Author's Note: I own no rights to the "Diablo" video game franchise, anything in this story not from the games and their storylines are my creations. Please don't steal from this story without giving due credit or permission. And please don't sue me if you own the "Diablo" video game franchise, because I make no money from this story. Leave reviews if you like my story. Have fun.

THE THOUSAND HERO SLAYER by Silvertide

Chapter One: Awaiting Death's Half Smile

Inside of a blood-stained cage dangling over a pile of human bones, I sit and begin to lose hope of escape. Trapped. Trapped I am in this infernal cage, waiting to be slaughtered by the things lurking around my torch-lit prison. As I squat in a cramped cage of cold metal bars, hanging from the ceiling of this damp cave, small man-like things scurry round below. Undoubtedly they are preparing whatever foul fate that awaits me. They captured me as I slumbered. It was dark. They were many. I awoke to small hands grabbing at me, small and sickly fingers that kept my blade just out of reach. As they relieved me of my weapons and armor, I saw they were shaped like men, only smaller. But men they were not. With their deformed body proportions and inhuman grunts, I realized these were more likely demons than men. Obviously I have not long to live.

Barely visible in this dimly lit cave, bones, of those I presume came before me, lie under my cage. Bones cracked and covered in tooth marks, bones I wish not to look at any longer. With little else to do, I take my eyes away from them and I survey my surroundings once more. Torches, quietly cackling with flame, cast menacing shadows on the rocky cave walls. Monstrous groans and high-pitched snorts echo in the craggy corridors that lie beyond the dark shadows. My cage, with its filthy and unbending metal bars, hangs in the middle of a naturally formed chamber of stone and earth. I slouch in my metal crate facing the only exit in the room. Behind me, ghastly metal instruments covered with spiky protrusions and sharpened edges hang on a wall. I caught glimpse of them as they dragged me into this room through that man-sized opening which now lies in front of me. Since they put me in this cage, I have not glimpsed them a second time. Sometimes I hear loud scraping of metal behind me. But the memory of seeing that malicious wall keeps me from even turning around.

Scrape. Grind. Squeak. Cackling laughter. The sharpening begins again. My hands cringe as I find them moving to cover my ears. I cannot stand the suspense. This time I dare turn around. In the dark shadows I see them. Two figures scarcely visible by their outlines, stand holding various implements. One holds a long shape the length of my leg, while the other grinds at the lengthy form with a variety of different tools. In between the painful sounds of creaking metal, I hear their fiendish, high-pitched laughter. The various sharpening implements have a faint alloyed gleam, they must be sharpening metal with metal. I do not want to look or listen, but I find myself unable to turn away from this awful hint of my fate. More of these things noisily stumble into the room, but I ignore them and simply sit while watching the two foul things stand in shadow. Scraping. Grinding. Laughing.

My cage creaks open behind me, I spin around and see the door is open! I hasten to the opening, but halt as sharp spear points thrust toward my direction. A few steps away from freedom seem so far away once again. The sound of grinding metal pauses and is replaced by laughter. Nothing but laughter. Laughter from everywhere. I'm trapped, they not only know it, they enjoy it. Small stairs leading up to my cage creak as weapons momentarily withdraw. A large sack is brought up to my cage doorway. Heavy with a big lump, the bag is rolled slowly into my small prison. Less than a breath's time later, the doors shut once more and dark shapes creep away, while the awful sounds of scraping metal resumes. Like sad sack of moldy grain, the bag rests at my dingy doorsteps. Food. Something I have not seen since my imprisonment. Have they finally decided to feed me?

I reach for the bag, but my hand jolts back when the large bulge under its folds begins to move. Coarse folds of fabric waver and fall away as the bag opens, a lean figure struggles out of the bag's opening. A man in black garb rises to his feet. He looks like a phantom. Frost white hair with a torch-lit yellow glow. Face pale like a blue cloud in the twilight hours. Shrouded in garments as dark as the shadow of a tomb at sunset. Thin fingers white as chalk. His stony-gray eyes turn to me, silently singing of somber sights I have never seen.

"So they caught someone else too," he says with a half smile. The silent gray eyes of stone now tell me I have fooled myself. This is no specter before me. There is only a man. Certainly he is either a crazed man, or a sane one in denial of our doomed state, but a ghost he is certainly not.

"It would appear so," I reply, trying to ignore the ceaseless noise of grinding behind us. A conversation with this fool is preferable to hearing monsters prepare our grisly fates. He wanders to the back of our cage.

"What's this we have here? Are they getting ready for something? They are making quite a bit of noise."

"Making ready for our deaths," I grimly reply.

"They most likely are," he says with a slight smile, "But they should really be making ready for theirs."

"Why would you say that? Have you a weapon hidden beneath all that black clothing?"

I look up. He turns to me with dreary eyes gazing down. As he speaks a cold chill runs from my face to my toes, "Yes. I do," The man leans close to me, bending his mouth to my ear asking, "Have you seen it? It is thin, white-haired, pale as snow on a distant mountain top, and will kill these impish things in less than two breaths."

"If you have no weapon, simply say so," I tell him, turning away from his gaze, "There is no need to give me such a cryptic reply."

My cell-mate suddenly faces toward the pair of figures. With a smile, his thin arms rise up and a bright blue-white flash explodes before him. A long sharp shaft of bone spews from the sudden splash of light and flies at the impish creatures outside our cage. The two dark things split into four. Blood splatters on the stranger's feet. I stagger to mine as the white-haired one turns to our dingy prison door. Another summoned length of sharpened bone erupts from him, and the locked exit cracks open into shattered bits of metal.

"After you," he says gesturing to the door, "You were here first."

I am free. I scarcely believe it. My feet, believing before the rest of me does, carefully make way to the door. With a creak, they touch down on the small steps. Forgetting the small size of the door, my head bumps the top of the entryway. My white-haired savior chuckles as I emerge from the cage. Crack. Handfuls of tiny bone break under my feet. Crack. I stop and look down, finding the ground crowded with bone. Crack. Continuing on until nothing else cracks or creaks beneath me, I silently creep to the exit.

"A thank you would be welcome." says the stranger behind me.

"Apologies," I say as my head twists around to face him, "I must have left my manners in that cage."

"You may want to wait for me, unless you have a weapon hidden beneath all those rags."

I look down. Worn ragged boots. Coarse, dirty blue trousers. A red-brown tunic speckled with holes. No weapon. Against well armed monsters half my size, I would die a laughingly quick death. I look back at the four wet lumps behind the cage. In the low gleam of barely burning flame, I see hints of armor and weaponry on the grisly remains of the dead sentries. Even as corpses they are better equipped than I am. But not for long. I march back to the dark end of the cave and scrounge through the bloody mess. Many grim weapons, glistening with small spikes and ragged curves, are spread across the ground and on the cave wall. None appear made to fit in a human hand. Next to a dark shadow resembling half a set of legs, a long thin beam of reflected torch light lies on the ground. My hand stretches out to it.

"I do not believe we have been formally introduced," says the dark-garbed stranger, "My name is Maldor Nalakai."

I hold up a shiny long sword marred with half a crack just above its middle, as I introduce myself without turning to face the pale man. "Sigmund Dane. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"The pleasure is all mine," says Maldor with a graceful bow, "I am on a mission of great importance. If you are done here, I can escort you to safety before I continue with it."

Escort me to safety? Who does this Maldor Nalakai think he is? This sorcerer's magic may be of use in this forsaken place, but I can escort myself. I slice the air with my new weapon, testing its weight and balance. Though flawed with a crack, it will be enough until I find something better. "Do you know the way out?" I say as I continue to search through dead monster pieces.

"No, I was dragged here in a bag remember?"

Surrounded by bits of scrap alloy, I find a crumpled garment with pieces of chain mail and iron plating stitched on. It may fit over my torso, while this set of rags is not much, it is better than nothing. I don the improvised armor as I turn to Maldor. "Have you any weapon beside your sorcery? More of these things are lurking about, if your magic runs out you may need my help to keep you alive."

"I have a dagger hidden in my boot, I will be fine. You look like you need more help than I. Those rags will not offer much protection, I would not bother to even put them on."

"Better than nothing." I say as I walk to the dim cavern exit. "Come. We are wasting time, I am ready to go."

"Oh, so you are the leader now? Was not I the one who saved you just moments ago?"

"Lead if you want to," I say as I gesture to the chamber exit, "It does not matter who leads, I just want out of here."

"Good point." says Maldor as we stand before the way out.

"What sort of sorcery did you use on that cage? I did not recognize it."

"Death magic, the sorcery of necromancers."

"Necromancery? I have never heard of it." I say as we step out into the dim.

"Judging by your accent, you must be from Westmarch," says Maldor as we travel along a winding stony passage way barely lit by haphazardly hung torches.

"Indeed I am."

"My kind rarely travel to the western-"

We stop. Footsteps and wretched cackling echoes behind us. Looking back, the light slowly grows brighter even as we stand still. The sounds grow louder. Then the sounds stop, and the light behind us stops glowing brighter. Moments later outraged cries echo through the narrow passage. The torch light hanging on the passage way around us begins to flicker and dim, while the far-off light in the passageway behind us glows brighter. Maldor pulls out his dagger and I hold up my sword with both hands as we hear many hurried footsteps growing louder. I see shadowy shapes creep up on the stony floor just as all light suddenly extinguishes. For a moment in this complete darkness, I wish I were in that infernal cage again.