain captive. We are tethered to the lantern and, through it, also tethered to you.”
    The old seaman-who-claimed-to-be-a-fisherman’s words came drifting back to Morbed. Kept hearin’ his voice inside my head after we got here .
    But the not-fisherman was clearly insane, wasn’t he?
    â€œThis isn’t real,” Morbed said suddenly. “My mind is bent.”
    Jaharra’s eyes drilled into his very core. “How convenient that would be, hmm? To simply dismiss us, to dismiss what you did .”
    â€œYou had our trust.” Aedus spoke for the first time. “Why betray us?”
    â€œHe’s a thief!” Jaharra spat. “Should we have expected any less?”
    â€œWhat you did was dishonorable,” Clovis intoned.
    â€œAnd what of it? What good has integrity done any of you?” Morbed shot back loudly. “What of honor?” His voice softened. “Cemeteries lack no room for the honorable dead.”
    Morbed was tired, more exhausted than he had ever been in his life. Spent, in mind, body, and spirit. “Yes, I’m a thief. I steal. I lie. I run, and I live. I’m not sorry for that.”
    â€œBut you do feel guilt,” Clovis replied.
    â€œNo!” Morbed protested. “Guilt accomplishes nothing.”
    â€œAnd yet here we are,” Jaharra persisted. “You heard the old man: he felt no guilt, and therefore no spirits vexed him. The sailor who led us here was rent by guilt, haunted by the death of the true fisherman. Our very presence here is testament to the compunction you bear.”
    Morbed felt that he could argue no longer. He desired now more than anything a way to silence the voices. “And so? What would be my fate? To cast myself from a battlement as the old man would have done?”
    â€œThe sailor was, in a very misguided way, seeking to restore balance,” Vorik answered. “I believe this may be achieved through other means. Through acts of selflessness, perhaps you might purge yourself of regret, and also atone.”
    â€œIs that what you believe?” Morbed replied. “That the only way to be rid of you and still draw breath is to . . . aid others out of kindness?” The thief shook his head. “And no doubt risk my own life in the process.”
    â€œNot kindness,” Vorik corrected. “Selflessness.”
    The lantern hung in Morbed’s limp hand. “Yes, of course. It’s worth a try,” he lied. “Just as soon as we return to Westmarch, I’ll begin a search for endangered orphans or tormented widows. But first, I—we—must quit this cursed bastion.”
    â€œIn seeking to deceive us, you deceive only yourself,” Aedus said. “You can no more hide your intentions from us than you could hide your nose from your face.”
    Morbed released a long sigh. “What do you ask of me?”
    â€œYour pursuit of salvation could begin with the extermination of our slayer,” Jaharra suggested. “Others are sure to come to this island and would no doubt face destruction. With our aid, you might defeat this demon.”
    Morbed laughed hollowly. “Or I might, more likely, get myself killed. And what of your precious spirits then? What if I fail?”
    â€œYou would not fail,” Aedus said. “We can join our abilities and exert them through you. Without the master of the house and his magic-suppressing traps, and with the demon wounded, I’m confident we would emerge victorious.”
    Morbed’s tired eyes drifted over the mirror images. “And