Diablo
Zakarum's Betrayal
Prologue
The wind's bite had frozen almost all of his joints. The man, no more than 56, felt age catching up with him. It was always this way during the cold season. The flurries of snow had continued unabated and the chill had continued to permeate through his heavy cloak and fur clothing. His bones had become stiff and his movement was slowing. The snow had covered most of his white hair, freezing his already pale skin.
He heard the scream again. It echoed over the howling of the wind itself, carrying the scream towards the man. A renewed surge of strength came over him, pushing the man to move faster. I need to get to her, he thought to himself as his legs kicked away the rising bed of snow. He withdrew his longsword, the consecrated blade of the Paladins of the church of Zakarum. The blade appeared to be nothing magical; yet effectively, it was a holy-water tipped blade. The hilt of his blade had the cross that symbolically signified the purity of one, who must face the dangers and challenges, life—and evil—threw at him.
As he continued to trudge through the snow, he found his mark. A young woman had been cornered by a trio of men who seemed more than enticed at what their bounty had to offer. Across from the highwaymen, lay a caravan that had fallen over, bodies lay strewn on the bed. The snow was gulping amorously at the vast amount of blood from the bodies of dead men. The woman was certainly alone and the men were eager to seek their prize.
He squinted his almond shaped eyes, falling into a charging stance and eager to use surprise to his advantage. Charging, at the leader of the trio, he couldn't help but usher a war cry from the days of his youth, long since past.
The trio turned around, surprised that they had missed someone from the caravan. It was far too late, though, for the old man drove his blade through the chest of the leader, a large, bald man with a broken nose.
In shock, the other two men jumped back, reaching for their weapons they carelessly sheathed. The old man had retrieved his weapon from the chest of the dead man and he got up to watch a very thin and lanky man run at him with a rather large axe aimed for his head. Dodging, the old man watched the much younger man cleave the air and strike his blade into the body of his beloved leader. He gasped as he watched himself strike true and cleave right through the chest of the dead man.
The old man, however, had lost no momentum and cleanly sliced through the belly of the axe man. The younger man looked down and gasped, screaming with all of his might at the pain and imminent death that awaited him. The snow continued to enjoy the beverage that the old man delivered to it. The third man, however, came striking at the old man's back, eager to put an end to this and have the woman all to himself.
As luck would have it, the older man anticipated as much—heeding the warning from the lady's screaming. He spun around blocking the first downward slash from the young highwayman, who happened to be wielding two short swords—the Gladius. Withdrawing a dirk from the sheath on the other side of his hip, he blocked the second slash that aimed for his own belly, much like the highwayman's unfortunate companion—who happened to be running around as the blood continued to pour out of his body.
Growling, the highwayman spun about, eager to slice one of his blades across the man's cheek, but once more, the old man was there to block it. In all of his cumbersome clothing, the old man moved incredibly fast, compared to the younger man, who was much more lightly clothed. In one sweeping instant, the old man sliced right through the leather armour of the younger man, killing him, while one of the Gladius' flew into the furred coat of the old man, driving itself into the ribcage of the older man.
As the young highwayman dropped to the ground, screaming in agony, the old man struggled to keep his balance. If he fell, it would mean the end of him and the innocent woman. He turned around, surveying the senseless death around him, the memories of too many battles he had seen, and too many horrors he had faced began to stalk him. Remembering the woman who had lay there mortified, he turned around—also in part to escape the recurring nightmares he had within himself—and looked at the young woman.
"It is safe now, milady," his warm voice not faltering for a moment from the immensity of the pain that wracked itself over his body. The fight and the wound had taken more of him than he had hoped for. He knew he was feeling the rush of warmth leaving his body. Weariness seemed ready to bear its arms open, eager to await the man's embrace of his own mortality.
Cautiously, the woman—a maiden no more than 17—rose, embracing in his arms and crying out. She knew the man was a honourable one. She knew he was a Paladin, a fabled holy warrior fighting for the Light against the ever-increasing forces of Chaos in the world. She cried, pouring her heart out to the old man, in gratitude for saving her life and for risking his own life against three younger and battle-hardened men.
He pulled her away from him, only to look at her face—only to see darkness-- and let her know that they had to leave. His salve and potions were in his home, not far away. The storm had abated, if only for a few moments. "Mistress, it would be most prudent if we left," he said. She only nodded and reluctantly let go, wishing to be held in his warmth.
As they left the bodies of the men of the caravan and the bandits, neither of them looked back, none too eager to replay the memory of what had transpired…
They trudged through the rising fort of snow, both of them eager to make their way into the warm cabin. Kicking aside the endless tufts of white, the older man held the hand of the young maiden, eager to get her some warmth—and to find the healing salves before he bled to death. As it stood, his fur clothing had held the wound in place, the sweat on his body stinging and mincing with the scarlet liquid. They had found the home, still piping smoke from its chimney, well lit and homely. Just a few more yards, he thought to himself. He had forced himself to remember his days of training, the pain he had taken from all of his conflicts. I will get out of this one yet, he grinned determinedly.
After they reached the door and entered the home, the girl found herself in awe: the home was warm, solid wood floor with some furred carpeting and a fireplace with two comfortable chairs and a stool. She walked towards the fireplace, eager to stay warm and she dusted off her cloak, throwing away loose bits of snow. Her face remained shrouded in the darkness, hiding her image and taking care not to reveal the eyes and face behind the image.
He understood her need to keep herself hidden away. He may have been a Paladin, but even sometimes a holy warrior could be tempted to succumb to the hunger and temptations of the flesh. After he removed his weapons—nearly doubling over from the pain that ate away at him—he moved sluggishly towards the salves.
She took care not to notice. He had risked much for saving her life. For that, she was grateful.
Carefully removing his shirt, the old man nearly gasped with the strain of movement. He moved towards a mirror, gazing at the wound through the reflection. He gasped as he spoke a few soft words, chanting a minor spell to hold him at bay. He collapsed, knocking over a table that lay next to the mirror. The spell had taken some strength out of him. Death was calling sweetly towards him. Its ever-lasting sleep enticed him. Just a few more moments. He smiled to himself-- somewhat in self-pity that he had come this far in his life only to fall to the blade of some hapless highwayman. I will be home soon, my dear Raine.
The younger woman leapt off her seat, when she heard a crash in the other room. She moved through the modestly furnished home and gasped as she saw the older man lying on the ground with a wound on his right side. The wound had partially closed, but there was no doubt the old man had sustained more than a minor cut. She moved towards him, and with startling strength, lifted the man towards the bed that lay right beside the mirror. She had held him close to her as if he were an infant. He had felt the warmth of her skin, the warmth of another. The warmth of her.
"Raine," he whispered, as the woman carried him to the bed.
"Call me Katya," she said softly. As she lay him down, she found the salve lying on the floor. He hadn't rubbed it on his body yet. She retrieved the item and finding a solid oak chair, she sat down and began to rub the salve over his body. The pale skin was cool, but warmed when her hands and the salve touched it.
"Tell me, who was she?" The young woman was eager to keep him alive. Time was taking its toll on his tired, worn body.
His eyes were closed. The darkness continued to wrap itself around him. Embracing him. Memories of her continued to flutter around him. The warmth and scent of the young woman brought those beautiful images of her back to him. The voice had strangely sounded like hers. He could only smile warmly at the thought of her. Slowly, he opened his eyes and saw the cloaked woman. He could only make out the locks of her chestnut brown hair flowing seamlessly. "She was the one who brought me here."
"Pray, tell me more," she asked, genuine interest had crept into her tone. There was no doubt that admiration had also entered her voice. Something had peaked her curiousity, be it fear of loneliness or wanting to know about the man's legacy before he died. They both had time, of course, for the storm had picked up and would continue into the night. He had time, lest death took him.
"It is a long story," he said. "It began when we were newly knighted Paladins, in the church of Zakarum. Of course, we thought we were the warriors of the Light. If only we had seen what was to occur…"