Chapter 33

Teleportation hated Lyndon. It was turning out to be a fact at this point.

After the wonderful meal with Abd al-Hazir, the Archivist placed a smaller book with a strange half-orange-ish, half-blue-ish cover on the ground.

- Let us sleep for a bit – he offered with a half-smile. – After that, we will leave Corvus through my Portalfolio.

- Your what? – Lyndon stared at the book.

- It is yet another greatly useful trick in our arsenal. You'll see – al-Hazir waved as he made himself comfortable in his sleeping bag.

Lyndon glanced at Malthael but the angel did not even twitch from his closed-off pose and ducked head. With the shrug, the scoundrel lied down as well and drifted into a light sleep soon.

A dreamless night was not his due now. Right off the bat, Lyndon had to duck and roll away from a large shape swinging at him.

- WHY YOU?! WHY NOT ME?! – a deep voice roared.

Lyndon thought he saw a strange throne room, with a giant shape towering behind a wide throne occupied by a suit of armor. A giant shape that lunged at him again. The scoundrel jumped back but the ground turned into a stack of papers which he fell through, ending up in a tight dark corridor on his back.

For a brief second, Lyndon saw Quiet crawling through the tight space, the black dagger gleaming in his little hand, his red eyes shone with determination. Lyndon wanted to call out but he blinked and the scene changed.

He was still lying on his back, but now he was in a strangely familiar corridor with dim blue lights, and he was staring at a tall thin shape towering over the sleeping al-Hazir like a vulture. Softly glowing hands slipped out of the long featureless sleeves, fingers curled like talons, ready to break the Archivist's neck with a single twist.

Lyndon lunged forward without thinking.

His brain only later registered that he was no longer sleeping.

With all of his might, the scoundrel crashed into Malthael and knocked him aside. The angel fell onto the ground with a soft grunt, but quickly rolled to the right, dragging Lyndon with him.

- What are you doing, you idiot! – the man shouted, trying to pin his opponent down.

His abnormal strength awoke and rushed to his aid, but it could not save him from the knee he got into his stomach, flinging him to the left. Lyndon kept his hold on the long coat, his back pressing against something uneven and hard. He hissed in pain but readied himself to drag Malthael with him, before the angel could get up.

That strange thing behind him attached itself onto his back with a sucking sound. Lyndon suddenly felt like he was losing the solidity of his body, even though the whole process was painless. He turned around in surprise as best as he could, and he caught a glimpse of what looked like the corner of a smaller book.

The magic activated and spread to Lyndon, and through him, to Malthael. The two of them seemingly warped and twisted and got sucked into the pages.

The last thing Lyndon heard before he sunk into the letters was the alarmed shout of Abd al-Hazir, being jolted out of his sleep and only now realizing what was going on.

The next second he and Malthael were flying across a desolate plain inhabited by letters. It only lasted for a moment, though, and suddenly Lyndon was normal size and shape again, flying slightly upwards then falling back and crashing into snow with a curse. Considering from the sounds, Malthael had a similar fate.

Cold flooded his body and Lyndon jumped to his feet with a screech, hands flying to sweep off the snow from his coat. It got into his collar, his belt and his boots, and the stinging wind did not help matters. Bundling himself up as best as he could, he looked around, beholding an endless pine forest of snow, ice and pretty much nothing else.

- What the fuck?! – Lyndon shouted, his coat barely helping anything against the terrible cold.

- Witless demonspawn!– Malthael hissed, clearly not bothered by the weather as he pushed himself up from the ground as well. – Always meddling. That is all you are good for!

- What the hell is wrong with you, seriously?! – Lyndon whipped his head at the angel. – Hazir did nothing wrong to you! Yet you just try to kill him in the middle of the night, you backstabbing freak!?

- It is the middle of the day.

Lyndon unsheathed his dagger and charged it with his power, pointing it at Malthael.

- One more of this… – he hissed with venom.

- And what? You shall kill me? – came the almost mocking reply.

Lyndon realized he might have to comply with this bastard's wishes afterall, just to keep everyone else safe around him. He glared at his unwanted companion but the angel did not twitch.

Suddenly, the scoundrel sneezed loudly, doubling over and almost dropping his weapon. The sound echoed among the trees, carried far away by the wind.

A deep roar answered it.

- Aw fucking hell – Lyndon sniffled, wiping his nose into his sleeve.

Malthael was staring behind the scoundrel for a few seconds.

- Run – he suggested then.

Lyndon turned around, trying to follow the angel's invisible gaze. He thought he saw something huge and wide lumbering towards them in the distance, its silhouette barely visible against the snowy haze of the wind.

The scoundrel did not wish to wait and find out what that thing was, he began running in the ankle-deep snow in the opposite direction, leaving behind the small orange-blue book they just fell out of, hanging in a net from a tree branch. Malthael followed him without a word. The two of them darted among trees, dodging branches, fallen trunks and stones, as more and more creatures roared around them, announcing their deep interest in the new guests.

Lyndon had no idea where exactly they were, only that it must have been the Dreadlands. The characteristically dense pine forest, packed full of beasts, was a clear indication of that.

Just the most perfect place to land without any winter clothing or equipment. With a stab of fear, Lyndon realized his backpack and crossbow all remained in Corvus. All he had was that barely useful dagger, some blinding powder, his three good luck tokens (why weren't they working now?!), his trusty flint and firesteel and that strange coin Luther had left for him weeks ago.

- Again?! – he shouted helplessly at the loss of his shiny beautiful crossbow.

Daring Fate to try and separate them had not been a good idea.

It looked like the beasts of the forest had little to eat these days, because their silhouettes –wolves, giant bear-like monstrosities and snow bugs– refused to leave from the corner of Lyndon's eye.

- Your world is the worst, demonspawn – Malthael grumbled, not being nearly as urgent or terrified as he should have been.

- Don't you fucking start on me now!

- It is but a fact.

- I said shut up!

- Lashing out at the harsh truth won't make it go away – Malthael echoed the scoundrel's words back to him with an almost noticeable glee in his bland voice.

Pursuing beasts or not, Lyndon seriously considered stopping and just burying Malthael alive for that comment alone. It would have been worth it from a certain standpoint.

Instead, he chose his own life and kept on running. That is, until he tripped on some stone hidden beneath the snow and fell face first into the solid ground, rolling down a smaller hill and bruising himself on rocks. With a painful smack, that cut his stream of curses short, his back collided with a strangely cubic-shaped stone, his head in the snow and legs dangling in the air.

Cracking one eye open, Lyndon hissed at the dull pain in his body, but thankfully this time he could move on his own. With a painful groan he slowly stood back up, squinting through the snow. Malthael was descending on the slope he rolled down on, the beasts – a wolf pack and a giant white Yeti – just behind him. Lyndon staggered, looking for an escape. His eyes caught a fissure-like opening in a cliff not far from him.

- That way! – he shouted to Malthael and darted for the cave.

Nearing it, the cliff turned out to be a wall made out of just the most enormous slabs of stone. The fissure had opened up by the weather battering it, but it was wide enough for Lyndon and Malthael to throw themselves inside. The pursuing animals stopped, barking and roaring in helplessly anger but they refused to draw closer to the opening.

Lyndon scuttled up onto a smaller pile of rocks against the wall and let out a shaky breath, his body shivering violently. Even Malthael looked a bit rattled, his simple coat ravaged by the forest and covered in powdered snow.

- As I have said. Your world is just the worst.

Lyndon gulped down the air, not really finding the strength to argue about that right there and then.

oooOOOooo

Sescheron.

Of all the places in Sanctuary they could have ended up in, it had to be the ruins of the barbarian stronghold, Sescheron.

- You guys are okay with this?! – Lyndon hissed, glancing at the ceiling, his words aimed at the gods of Sanctuary.

If they heard him, they sure as hell did not show it. The scoundrel figured it was difficult to talk when they were no doubt stuffing their mouths with roasted seeds and honey-covered bread, enjoying the show they were receiving.

- Life is unfair – Lyndon grumbled.

- I have experienced that as well.

- Shut up! You deserved that rejection and you damn well know it!

- Your insistence to claim that you understand anything at all is almost amusing, demonspawn.

Lyndon had thought that Sescheron had been bad during his first visit here, by Johanna's side. He had to realize that this current visit, equipped with literally nothing but a worthless pain-in-the-ass angel far outdid that one.

The fortress did not change since last time. It was still cold as an ice cave, full of dust, ruins, skeletons of the old defenders, blown out candles and still very much active and working traps. It had kept the vile aura as well, which scared the normal beasts away, and which had belonged to Baal once, Lyndon assumed. This of course meant that monsters touched by demonic influence were drawn here.

- I hate this place – Lyndon shuddered, slightly drawing deeper into the bowels of the fortress.

He sneezed again as he walked slowly, the hated feeling of sickness creeping in his throat and lungs.

- Just perfect – he sniffled. – Now what?!

- You could kill me, then die silently here – Malthael suggested behind him.

- Yeah, forget it.

- It is clearly a resting place for demonspawns like you.

- It was a fortress. It stood and fell against Baal twenty years ago, to protect Mount Arreat.

- Quite futile for your kind to deny the Lord of Destruction.

- We denied Azmodan with a rundown fortress and we won in the end – Lyndon spat in his direction.

- In time for the Prime Evil to be born out of your wretched species.

- The Prime Evil which you let loose upon Creation once again, including your own people, you mean?!

This finally silenced Malthael. The angel ducked his head, falling behind slightly, allowing Lyndon an opportunity to think things through.

At least, as much as he could do with his slightly buzzing mind.

However the hell the Portalfolio worked, it somehow got activated during their scuffle and it transported them to Sescheron. Now Lyndon was stuck here alone (Malthael did not count), with literally nothing to keep him safe or warm here. He would have to teleport a long distance to get away from here… which no doubt would result in his fainting for at least a day, if that last time with the sea battle was any indication.

Well… leaving Malthael in this godforsaken place didn't sound all that bad of an idea. There was nothing and no one here he could endanger in any way. Then again… it was a bit of an open place, and the fallen angel could just walk out of here like nobody's business. Unlike humans, he wasn't bothered by the cold, and simple beasts were clearly no match for his angelic strength.

Lyndon was torn over what to do, and he quickly realized he felt far too tired to decide, or to even think about teleportation. The buzzing in his head steadily rose, and his body was violently shivering.

I have a fever, don't I, Lyndon thought weakly, not even possessing the strength to get worked up by it.

He stumbled out of the tight hidden corridor into some kind of huge dining hall, with wrecked tables and chairs all around. The ceiling had a hole in it, snow drifted inside peacefully. In one of its end, just before the main entrance, a bladed pendulum was swinging about lazily. Left right left right left right…

Lyndon stumbled as the ground began to slide out from under him and he had to regain his footing.

- I need to take a break – he mumbled to himself.

- You just slept, sloth – Malthael retorted, trudging behind him like a very unwanted hound.

- Screw you, I need to sleep more than you do!

- You will freeze to death.

- Why do you care?!

Malthael only glared at him, and it took a couple of seconds for Lyndon's sluggish brain to come up with the answer.

- Heh – he snorted with glee then. – Wouldn't that just suck for you? You're lucky I want to stay alive, so I can find Quiet again.

- Your obsession with the abomination is unhealthy.

- So was yours with human souls. At least my "addiction" doesn't cost the lives of thousands.

- Only those in that manor.

Lyndon stopped, staring forward emptily.

The guards, slaughtered like pigs, because he hadn't seen the signs.

- I fucking hate you – he hissed between his teeth finally, still staring before himself.

- Mutual.

Lyndon took another step… and the ground promptly slipped out from under his feet. Whether it was a spot of ice or his numbing mind, hard to tell, but he fell forward, barely being able to grab a table's edge for support. Splinters sank into his skin and he snorted in pain, but couldn't move his strained leg effectively. Malthael dragged him up, cursing in angelic again.

- Stop – he boomed.

- I need to sleep – Lyndon mumbled, exhaustion rapidly conquering him.

- Do not sleep!

- 'm sleeping – the scoundrel managed to announce before his head lulled and his eyes closed.

oooOOOooo

Choosing this witless nephalem as his personal executioner was probably the worst decision he has ever made in his immortal life.

Malthael was beginning to suspect that he would have been much much better off with staying in the underground ruins for a good millennia or so, without moving a single muscle. Or perhaps actually let those blood red beasts kill him. Anything, but hauling around this mortal, who was apparently absolutely incapable of surviving, so that Malthael might get the chance of pushing him past his snapping point.

As the angel dragged this useless baggage of flesh around, trying to find a spot to lay him down, he thought about simply leaving the demonspawn behind and set out in the world. Surely he would find another nephalem somewhere! Someone who would be capable of actually killing him and sending his soul back to the Arch.

… Would he?

Malthael grunted as he set the sleeping human down onto a torn rug on the ground, before a fireplace that still held a few logs in it. Thinking back to his peak, outside of Westmarch his forces hadn't really encountered much resistance in Sanctuary. A few nephalem heroes surfaced, including the nigh-useless group that "stole" the Black Soulstone from the Heavens, but that had been mostly it. It was clear that despite the twenty years since the Worldstone's shocking destruction, humanity found its roots abysmally slowly.

The odds of Malthael running into an actual nephalem who knew what he was, what the angel did, and possessed the strength to kill him was very low. He cursed his fate, as he realized that he had to stay with the demonspawn. This idiot had a personal connection to Malthael, a possible emotional motive to finally end it. He had to exploit that!

Resigning to his lot in life, Malthael tore off a wall-carpet nearby and covered the demonspawn with it, partially bundling him up. Just out of habit, he read the now hazy and sick mind, and found a most interesting detail that surfaced just now.

The demonspawn had a brother. A brother who had been caught and ultimately killed because of a grave mistake. And the demonspawn blamed himself for it.

Malthael felt excitement filling him. Yes, this was it! This seething self-loathing, guilt and despair was the perfect mixture! With this he would push this damnable nephalem past the snapping point, all he had to do was force him to come face to face with it and—

"The Black Soulstone must remain in the High Heavens, Balzael."

Malthael froze.

"Let its blight spread and cover everything. It shall force my siblings to act finally."

"What of its lingering effects?"

"Irrelevant. Let it work. Let my siblings fall under its sway."

Malthael violently struck this memory away from himself.

Irrelevant.

Irrelevant! It mattered not! Why did it even appear in the first place?! Malthael did not ask for it!

"It's too slow."

Stop.

"Tyrael had been cast out of the Council but the others still refuse to act. It needs more time."

Stop!

"Useless… all of them! Slow, indecisive, worthless… There has to be a more effective way…"

Malthael's fist crashed into the wall before him, leaving a crater in the stone, and a throbbing pain in his hand. He withdrew his limb with a labored breath, the soreness temporarily driving the unwanted thoughts away.

Numbly, he let go of the demonspawn's memory of his brother.

To busy himself, he turned to the fireplace. Perhaps a bit of heat would help this idiotic human survive. Malthael reached out over the logs, willing them to burst out in flames.

Nothing happened. He tried again, focusing harder. Weak sparks sputtered from his fingers but no result. Sharp rage burst into his chest and he forcefully grabbed the logs. Magic finally surfaced in him and it raced into the pieces of wood.

… Covering them in a thin layer of frost.

Malthael jerked his hands away, battling to keep his fury down. He would achieve nothing with raging. He needed fire and he needed that damnable thing now!

Recalling how the demonspawn had made camp with that scholar in the ruins, the angel pulled the wall-rug aside and searched the many pockets in the coat. He found three useless items, a small golden dime that had a demon's profile on it, a weird bag with some kind of powder in it, and finally the flint and firesteel. Then he walked up to one of the ruined tables and quickly broke it into pieces. Throwing away the now frozen logs, he filled the fireplace with the table parts instead, and after a couple of tries, he had managed to start a small fire. Finally, he nudged the useless demonspawn closer to the heat, then wandered off, looking for something in this forsaken place to kill some time with.

Avoiding the pendulum from a safe distance, Malthael began to scour the hall out of boredom. He skimmed through all manners of trash heaps, broken furniture, useless weapons, frozen skeletons of the dead. Everyone seemed to have died fighting some kind of menace, perhaps Baal's wretched minions. The many dark spots, remnants of demonic blood pools were a great testament to this.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Except for…

Malthael stared at the golden plate on the nearby table. It was covered in blood, yes, but rather fresh, barely dried blood. As he finally paid attention and stared at the floor, he saw wide human footprints in the thick layer of dust and snow, and a few droplets of blood following the track.

Someone was still living here.

Well… hells.

Malthael grumbled, cursing every living being and wishing that may the Arch give them a malformed body upon their next rebirth (he also recognized that it was a completely pointless curse here on Sanctuary). Stomping back to the deeply sleeping demonspawn, he reached down and shook the mortal by the shoulders.

- Wake up – he rumbled.

Of course the idiot only mumbled something and turned his head in the other direction, forehead shimmering with sweat.

- Wake up, spawn of Hell!

Mumbling again. This would get him nowhere.

Just as Malthael was about to simply grab and haul the demonspawn onto his shoulders and just drag him along, a strange sound reached his ears. Snapping to attention, Malthael immediately placed himself before the sleeping demonspawn, eyes darting to the hole in the ceiling. It almost sounded like a book being unnaturally rapidly flipped through, pages turning at a hair-rising speed.

Wait… a book?

From the ceiling's opening, the strangest shape descended: a man, dangling from a short chain with a handle, which was attached to a book that was open and rapidly flipping its pages, a shimmering word occasionally breaking free and floating away.

- Demonspawn – Malthael huffed, taking up a less threatening stance.

- Oh, thank goodness I have found you two! – Abd al-Hazir exclaimed happily, dangling from his book with all the grace of a coconut.

The strange device eventually descended and the demonspawn landed on the cold floor, taking his tome and shrinking it again onto his clothing. He had his own bag by his side, as well as the nephalem's backpack on his shoulders.

- It was a challenge to figure out where the Portalfolio had sent you two! – he explained rapidly, rushing there. – I had to use another one, because this one was overheated, then I had to use my Flutter Tome to fly above the area and scan it. I was beginning to worry it would run out of words and I'd be forced to—

- The spawn of Hell is sick. Heal him – Malthael interrupted, frustrated.

- Wha—? What spawn, where? – the witless man stared up at him blankly.

- This spawn! – Malthael hissed, pointing forcefully at the mortal behind him. – Heal him!

- Oh dear! – the scholar demonspawn jumped there, crouching down. – His name is Lyndon, you know.

- Irrelevant.

- I am sure names are important even for angels.

- Heal him, damn you!

- Okay, okay, okay! Dear gods, you are a grumpy one.

Why did he have to end up with these brainless mortals, Malthael asked bitterly. At least the scholar demonspawn finally got to work. The angel withdrew a little. His healing magic was for physical injuries and angelic sicknesses. Mortal ailments were outside his expertise. The best he could do was keep watch and—

Notice the dark, humanoid shapes beyond the hall's door, drawing closer and brandishing weapons.

- We need to fight – Malthael announced in a grave tone.

The scholar demonspawn turned around, staring at the shape as well.

- I was afraid they would show up – he breathed nervously, fingers dancing among his many small books.

- Demons?

- Worse. The Unclean.

Three muscular men burst into the hall with ear-splitting battlecries.


You don't fuck with brotherly memories. You just don't.

I seriously need to get my ass to finish Act V and rush into Sescheron for research purposes. Been a good while since I last set foot into that kickass place.

And, just to show how little of an impact Diablo 2 had left, I actually thought that Sescheron (the fortress you see in the cinematic) and Harrogath (the fortress you start out in) are the same place. I literally needed to read through five goddamn pages of Diablo Wiki to get this shit straight in my head. It's ridiculous, this "story telling"…

Forward, cupcakes! Let's have some kickass Archivist action!

Lore & Trivia Corner

- YES, THE PORTALFOLIO IS ORANGE-BLUE, YOU READ THAT CORRECTLY AND YOU CANNOT STOP ME! You think I would leave out the OBVIOUS thing when it comes to portals? Ha! Never!

- Flutter Tome is once again an ability I have come up with for Archivists. No canonical roots, whatsoever.