I ventured into the Library of Zoltun Kulle, only to be beset by terrible monsters in the Grand Vestibule. Ghouls have invaded the library, and I dare not set foot in there again until it is safe. Adventurer, please protect the library's fragile archives from their ruthless scavenging.

Peth, the Amber Blades


Silence in the Library

Taking a breath, Peth, son of Perrin, walked into the Library of Zoltun Kulle. Hoping that breath would not be among his last.

He knew of this place. Most of the Amber Blades did. Surviving in the ruins of the Shassar Sea, one lived and died in the ruins of a forgotten civilization, and the Library of Zoltun Kulle was in some regards no different.

Less ancient, true. Its obsidian surface standing in contrast to the mud and stone that comprised the ruins of this land. And built by the hands of a mad wizard rather than a mad king.

But still, ruined, and abandoned. Only opened recently by his own hand, as he guided the Shard-bearer into the looming structure. He understood that they were still alive, that they'd travelled as far as the Dreadlands themselves in Sanctuary's frozen north, but he, however, had remained here. Staying at Tabri's side, as she strove to unite all of Shassar under her banner. Driving the Scorpions back, looting treasure from ancient tombs and selling it for gold, through which she could hire mercenaries to aid her conquest. All while he remained in camp, writing letters to be sent to the four corners of the world. Asking allegiance and offering favours.

But that was the case no longer. Now, with dagger at his side, and satchel slung over his shoulder, he, Peth, of the Amber Blades, walked into the gloom of the library. His skin burnt by sun, his throat dry, his hands weathered, he asked but only a single question.

What the Hells am I doing here?

The question did not leave his tongue, but even if it had, the library would have provided no answer. He had no doubt it contained knowledge of a kind – knowledge that he knew Tabri would make use of – but it would not answer such a question. Nor would any of the Sand Scorpions who had previously forced their way in here, nor the bounty hunters he'd sent into this library previously. To slay Scorpions, to retrieve golem parts…

He kept walking. Across a stone bridge, below which was naught but misty oblivion. He couldn't see the bottom of the library. How Kulle had managed to build it at all was a question he'd asked more than once, and never found an answer to. However, he-

Wait.

He stopped. Not that he'd been walking that long in the first place, having barely made it into the library proper, but still, he stopped.

Someone's here.

In the gloom, he heard it. A skittering sound. Hisses.

Something's here.

Whispers. Rising ever higher, coming ever closer.

Lots of things.

He reached for the dirk at his belt, bemoaning the shortness of its length, and the weakness in his arm.

Why did I come here? I'm no fighter. No hero. I just look at artifacts, sell them, and pass on the profits.

There was no answer that came to him. But instead, a harbinger of his demise.

Ghouls. Around a dozen of them. Crawling up from the depths below. Rotten, misshapen things – the walking dead that no longer walked, but rather, bounded. Like the legendary apes of far-off Toraja, only sharper of tooth, and longer of claw.

Run, Peth told himself, as he watched the ghouls rise from the dark. Run!

His mind willed it, and his body, at last, obliged.

Run!

Obliged quite well over the next few seconds as he sprinted towards the exit. To the pallid shaft of light that cut into the library from the outside. As of a hand of Heaven itself had reached down to pull him out of darkness.

Peth didn't believe in angels, any more than he did demons. There were enough nightmares in Sanctuary without having to make up new ones. Yet even so, if an angel was beyond that door, if an angel had come to offer him salvation…he'd take it.

Gladly.

He ran. The ghouls pursued. He ran, his chest bursting, his forehead perspiring, his knuckles tightening. He ran, and ran, and ran, until he was in the light's arch and-

No.

A ghoul had arrived on the causeway. A ghoul had cut him off.

"No!" Peth exclaimed.

He drew his dirk, but fell back, his buttocks landing on the cool stone in a manner most painful and undignified. But even in his moment of terror, he knew that the pain he felt now was nothing compared to what would happen when the ghouls reached him.

Which, as the ghoul in front of him closed in, and the ghouls from behind did likewise, was now very soon. Seconds even.

He gripped his dirk, and met the ghoul beyond the entrance in its bloody, unblinking eyes. It was a strange feeling, knowing that death was near. Liberating even. There were no gods to whom he could pray, no afterlife where he'd have to keep on slogging…just death. Finality. An end.

Still, he screamed and covered his eyes, as the first ghoul lunged at him. And kept them closed even as he felt sand against his skin, and heard the creature screech.

What in the world?

Kept them closed, waiting for the inevitable that never came. Kept them closed, as he heard the screeches of more ghouls than he had fingers. And only dared open them when, finally, he realized that he was actually still alive.

As to why he was still alive, he received his answer immediately. Sort of.

A man. A man hovering above the ground. One with no hair saved his black beard. One who looked out into the world through milky-white, pupilless eyes. In his left hand, an obsidian staff that broke bone with every strike. From his right, a stream of sand that cut through the ghouls like a scythe through wheat. A man clearly possessed of exceptional magical talent, and the ruthless will to use it.

A man like Zoltun Kulle…

As he lay there, it briefly occurred to Peth that he could use the opportunity to escape. The ghouls were distracted, this sorcerer was distracted…he could turn their distractions into his advantage. To re-enter the harsh glow of Shassar, make his way back to Tabri's encampment, and maintain that nothing had happened, and he was still at her service.

Or he could sit back and watch the show. Perhaps even talk to the man before him and-

He yelled, as a quintet of ghoul body parts sailed through the air above him. Even as he ducked, the smell of rotting flesh assaulted his nostrils, and coagulated blood his robes.

Time to go.

There were only four ghouls left now. And none of their body parts were faring any better.

Definitely!

With one last look at the sorcerer before him, Peth of the Amber Blades turned to the exit, and ran.

Ran as if his life depended on it.

Ran for a good three seconds before the screeches stopped.

Ran for less than another second as in a flash of golden light, the sorcerer appeared before him.

He let out a cry, stumbling back. Floating above the ground, the sorcerer towered over him. His staff, stained by dark blood, was clutched in his hand. And in the other, a golden orb of dust.

"I…" Peth struggled to find his voice. "I…"

The sorcerer smirked. "Hello, Wheatley."

Who?

For a moment, Peth saw the sorcerer bringing his staff down towards his head.

Who is-

The moment after that, it made contact, sending his vision dark. Causing his body to fall to the ground.

Silence, at last, returning to the library.


He wasn't sure exactly when he came to the conclusion that he was alive.

He drifted in and out of consciousness for Light knew how long, and in the periods of in-consciousness, came to realize that he was lying somewhere on stone cold ground, under the shadow of a bookshelf, that his forehead was pounding, and that the clothing he'd worn for the scorching heat of Shassar was ill-suited for the cold, musty interior of this library.

Then there were the periods when he was unconscious, but not so unconscious that he was unconscious as to being unconscious. These moments came and went, and each time, he feared that death was upon him. Total, utter oblivion. Many were the stories and beliefs of what happened to you after death, ranging from paradise, to reincarnation, to everything in-between. For his part, Peth had paid them little heed. The people of Shassar had worshipped their kings as gods, and it hadn't saved them. Fahir had been slain, his staff fought over, his people slaughtering each other. So that now their descendants – people like Peth, son of Perrin – fought to survive in the ruins, against the Sand Scorpions, against the lacuni, against hunger and dehydration.

In Shassar, death was your companion, and you soon learnt to pay it no heed.

Still, death had little appeal to him right now. So while consciousness meant cold, an aching forehead, and the quiet fear that waking would only allow him to meet death in the eye before his end, he slowly willed his eyes to open. To stay open. To look around the bookshelves, the stone, and-

"Observation – you are awake."

…at the great big golem standing above him.

"Query – are you injured?"

Peth just sat there, his jaw dropped.

"Repetition – are you injured?"

"I…" He struggled to find words. "I…"

"Clarification requested. 'I' not an answer."

"You…"

"Clarification requested. 'You' not an answer."

Peth closed his jaw and remained silent.

"Query – are you injured?"

Even if the golem didn't.

He knew it was a golem because, well, it was a golem. It couldn't be anything else. A hulking brute of sandstone, eight feet tall, looking down at him through unseen eyes attached to a featureless face. He'd read all about golems – about their summoning, their abilities, how they had been used by magic-users from the Vizjerei to the Priests of Rathma – but to see one, in the flesh…

"Query – are you injured?"

Well, stone, Peth silently corrected. And there was of course the unfortunate fact that a large part of what he knew about golems came from the parts that had been delivered to him by mercenaries. The bounty hunters in Westmarch were always happy to be given coin.

"Query – are you injured?" Repeated the golem. This time with the slightest touch of irritation in its voice.

"I'm…" Peth struggled to find words. "I'm-"

"Of course he's injured," snapped a voice. "Little thieves have little heads, and they get sore when they're bonked."

In his 22 years of life, Peth had never heard anyone use the word "bonked" in that matter before.

"Also, he's the one who's been giving out bounties on my golems," continued the voice. "So, Insightful Sands, I'm left to wonder why you're so concerned with his welfare."

But then, Peth realized, Zoltun Kulle wasn't "anyone." Zoltun Kulle was a mage of the Ennead, a wizard of the Horadrim, a scholar of magic, a saviour of the world…and one of the evillest men that had ever lived.

He was also the man who appeared before him now in a flash of light, rising from the ground aloft a cloud of sand.

Just like he had at the entrance.

"Hello Wheatley," he sneered. "Had a good nap?"

Peth scrambled back as fear and instinct willed his limbs to move. The golem looked down at him quizzically, though how could you tell, really? The man floating above the ground however…

"Zoltun Kulle?" Peth whispered.

Something flickered in the man's milky-white eyes, though what, Peth couldn't say. Instead, the sorcerer looked at the golem beside him.

"Resolute Smelter has need of your services."

"Query – what kind of services?"

"Query denied. Go."

"…obliging."

Resentment in its voice and gait, the golem nevertheless lumbered off. Or he was imagining it. Peth knew that the bond between a golem and its master could be severed, usually in the event of the master's death, but a golem turning on its master while they were alive? That, he hadn't heard of.

Still, first time for everything…

"You like my stone?" Kulle asked.

Peth looked at him.

"By rocks? By big balls of granite?"

"Um…yes?"

The sorcerer grinned.

"It's your golem?"

"It is, along with a handful of others."

"So you are its creator." Peth got to his feet, and even as the sorcerer loomed over him, he looked straight into Kulle's eyes. "You are Zoltun Kulle."

"Zoltun Kulle," the man whispered. "A name I have heard many times." He turned away from Peth, and began to drift from book to book. "Zoltun Kulle, creator of these golems," he said, as he ran a finger down one spine after another. "Zoltun Kulle, master of this library. Zoltun Kulle, who fashioned life itself out of living sand."

Peth remained silent as he reached for his blade, only to find that it wasn't there.

"Zoltun Kulle," the man said, before he looked at Peth. "That's who you seek, Wheatley?"

"I-"

"Well you're out of luck. Zoltun Kulle is centuries dead, struck down by his brothers, his head and body separated, his fortunes as barren as the desert."

"But…you're…" Peth struggled to find his words. "If Kulle is dead, then you are…?"

"I am Kulle, and Kulle is me. Yet also not. I am the curator of the Library of Zoltun Kulle. I am, therefore, Kulle himself, for I carry his face, and his power, and his mastery." He sighed. "Yet like I said, not. For I am all those things, and none."

Peth stared at the sorcerer blankly.

"Do you follow, Wheatley?"

Peth cleared his throat. "Why do you keep calling me that?"

Truth was, that question was number five (at best) on his list of "questions that need asking." Question one was "what are you going to do to me?", question two was "what are you talking about?", questions three and four were up for grabs in the hierarchy.

But he started small. Chances were he was going to die here, but if so, he wanted as many answers as possible.

"Wheatley?" not-Kulle asked. "Oh, a little joke. A man named Wheatley broke in here with his fellow bandits a week prior. He gave me his name before I broke his bones and fed them to my creator's spawn."

"You…what…golems…?"

"Spawn of a different kind, young Wheatley. Spawn that still runs rampant in this library. Spawn who, I must admit, has its uses."

"Like the ghouls?"

"In a sense, yet also not."

Peth scowled. "You're not one for straight answers, are you?"

"And you, young Wheatley, are not one for asking intelligent questions."

Peth bristled, despite the looming threat of bone-breaking. He could deal with being called Wheatley. He could deal with having a blow to the forehead.

"Don't call me stupid," he whispered.

But he would not, could not, have his intelligence doubted. Not after his years of teaching himself how to read. Of deciphering the ancient writings of Shassar to best serve Tabri.

"Not stupid?" not-Kulle asked.

Peth, even doubting his sanity, shook his head.

"Fascinating," sneered not-Kulle. "You break into my library like a common burglar, alone, barely armed, and don't make it a dozen feet before finding yourself under attack by the walking dead."

Well, when you put it like that…

"Then, when you're in the company of the one who saved you, you poke him like a child might a sleeping jackal." He frowned. "Are you that brave? Or more likely, that stupid?"

Peth knew he wasn't stupid. But it was knowledge that was taking a blow right now.

"And furthermore," not-Kulle whispered, "you are also the person who posted bounties on my golems."

"Excuse me?" How hot things had become all of a sudden. "What are you-"

The man with the face of Zoltun Kulle reached into the shelf and pulled out a piece of parchment, before tossing it in front of Peth. "Read it, Wheatley."

Peth, gingery bending down, did so.

The stone guardians of the library, though crude and simple, seem to be alive. The secret to their creation is lost to time, but still, I find them fascinating. I am curious how much I can learn simply from inspecting their parts. If you encounter any golems, please bring me their sandstone cores.

It wasn't his writing. It wasn't even his parchment. But clearly some adventurer had transcribed it, entered the library, and at best, dropped it. At worst…

At worst, he was looking at the man who'd seen that adventurer's end.

"In case you're wondering," not-Kulle said, "his name wasn't Wheatley."

"Who?"

"The man who had that parchment in his pocket when the imps ate him."

Peth looked around in panic. Books, shelves, two entrances…no sight of demons or monsters, but-

"Be at peace, Wheatley. The monsters that roam these forsaken halls have no entry to my archives."

Peth looked back at not-Kulle. Wishing that he could take more comfort from that knowledge.

Wishing, and not having it granted.

"So," not-Kulle said. "Ask me the question."

Peth, through shallow breath and arid tongue, asked what question.

"The question as to why I shouldn't kill you right now for defiling this library's sanctity," not-Kulle said.

Peth scoffed, despite everything. "You bear the face of a monster, his library is overrun with monsters, and you speak of its sanctity?"

The man slammed his staff against the ground, causing part of it to crack.

"Alright!" Peth cried out. "Why…" He took a breath, knowing it could be his last. "Why shouldn't you kill me?"

Silence lingered in the library. A silence that not all the dust in all the deserts of the world could smother. Dust that was nonetheless present, and entered Peth's nose. Giving him every reason to sneeze.

While he also had every reason not to.

"Why indeed?" Mused not-Kulle. "Why indeed?" He looked down at Peth. "What say you, Wheatley? Why shouldn't I kill you?"

"I…um…"

"One reason, Wheatley. Far more questions wait to be answered than whether you live long enough to understand what those questions even mean."

Peth raised an eyebrow. Was that…yes…maybe…possibly…a lifeline? Maybe. Maybe not. Either not-Kulle had slipped, had given him a hint, or he was just looking for a way out of his inevitable demise.

Either way, he spoke. "I don't think you actually want me dead."

The man with Kulle's face remained silent.

"You saved me from the ghouls. You haven't yet taken my life."

"All true. What of it?"

"I think you're…curious," Peth said, choosing his words carefully. "You wonder why one such as me would enter this library. No doubt you've seen others like me, from bandits, to the Shard-bearer, if they still be alive."

"Oh, they are. Or were. Bilefen is to where I sent them, and on Bilefen, I have no desire to tread."

Peth processed the information quickly. Bilefen? Why Bilefen? That the Shard-bearer was still alive brought his heart some joy, but why Bilefen of all places? That stinking, disease-ridden island that not even pirates bothered with. Well, sane ones at least.

"But enough talk of mutual friends," not-Kulle said. "You're a man of writing rather than words, so why don't I answer for you."

He reached into the shelves and tossed another parchment before Peth. Another one of his bounties that he'd sent to Westmarch, or rather, a copy of it. One that, even as atrocious as the handwriting was, he could still make out.

After the way was opened, Sand Scorpion bandits ventured into the Library of Zoltun Kulle. While some of them pillage the archives, others lay in wait for hapless explorers. These ruffians need to be removed.

How nice, Peth reflected, that mercenaries could master the quill as well as the blade.

"Shall I read it out to you?" Kulle-asked. "The handwriting is atrocious."

Well, Peth reflected, almost as well.

"No? Then I shall ask a question of my own. Why would one man send thugs to retrieve pieces of my golems, while also entreating other thugs to defend my library?"

Peth remained silent. He had a strong suspicion that there was only one right answer. And failing to meet it would give his forehead another meeting with the sorcerer's staff, if not worse.

"Well?" not-Kulle whispered.

Alas, there was no time left to ponder. So Peth, son of Perrin, scholar of the Amber Blades, and not-Wheatley, answered as best he could.

"Knowledge."

The man with the face of Zoltun Kulle just stood there. Well, floated. And while he gripped his staff, it had yet to make contact with any part of Peth's body, so there was that.

"Knowledge," Peth repeated. "The knowledge of this library."

not-Kulle scoffed. "Those bandits were searching for knowledge. Why are you any different?"

"Were they searching for knowledge? Or the wealth that comes from it?"

not-Kulle didn't answer.

"I am a scholar of Shassar," Peth declared. "I was born on these sands, I shall die on them most likely. The woman I serve is a brave warrior, and a canny leader, but I fear…" He paused, to take a breath. Wondering if his words were more for himself, or the man in front of him. "I fear that she is falling into the trap that so many rulers before her have."

"Oh?" Asked the sorcerer, unable (or uncaring) to hide the glee in his voice. "What trap might that be?"

"Power. Fear. She has taken Fahir's staff and declared herself queen. Her banner is raised, her forces march, she calls ever more soldiers to her side."

"A wise choice in war."

"And when the war is over?" Peth asked. "What then? When she has taken Shassar for her own, made herself queen through right of conquest…what then? What will protect her revolution from the next one?" He took a breath, and in low voice, whispered, "what if she doesn't want the war to end?"

The sorcerer could only guess at what Peth meant, and he knew that he could explain until the last star in the sky had disappeared, and still not convey the depth of his unease. Tabri was smart. Skilled. Attractive, to top it off, though as a lowly scholar, he knew better than to even entertain the possibility of sharing her sheets. On the surface, all was well – the Amber Blades were taking Shassar, the Sand Scorpions falling back, the fur of dead lacuni being turned into clothing, but…

But he saw her looking at maps under candlelight. Saw how she gripped Fahir's staff, as if it were her birthright. Heard her speak of great conquests and great works. Saw her looking at maps of lands beyond the desert. That Shassar was still technically part of the empire of Kehjistan made no difference.

"You fear the one you serve," not-Kulle said.

Peth, seeing no point in lying, nodded.

"And so, like a desert rat, you came scurrying in here. Seeking knowledge."

"I did," said Peth. "Knowledge for knowledge's sake. Knowledge that could better this world rather than further damn it."

not-Kulle scoffed. "Better the world. Look around you, Wheatley. At the ruins, and death, and decay. This world is a flawed creation. It cannot be bettered. Men are but maggots surviving on its corpse, while creatures of deluded piety look down on us from above, and creatures of dark strength covet us from below." He looked around the library's interior. As if it were the world itself. "The world cannot be saved. It can only endure, until fire or decay takes it."

"I don't believe that," Peth whispered.

"Do you not?" He looked back at the scholar. "Then why are you here?"

Peth, opening his mouth to speak, realized he had no answer. And given the look in the sorcerer's eyes, it was clear that the man with Kulle's face realized it.

"You remind me of the one whose face I bear," he whispered. "The one named Zoltun Kulle."

"You are not he?"

"Did you not listen, Wheatley? I am Kulle, and Kulle is me?" He scoffed. "Your hood is covering your ears, if not your eyes. Look at me, little man. Do you see the face of a monster?"

"I-"

"Of course you do. Because I bear Kulle's face. I bear witness to his experiments."

"The golems?"

"Aberrations," the man said, with great distaste. "And other creatures." He sighed. "I am a curator. The Curator, as it were – the definitive article. Long centuries have I roamed these halls, watching them fall into ruin. Having no company bar golems and thieves."

He looked down at Peth, as if studying him. In a sense, the scholar realized, he always had been. If this was a test, like the standard ones administered in Caldeum, then it appeared that the last question was about to be answered.

"But you are neither thief nor construct," the Curator murmured. "You are but a mortal man. One weak of flesh, short of light, and…reasonable, intelligence."

Peth, unsure if it was a compliment or an insult, remained silent.

"So, Wheatley," the Curator said. "You seek knowledge? Then knowledge you shall have."

He gestured to the bookshelf beside him. And Peth, for reasons other than fear, felt his heart beat against his chest.

"You…these…books…"

"Is your mind damaged, Wheatley? Or your hearing?"

"I-"

"Oh, to Hells with it. Yes, the archives are yours to read. I don't want you taking out any tomes to your little friends, because if you want your body's atoms to remain cohesive, you're going to help me archive these works, while I deal with the remaining creatures in this library, along with any thieves."

"You…aren't…" Peth took a breath. "You will let me study here?"

"You wish to study the works of my creator, in the hope they will bring good to this world?" The Curator chuckled. "That is your prerogative, Wheatley. Had you entered this library once, I would have struck you down, but having tasted the Shard-bearer's wrath…" He paused, putting a hand to his chest. "Well, one's perception changes. Friendship is to allyship as the quill is to parchment. And in these lonely months, I find myself yearning for…something. Something I doubt my creator intended, but alas, he is never to return to this world. Not until the end of days, when Hell rises, Heaven falls, and mankind's birthright is forever altered."

None of this made any sense to Peth. But he held his tongue. To work in the Library of Zoltun Kulle. All this knowledge, awaiting him…what more could a man ask for?

"But enough chatter," the Curator said. "Come, Wheatley."

Well, he could ask that the Curator use his name, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

Yet.


A/N

The idea for this came from Peth's bounties in Diablo Immortal, and is it just me, or are his motivations contradictory? In one, he asks the player to defend the library from bandits, in another, wants them to destroy golems. Admittedly, the order of the events are iffy (hence why I've kind of merged them together here), but regardless, drabbled this up.