Guardians Of Sanctuary

by Jetrall

In a land slowly being corrupted by a great and powerful evil, three heroes are selected by their people to fight for them against the tides of Hell. This is their story.

by Keegan Flick-Parker

Work inspired by Blizzard Entertainment's games Diablo II and DII: Lord of Destruction.
All names and characters created by Blizzard are property of Blizzard / Vivendi games.
I, the author, claim no right to Blizzard's property nor any money made from them.

© 2008 Keegan Flick-Parker

The trees on either side, blurs of green and black, flew past as he leapt through the thick jungle. Light flashed between the trunks, reflecting on brown puddles. His boots seemed to never touch the ground beneath him, propelling him with speed and grace over the gnarled roots and twisted trunks. He knew the land so well. Every bush, every root, and every bog he evaded with ease as his pursuers struggled through them. His nostrils flared, inhaling the scents of the jungle. He was almost there; so close to his destination. With a few more steps he would clear the marker and all would be — a flash of red! A sudden pain seared up his leg as he fell, instinctively clutching for his knife. He could feel the creature gnawing through his leather shin guard. He would have to act fast. Drawing his blade, he plunged it into the head of his attacker, twisting its point into the creature's brain and, drawing it out again, kicked the dying body from himself. Too late, he realized. He could feel, already, the poison taking hold; spreading through his body.The footsteps of his pursuers fell heavier then, and he knew he had little time left as he lifted himself up against a tree.

One last chance, he thought, one last gift for my enemy. He reached into his memory and chanted the verse, holding out his shaking hands to the corpse at his feet, "Zirak-zigil aya gathul." As darkness reached him, he felt the hot breath of his foe on his flesh. "Enjoy it while you can," he ground through his teeth… and all turned to black.

"You're lucky, necromancer," said a strange voice. "If it weren't for you, I never would have caught my prey; little did I know that it was on a hunt as well." The voice's owner chuckled hoarsely, and the guttural sound seemed to reverberate across the forest floor. "But I suppose this makes us even now." As he spoke, a sharp but short pain opened the necromancer's eyes. He lamely opened his jaw to speak, but no clear words could escape. He rolled his eyes past the man kneeling over him, bandaging his leg. An open bottle, deep red in colour, laid empty nearby. Behind the man he could see the mangled body of his pursuer, bloodied and broken. Finally his eyes fell on the man himself. A dark-skinned brute of a man, wearing black plate mail cut sharp as a scimitar from the Deserts beyond. His gaze surveyed the damaged leg as he tightly bound the cloth. Another shot of pain surged up the necromancer's limb, this time dulled slightly by whatever drug the red bottle had contained. The warrior before him stood and clapped his large hands together.

"There! All done," he said. "All that's missing is a little pink ribbon." He chuckled again and held out a palm to the necromancer. The offer was accepted and the necromancer felt himself easily lifted off the ground, his hand lost in the warrior's. There was a moment of silence before the large man grunted to himself and said, "You're a quiet one I see. In my land it's considered polite to thank a man for saving your life."

"I beg your pardon," said the necromancer, realizing he had regained control over his lips. "That is the custom of my people as well. I thank you warrior, for the aid you've given me. It shan't be forgotten." His eyes strayed once more the carcass behind the warrior. "May I ask what weapon you used to kill the beast?"

The warrior looked insulted and held out his hands. "The most deadly weapons of all, friend." He mimed snapping something across his knee.

"You mean to say," the necromancer said, looking incredulously at the warrior, "that you slew the beast with only your hands?"

The warrior laughed heartily and said, "Well, no. I admit my hands were not all I used." With that, he grinned broadly, showing his massive canines. They were stained with dark black blood. "If you doubt me on this, I'd be more than happy to prove my skill."

The necromancer merely shook his head and grinned. "I doubt you not. I cannot help but wonder, however, what name could be worthy of such a warrior and what brings him to my jungle."

"Oh this is your jungle," said the warrior. "I had been wondering who to complain to about the smell." He winked quickly. "My business here is no less noble than your own, I'm sure, and my name," he paused for a second, crossing his massive arms, "is Jetrall."

— Chapter I —

The Eye of Trang-Oul

A vast jungle spread out beneath the wings of the raven as she spiraled, searching for prey. She glided through the air gracefully, black eyes full of wisdom and serenity. Thunderclouds in the distance rumbled ominously and lightning scorched the trees, but the raven continued her vigil, flapping her old wings in defiance of the wind. The raven's eye, somehow fixed on the dying animal below, was milky white with blindness. Her beak crusted with blood, her feathers stained. Finally the animal below let out a final cry and the raven began his decent. Down, down, faster it flew. The wind cut brutally against the raven's face and stung like fire as if she were descending into hell itself. The burning intensified and the raven realized with horror that the fire was real. The forest had been set ablaze by the lightning and the woodland animals fled in terror. The raven reeled and spun about, already realizing her folly. Her feathers were aflame and burned with an intensity beyond that of all other pain. For all her wisdom and all her years, the bird had no means to put out the fire that consumed her as he fell. Down, she plummeted to greet her death.

Escilae awoke, hot and covered in sweat. He kicked, expecting the soft furs of his bed to fly away and a cool breeze to caress his fevered flesh, ridding him of his burning pain. No breeze would come and, as the necromancer opened his eyes, he saw only jungle, clouded with the shroud of night but brightened by the flickering light of a torch.

"Your watch," said a gruff voice. Escilae felt a light kick from a large boot. He sat up, memory of his earlier encounter flooding back. "Here, drink this," said Jetrall, offering another red bottle. The necromancer accepted it and tipped his head back, downing the liquid. "Hey, not so much!" said Jetrall. "The potion works even in moderation for one your size; you should save it."

Escilae lowered the bottle and sealed the top. "Thank you," he said, the pain easing. He stood and flexed his sore muscles, shaking his injured leg to wake it. He looked around but could not see far with only the light of the torch. He sat, facing into the jungle, the fire to his back. "Tomorrow we should make for the city," he began. "There my people will be able to tend my wounds and you may restock your supplies." The warrior was silent.

"I'm grateful, you know," said Escilae. "It's not every day a man is lucky enough to be saved like that. I—" he turned and looked down at the warrior and realized that the large man was already asleep.

The necromancer eased himself down onto a fallen trunk, wiping his hands on the damp moss that grew along the bark. 'Kings Men moss' they named it, for its shining silver hue, as if the little strands that grew from it each were great knights clad in polished armor. He grabbed a handful and tugged it loose before raising it to his nose. If the smell had been sickly-sweet it would be past its prime, but the odour was that of fresh citrus. He plucked several strands off and rolled them along his gums with his tongue before chewing them. He could feel the effect running down his spine. A wash of warmth and then little pinpricks all across his skin before the sensation finally died away. His vision improved in the darkness and he found he could make out the trunks and vines several meters past the ring of light where previously there had only seemed to be an engulfing darkness. Good enough, he thought and lay down the moss. It's going to be a long night….

Hours passed, and the necromancer, drifting in and out of sleep, thought back to his dream. Never before had he remembered a dream with such clarity, and the images he had seen frightened him. He chuckled softly in the dark. A follower of Rathma frightened by a nightmare…. It was unheard of. He ran his fingers through his long white hair and wiped his face, gently massaging his cheekbones.But what did it mean? He closed his eyes, concentrating on the vision. The Raven, the dying beast, the fire ... A flash of lightning! It had all seemed so real; the vision so potent. The Raven's blind eye, open wide in terror as its flesh charred. Escilae sat up abruptly, hearing something in the dark jungle. He grabbed his knife, spinning, trying to identify the direction from which the sound had come. A branch cracked behind him. Instinctively, he twisted around and thrust his knife in attack!

"What's going on?" said the large warrior, skillfully having caught the necromancer's blade between his massive thumb and forefinger. Escilae let out a sigh of relief. "I thought I heard a noise in the jungle. You startled me. That's all."

Jetrall released the knife and nodded, his eyes boring into the necromancer's soul — turning through his secrets. The Raven; an inferno of flesh and torment plummeting towards the earth. "You sure you're alright?" said the warrior, a distinct tone of concern in his voice.

"I'm fine," said the necromancer, "Yeah. Yeah I'm okay". He did not mean it, and he guessed that the warrior probably saw through his thin lie. "It's just the jungle. I haven't been here in so long. I left when I was a boy. I was fourteen by the years of my people when my mother died. My father couldn't handle it. Some people say he went mad. I never believed that. One night he just said 'we're leaving' and that I should grab what was important to me. We fled the jungle and made for the once great city of Kurast. I was taught there—by a grand priest, adept in magic." He sat down on the log again, taking in a whiff of the citrus moss. "Of course I tried to lean on my own as well. I learned some of the lesser magics of Rathma, but it wasn't enough. I had to come back. I had to see my people again." He turned his head and slapped his palms on his knees. "I just … To not understand your culture is to not understand yourself. I can't live that way. I can't abandon it all like my father did."

The warrior nodded his head, solemnly taking in the necromancer before him. "I know of what you speak, necromancer." Escilae turned his head back to the warrior. "I too seek meaning," said the large man, "though for different reasons." The warrior leaned to the right, exposing his back. A weapon, shining as if it were new, was fastened there in a large sling. "You see this axe?" he said. The necromancer nodded. "This axe has more history in it's blade than I have had in my entire life. It's served in many battles and stood the test of time. It will continue to exist in some form or other forever—a feat that we mortals cannot hope to accomplish. I pray that one day I may pass on this blade as my ancestors, my father, and my brother have." His head turned absent-mindedly to the torches flame. The flickering light danced across his features as he flinched, harsh memories returning. "I know what you seek necromancer, as I too seek it for myself. To discover one's own purpose on this earth… That is the greatest undertaking of all."

Escilae nodded slowly. "How is it that you plan to find your purpose, warrior?" Jetrall blinked and stared at the flame. A breeze blew through the trees and the flame sputtered.

"I do not know," he said, simply. "But I do know that I would go to the ends of the earth and beyond to find it."

A silence fell and the two men stared into the fire, each deep in thought. As the night passed, the flame died and darkness fell upon them. The world, for that time, was dormant as a tomb. The only sound to be heard was the brief cawing of a Raven as she took to the air.

The rising sun shimmered in the fog that blanketed the jungle basin. The plants steamed and curled with the morning heat. Dewdrops trickled from the overhanging vines, running in small rivers down the rough bark of the trees to the ground, saturating the dirt. Small creatures crawled amongst the carpet of dead leaves that scattered the forest floor. The necromancer awoke as a drop of fresh, warm water fell on his brow. His eyes opened slowly, taking in the bright sun through the mist. He stretched his legs and realized that the pain had already gone and, steadying himself with the log he had slept against, stood to survey his surroundings. The warrior was nowhere to be seen, but his helm leaned against the trunk where he had lain. Escilae grabbed his satchel and plucked some of the silver moss, tucking the strands into one of the pouches.

"I was wondering when you would wake," said a familiar voice from the trees. "Come, I've caught us some breakfast."

The necromancer grabbed the warrior's helm and carried it with him in the direction of the voice. He found Jetrall kneeling over the body of a large buck. A small fire had also been made for cooking the venison, which would rest on a makeshift spit. There was meat already cooked and ready for eating sitting on a large frond beside the fire.

"Mind if I take some?" said the necromancer. Jetrall looked over at the meat and shook his head. "Go ahead," he said through his grinning teeth, "I've had some already, and I plan to smoke this meat for later. 'No sense in wasting anything,' as my father says."

Escilae bowed his head and sat by the fire, laying down the warrior's helm. He noticed that the great plumes he had at first taken for crafted steel were in fact feathers – shining and black like metal, but soft to the touch. Perhaps this warrior isn't all muscle, he thought to himself as he ate.

When they had eaten their fill, the two wrapped the smoked venison in fronds and tucked them in their tunics and satchel-bags. They doused the fire with dirt and buried the deer's skeleton, placing a small stone in the earth above in reverence to the animal, thanking it for giving its life for theirs. At last they departed and trekked northeast through the trees toward the temple of Rathma—a low building hewn of rock and disguised amongst the vegetation. It was the only passage to the city of the necromancers and could not be found by those not of the Order. The markers that led to the temple were carved in the Runes of Rathma—an ancient language created by the first priest of the Order with Trang-Oul, the great World Dragon, to hide away their sacred temple. Only the necromancers could read it and decipher its code.

As the travelers continued, they came across several markers—tall, thin pillars of speckled rock, shooting out from the earth towards the sky. The runes were undisturbed by plant or beast and Escilae read them clearly. "Aglâb, khaz-Rathmâ. Gabilgathol-gundu bund aya Sharbhund-nâla."

"What does it mean," said Jetrall, peering over the necromancer's shoulder. "Looks like just a bunch of little pictures to me."

"To you, it is meaningless symbols. To me," said Escilae, "it is the first sign of home." He grinned and pointed north. "It says to find the underground fortress we must 'look for the path of the bald hill'. I know a hill that could be described as such only half-a-mile away. Come, follow me."

The necromancer took off north, the warrior in train, saying, "That said 'bald hill'? Looked like a picture of a camel making love to a chicken to me!" The two men laughed as they made picked their way through the trees.

At long last they found themselves in a small clearing and, for the first time in what seemed like decades, they soaked in the open sunlight. The warrior removed his helm, shaking the beads of sweat from his brow, and looked around. In the centre of the clearing was a small hill, grassy on the sides but lacking vegetation on the brim. The men made their way towards it and looked for the path. They could find none. Hours passed and the sun beat down upon them from above—the sign of noon. Escilae, at long last, stood and walked towards the hill. He climbed the short, drooping slope to the centrepoint and looked down at his feet. Then, suddenly, he laughed.

"I've found it!" he exclaimed. "I've found the path! It's been here the whole time!"

The warrior came over and looked at the necromancer's boots. He stared intently at the hill-top before slowly shaking his head. "I still don't see it. All I see is your boots, the dirt, and your shadow."

"Exactly!" said the necromancer. "It's noontime. The sun is directly above our heads, yet from the centre of this hill I cast a long shadow pointing to the east. It must be revealing the way to the temple. Come, we must move quickly!"

With that, he leapt from the hill and ran for the trees. The large warrior grumbled and strapped on his helmet, taking off after his guide. As they reached the trees, they could see through the shroud of vines and hanging mosses a rock wall, smooth and speckled as the markers. They clambered along the overgrown path, brushing aside the hanging plants, until they reached the wall. Escilae reached out a hand and spread his open palm against the smooth stone. He slid his hand gingerly across the surface. No longer able to contain himself, he touched his brow to the wall and rested his head upon the cold stone in silence. The warrior gazed in amazement at the intricate designs carved on the temple. There was white serpent clutching the world of Sanctuary, holding it both above and below, as if it should unbalance and topple without the wyrm's sturdy grip. Another symbol drew his attention. It was a great eye, white and reptilian, its edges sharp as blades. He was drawn to the symbol, as if some power in the rock willed him to move towards it. He slowly extended his hand and placed it in the centre of the eye. A great mountain peak soared past beneath him. The snow whipped at his brow as he flew through the thin air. He felt cold, desperately cold, as if he had been plunged into a frozen lake. The scene before him changed, and he saw a raven—one eye blinded and milky white—sitting upon a rock in a forest. The trees were ablaze all around her and lightning flashed nearby, the thunder rolling in quickly. The bird looked at Jetrall with sorrow and spoke to him. "It's not your fault," she said. "We will be together again." With that the raven cawed loudly and the flames reached up, consuming the bird which, crying out in pain, disappeared in a flash of smoke and fire.

"Jetrall!" said Escilae, holding the warrior's wrist. The image of the bird disappeared and the carving of the eye once more was before him. Jetrall looked at the necromancer who stared back in concern. The warrior nodded and Escilae released his grip on the man's arm. He looked back to the eye in wonder. "What is it you saw?" said the necromancer.

"What?" replied Jetrall, confused and bewildered.

"You had a vision, did you not? There are few in this world to whom the Eye chooses to speak. I cannot believe that I would run into such another, but it seems that you and I share this gift."

Jetrall's eyes opened wide. "You have seen a vision from the eye as well?"

The necromancer nodded. "I have never been able to forget it," he said. "It haunts my dreams still, for the images the Eye showed me are both frightening and yet touching. I saw a raven, wise and fair, but blind in one eye." The warrior stared and listened. "A spreading fire reached up to consume the bird before it could escape. I felt … sorrow for the animal, as if I knew it well." Jetrall looked back to the eye and heard a voice speaking to him as if carried on the breeze. The Eye of Trang-Oul sees all that comes to pass. You shall find the Raven, son of Jaahred!

He turned back to Escilae and choked on his words. The necromancer tilted his head and said to the warrior, "What is it that you have seen?"

-- Chapter II --

Witch of the Zann Esu

"Concentrate," said the old woman, bending low on her staff for support. "Feel the Earth reaching up through you. It is reaching. It is constantly reaching for the sky above, drawing a deep power from the heavens. You are but a conduit for this energy. Now," her eyes flashed with excitement, "do it."

A young woman, clad in a purple gown, with jet black hair and eyes like the angry sea, stood before her, deep in concentration. Her forehead was crinkled, her lips drawn taught in anticipation. She could feel it, flowing through her veins. The power was tangible, and it frightened her. But fear was there to be mastered, and the woman knew his. She clenched her fists. It was time.

"Now!" said the old woman.

The young sorceress drew herself up and, swinging her arms together toward the earth at her feet in practiced elegance, felt a surge of energy rush through her body. Every nerve in her body felt as if a thousand lightning storms were raging within her. She knew, for a moment, that she no longer existed on the mortal plane. Space whirled past her, the stars wheeling madly about. Then it was over, just as suddenly as it had begun.

"Good," said the old woman, making her way towards the young sorceress. "Good," she repeated as she came close. She laid a wrinkled hand on the girl's shoulder. She could feel that the girl was breathing heavily, bent over, resting her palms on her knees.

"The first time is always the hardest," she said in an effort to calm her, "but it gets easier every time. I have no doubt that you shall become as skilled as I am before the next winter passes." The girl looked up to the smiling face of the old woman and smiled back. Her excitement could not be hidden. The experience had been shocking, even painful, but was not without its charms. She felt charged, as if she could accomplish anything.

"We shall have to continue this again tomorrow," said the old woman, eying the darkening sky. "Evening is upon us and after a feat like that, you should get your rest."

"But Iiana, you can't be serious! I've only just begun to understand. Surely we can practice just a few more ti—"

The girl stopped when the old woman placed her finger to her pursed lips. "Quiet young one. You will learn tomorrow. Tonight, all I wish you to practice is sleeping for more than a few hours… if that's even possible for you." She grinned knowingly and hobbled away on her staff. The girl wanted to follow but knew her place and complacently began the slow march back to her tent.

As the sun set behind the canopy of trees outlining the city, the atmosphere around the sorceress seemed to change. It felt thick and oppressive with the remaining heat from the day. She passed through dark avenues, mists flowing from the tents to envelop her body, the scent of incense filling her nostrils. Beads and jewels jangled in mysterious places where nothing could be seen. She found herself wheeling around at the sound of baying instruments, searching in the darkness for an unseen attacker. Her pace quickened, and there was urgency in her step. She was very close now. Her tent was just around the next corner. Suddenly—a hand shot out from the dark alley and grabbed her, pulling her into the darkness. She tried to shout, but the hand that had grabbed her now stopped her mouth. The darkness was all around her, and she fought against her instinct to panic.

"Quiet!" said a voice, firmly but not harshly. "The High Priestess summons. Will you answer?" A face came forth from the darkness. The sorceress recognized the features as those of Toshana, a young and often reckless advisor to the High Priestess. "Speak!" she ordered, releasing her grip.

The sorceress took a ragged breath and spoke. "Yes," she said. "I will answer to the call of the Mother." Her voice cracked with apprehension at this phrase. What reason could the High Priestess have to see her?

"Follow then. You must not be seen."

She nodded in agreement, forgetting for a moment how dark it was. "Alright," she said. Her heartbeat pounded in her eardrums and her breath came harsh and dry. She felt her way along the old rock walls of the avenue, dragging her fingers along. She could not see Toshana ahead of her but felt her presence. The woman was young, but powerful beyond her years. Her follower could now feel that power, flowing around her like a river, thick and potent. The alley led on and on, up and down. When it seemed most that it would never end, it abruptly stopped, the walls falling away into the night. Darkness gave way to the light of torch fire, and a tent appeared like a beacon in the distance, summoning the women.

The sorceress could now make out the figure of the woman in front of her, a black silhouette of grace and power embodied. Her skin was dark and, where the torch light fell on it, glowed with a deep golden sheen. Beads of sweat were visible on her arms and cheeks. She was nervous too. They reached the tent and Toshana stopped, holding out an arm to block the path of the young sorceress behind her.

"I have brought her," she said to the tent. The flap rustled in the breeze, opening an inch and closing again.

"Good," said a voice from within. "Bring her in."

She barely had time to register the sensation of being grabbed and hurried into the tent. She was thrust down onto a delicately embroidered pillow. Gold silk traced the edges, reflecting the glow of the candles within. She turned her attention to the flap where Toshana was entering behind her and, following her with her gaze, watched as the advisor sat as well.

"The Mother calls," said the voice again, and the sorceress turned her head towards the sound. An ancient woman sat before her. Eyes shut tight in concentration. Around her burned candles and incense, the smoke of which wafted to the low ceiling and hung there, like a cloud. Her eyes opened suddenly and the candles flickered. "Will you answer?" the eyes rolled down from the swirling mist above, the voice harsh with grave importance. "Will you heed her summons, Onira of the Zann Esu?"

"Evil has stirred deep below," said the High-Priestess, rolling herbs between her fingers. She raised the herbs to her nose and inhaled. Her eyes were closed again, and she spoke softly, the gentle breeze outside her only competition. "A great darkness is descending upon the Earth. I fear," she said, her voice cracking with age, "that this may be the time we have been waiting for… all these years. That I should live to see the rebirth of evil is an unkind burden, though one I have been preparing for all my life."

The young sorceress nodded her head. The time we have been waiting for. The rebirth of evil. Onira shivered and edged away from the walls of the tent, closer to the High Priestess. Could it be true? The Zann-Esu had existed for generations, training, and readying themselves for the return of darkness. With all but a few survivors of the Horadrim order gone, and the forces of Heaven heedless to the calls of mortals, who else would stand against the tides of hell? A thought struck her suddenly.

"What would I ask of you?" said the High-Priestess in response to the thought. "You already know what I must ask." Her eyes opened and gazed, not at the young sorceress, but into her, through her. Her eyes penetrated the deepest confines of her soul, turning out the fear and doubt. "I will do it," said Onira, suddenly. "I will fight to rid this earth of the evils that seek to corrupt it. I will stand with my sisters to the last hour. I am ready, Mother of the Zann-Esu. I am ready."

The old woman did something then that Onira had never seen. She cried. Her tears were filled with pain, and sadness, and pride. "I know," she said, and embraced the young sorceress in a tight hug. Onira hugged her back, and felt the urge to never let go; to sink into the warm framiliarity of home. "I know," said the Mother again, and released her grip. "Now go young one. Forget belongings and family. For without haste, we may yet lose such comforts."

Onira rose and hesitated. This is all happening so fast, she thought. She knew that the High-Priestess could hear her, and she did not care. She turned to leave and, pausing by the tent flap, looked once more at the old woman. Her eyes were closed, legs folded and the herb at her nose again. "Goodbye," Onira spoke softly, and walked out into the dark night. Once she had gone, the old Priestess lowered her herbs. "Goodbye," she said.