Author's Note: Because of the sheer size of the world of Diablo, I'm going to be skipping or rearranging certain events in order to keep from making this into a 100+ chapter encyclopedia! I hope you all enjoy it, and I'd like to thank every one of you for your amazing support. Those who have followed and favorited are greatly appreciated, and I'd especially like to thank the following fine people:

StellarWing, Streifen0-1, Auriel, Ahab88, and agd888, thank you so much for following this story and giving me the feedback you have through your reviews. Your words inspire me to keep going, and to do more and more with each chapter. I can't overstate what it means to me to read your reviews. Thank you so very much! This one is for you. :)

6

The Survivors

"I will not tell you not to cry, child. Cry as you must, when you must; no more, no less. Our grief is the very purest kind of looking glass. Grief, more than any other emotion, reveals who you truly are. The question is, can you accept that person? When your answer is 'yes', the tears will stop."

- Li Xia

Deckard Cain's hand was ink-stained and gnarled like an old, cold claw. It was a fragile hand, and Iona did not let go until she spotted Leah by the Slaughtered Calf Inn. She heard the elderly man draw a deep, relieved breath, and almost felt the weight of worry slipping from his shoulders as they walked toward her through the smoke.

Leah turned and brought her hands to her mouth, tears seeping from her large, childlike eyes. "Uncle!" she cried, hopping in place and smiling brilliantly. "You're alive!"

Cain put his arms around her, drawing her head to his narrow chest and rubbing his cheek against her short brown hair. "Yes…thanks to our friend. I'm told you put her up to it, dear child. I am forever grateful to you both."

"I knew you were alive," Leah laughed, squeezing him tightly. Her tears fell in dark streaks over his robe. "I knew it."

Iona smiled, stepping back to give their reunion the privacy it deserved. She recognized very clearly the bond between two people who had no one else in the world to care for them. They were alone but for each other. She eyed the lucky charm in Leah's hair and bowed her head.

Thank you…

Li Xia had once told her that whatever you lose always comes back to you in another form. As she watched the old man and his ward, she felt the truth of those words. Leah looked so much like Isla with that charm; she could almost have sworn it was the same as the one Isla liked best.

I will watch over her, Iona vowed with a small sense of foreboding. I will protect Leah and all she holds dear until fate takes her from my path.

"Iona!" Leah was beckoning to her while Cain fished through his pockets. He drew out a tattered bit of parchment as Iona came to stand beside them.

"Oh, Iona, I…" Leah took Iona's hands in hers and beamed. "Thank you so much. I can't tell you how much what you did for Uncle Deckard and me means. I can't thank you enough. You risked your life, and I don't know how we can repay you."

"I have an idea about that," Cain said shrewdly. "This young lady is chasing the Star. Aren't you, my dear?"

"I am. But I do not know how I shall reach it, now. That abomination is blocking my path," Iona replied, cursing the Skeleton King in her mind. "What do you know of the nature of the monster that chased you? It said that the power of the Star awakened it."

"It did, indeed." Cain held out the parchment piece and pointed to it, holding it out for Leah to look at. "You see, Leah? It is all happening, just as the prophecy foretold. The creature we saw was the Skeleton King, the cursed spirit of King Leoric, who once ruled these lands. During the Darkening of Tristram twenty years ago, his spirit served Diablo, Lord of Terror, until he was finally slain by his eldest son, Prince Aidan. Of course, he was not always evil. In life, he defied Diablo. Before he was corrupted, he was chosen to rule over Khanduras, and his reign was wise and fair. But over time, he became bent and twisted, even as he worked to resist Diablo's influence. He ordered the torture and executions of hundreds of his subjects, including his own wife, fearing conspiracy. One of his most faithful men struck him down, and his tormented spirit rose up to become the Skeleton King, a slave of Diablo. The rest is, as they say, history. Until now."

"That is disquieting. Why would the Star reanimate him?" Iona asked. "I have felt its power; it is not evil."

"It is strange," Cain agreed, nodding. "Yes, most strange… I believe it is all part of something larger, something much more serious than the troubles in New Tristram. The location, by which I mean the last known resting place of the soul of Diablo, is telling. I believe this truly is the beginning of the End Times. There is a prophecy…"

"Please, Uncle," Leah groaned. "Not another one of your stories…"

"Leah, do you not believe the evidence of your eyes? The dead have risen! This is one of the signs. The Star was the beginning. It is an omen, the first of many. It is written: And at the end of days, the first sign shall appear in the heavens."

"Uncle—"

Iona silenced Leah's objection with a quick shake of her head. "What does the full prophecy say?"

Cain's eyes grew very serious as he gazed into the flames of the corpses around them. He began to recite slowly and clearly:

"…And at the End of Days, Wisdom shall be lost

as Justice falls upon the world of men.

Valor shall turn to Wrath—

and all Hope will be swallowed by Despair.

Death, at last, shall spread its wings over all—

as Fate lies shattered forever."

He sighed and looked at his niece. "All that we have spent the last thirteen years searching for has led us here. …Home. To see the birth of the End. And to stop it."

"You come from Tristram?" Iona asked, surprised. That made them kinsmen, after a fashion. The nearest village to Tristram had been Dunvale, when it still existed.

"Old Tristram, yes." His face darkened. "I was a fool for a very long time. My ancestor was Jered Cain, one of the first of the Horadrim, tasked by the Archangel Tyrael to safeguard the world against the influences of the lords of Hell. But I…dismissed what I was taught by my mother as mere stories. Had I opened my eyes to the truth sooner, many lives might have been saved. I could have stopped the atrocities the lords of Hell wrought upon the world. But I came to my senses far too late. To make up for my mistakes, I have been traveling the world, collecting ancient writings and searching through libraries, monasteries, universities, even caves, for fragments of prophecy that might help me to solve the riddle of the prophecy of the End Days. We must not let the world die because we are too conceited to search for truth."

"Is it a riddle?"

Cain smiled. "All prophecies are. But only because our minds try to make them more complicated than they truly are. It may be that this prophecy is to be taken completely at face value. The only trouble is that we do not know what these aspects—justice, wisdom, hope—refer to in the mind of the composer. This may all be quite literal."

"Impossible," Leah said irritably. "It's a poem, Uncle. Justice falling upon the world of men—it must mean we're being judged in some way. It's an apocalypse prophecy about an angry god. That, or…or just really bad poetry someone thought up a long time ago. A lot of the stuff we've been finding is from ancient times, when the first really organized religions were springing up, Uncle. They probably wanted to scare the people into embracing faith so they'd convert."

"I would pray that you are right, my child, but I know that it is not so." Cain gave her hand a gentle squeeze and peered up at the stoic demon hunter. Her face was a smooth wall of calm solemnity, but he had lived long enough to recognize turmoil in a soul when he saw it. "Iona, why do you seek the Star?"

"I was given instructions to do so," Iona answered, gazing hungrily toward the Cathedral. "My mentor, Li Xia of Xiansai, told me that I must find it."

"Did Li Xia tell you what to do with it?"

"No. She simply said that with it, I would find the truth."

Cain's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Very wise. I know of this woman. She is a great warrior, though I'd wager she does not fight her wars with weapons anymore." He chuckled. "She must be nearly as old as I am, now."

"You've met her?" Iona's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, but Cain did not miss it.

"You must love her very much," he observed kindly, and Iona suddenly became very interested in the grass at his feet. "Don't be bashful, child. I knew her, yes. It must have been, oh, fifty years ago… I was in Xiansai when I met the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen in my life. Beautiful, but dangerous, and totally consumed by her mission. Of course, in my youth, that was the sort of woman I preferred. I was headstrong, then, and Li Xia allowed me to make a fool of myself, truth be told. She was rather like you, Iona. Much of her has been passed to you during the course of your training. That is good. One does not live so long in your profession without the sort of wisdom and skill the great Li Xia possesses. She must be very proud of you. And she is absolutely right—you must find the Star, Iona."

"I will have to contend with the Skeleton King in order to reach it," Iona said, lifting her gaze and hiding her delicate flush by pulling her hood over her head. She was not accustomed to such high praise, particularly from a respectable elder. And he had known Li Xia…. "You spoke of maps…is there a passage that might lead me to his resting place?"

"Of course. The door was on your right when you came to my rescue. But you cannot open it without Leoric's crown. Only that relic can unseal the door. After that, you need only fight your way to the Star. There are no other boundaries. Speak with the blacksmith, Haedrig Eamon. He can tell you how to obtain the crown." He hesitated, peering owlishly into the shadowed face beneath the huntress' hood. "Do take care, Iona. We cannot lose you. When I told you that you are special, I meant it. We need you."

Iona bowed respectfully, then threw out an arm to snap her cloak out of her way as she turned to leave.

"I will not fail you, Cain."

Perhaps a discussion about the crown might distract the blacksmith from his troubles for a few moments. A single moment of purpose could be enough to pull a man back from the edge of despair. She only hoped she was not too late. The mayor's wagon had been rolled out of the way of the road, but the man himself still stood beside it, wringing his hands.

"They've stopped coming," he called out to her as she passed. "You've been out there…now is the time for those of us who aren't sick to run, isn't it?"

She stopped, letting her hood fall back as she looked over her shoulder at him. On her face was a dark smile. "Absolutely. If you want to be eaten by the stragglers. I'm sure you could manage to feed at least three of them before the real men finish hunting them down."

He blanched, and she winked at him and went on her way, her smile melting into a grimace of disgust. She wanted to put a weapon in his hand and toss him outside the walls. Farmer Rumford had managed admirably, and there was no reason to expect less from any healthy man. Or woman.

The tall, bulky blacksmith was easy to spot, though he was slumped over in exhaustion on the other side of the mayor's cart. Iona approached him cautiously, kneeling on the ground beside him. "Blacksmith? …Haedrig, are you all right?"

"Fine." The word was a hollow, lifeless lie. He did not even look at her. His eyes were fixed on a pair of cellar doors nearby. Iona felt her brow wrinkle. She is in there… But the doors were not locked, and that was a good sign. His wife was still alive, and there was still hope. "What do you want?" he rumbled.

"Leoric's crown," Iona said softly. "I need it in order to gain access to the lower Cathedral and put an end to all of this. Deckard Cain told me you might know how to find it."

The blacksmith gave a short, pain-laced bark of a laugh. "Of course he did. Well, I'll tell you what I told the other bloke. My grandfather was Chancellor during Leoric's reign. The crown was buried with him in the Weeping Hollow."

Iona was startled. "Who asked you about the crown before I did?"

"Shifty sort of man," he grunted. "Handsome, over-confidant. An adventurer like you, I assume. Follow him, kill him, do what you will. I'm not the keeper of Tristram. I can't even keep my own wife safe. Damn thing is probably broken, anyway, so it won't be worth anything on the black market. I didn't bother to tell him."

Iona closed her eyes with an inward sigh. She would have to track this fool down, now. She had hoped to be able to do more for the blacksmith, but it would have to wait, before the "adventurer" made off with the crown. "I'm sorry. I will come back and do whatever I can for your wife in return for the aid you have given me." She gripped his big hand firmly and looked him in the eye. "She still lives, and so you must live. Hold on. Remember your strength. You must carry enough for two."

His eyes cleared slightly, and he nodded.

"I will give that 'adventurer' a good kick to the nethers for leaving you like this when I find him," she added, releasing his hand and standing. "He's giving us all a bad name."

The blacksmith smiled a little. "You do that, lass. I…I know what you've done for the town." He paused, wrinkling his brow. "Now that I think on it, he did mention his name. I think it was…Lyndon? Aye, Lyndon…. Had a Kingsport accent you could hear a mile off, too."

"Thank you, Haedrig. I will remember to call him by his name when I beat him senseless. Take care until I see you again. We will all need your skill with the hammer soon, if the crown is broken."

"It would be good to work again," Haedrig said slowly. "Go on, now. I'll live. Good luck, lass."

They smiled at one another, and Iona departed.

As a hunter of demons, Iona knew that one's prey nearly always left something behind, no matter how far ahead he was. In Lyndon's case, it was gossip. He was very popular with the women of Tristram, and they brightened and flushed when Iona asked them about him. The men either never noticed him or refused to have anything to do with him.

"I don't know that he's that bad," Rumford told her. "I heard he's to marry the miller's daughter. Not that the miller knows a thing about it, of course." He shook his head. "Thank Akarat I'm not a married man, yet. The risen dead, I can handle. Raising daughters…I wouldn't know what to do."

Iona had therefore gone straight to the Old Mill. If she could find no news of Lyndon there, she would go to the Weeping Hollow and search for his corpse.

A light, misting rain had begun to fall when she reached the path to the mill. She swept the area and dispatched the few remaining undead, running at an easy pace and shooting as she went. Her cheeks were bright with color and her hair was dewed with rain. Her breaths came in foggy clouds as she slowed to a halt. In the center of the path stood a good-looking man with his hands bound behind his back. He ran toward her, eyes wide with panic.

"You've got to help me!" he cried. "Thieves are going to hurt my friend and I can't get to her with my hands tied like this. Release me, please!"

Iona was already alert, having heard the sounds of struggle moments before she saw the man. She sliced through the ropes around his wrists with her knife.

"Where?" she asked tersely.

He pointed shakily to the mill, and she ran in that direction, vaulting over the gate to the property. Four men surrounded a young woman, probably the miller's daughter.

"We know he gave it to you. Now cough it up before we slit your pretty throat," one of them hissed.

"Never!" she said passionately, bringing her hands to her generous bosom. "My beloved will save me, and you'll all be sorry! You'll leave before he gets here if you know what's good for you!"

The men exchanged exasperated glances.

"Right. We gave you a chance—"

"Leave her alone!" Iona snarled, grabbing the man who was speaking and shoving him into one of his fellows. The two were taken by surprise, so they landed in a heap in the mud. They cursed and sputtered, glaring at her in utter disbelief.

The largest of the men looked her up and down. "Just who in the Burning Hells are you?"

Iona rounded on him. "That is not your concern. Your concern is your continued breathing. You should attend to it." She drew an explosive grenade from her pouch and held it up for him to see. "Now. Let this woman be. Leave at once and do not come back."

"I don't believe it. You actually believe what that scoundrel told you, do you? Think you're on a rescue mission? This girl has a relic that doesn't belong to her and we've come to appropriate it. Ain't that right, Nigel?" he added, looking over Iona's shoulder.

"Aye," Nigel agreed, stepping out of the shadows. He was enormous. Iona had no idea how she could have possibly missed him. "Back off, little girl. This is Thieves' Guild business."

"And this is a grenade," Iona said. "I don't want to kill you, but if you do not leave this girl unmolested, I will do what I must to keep her safe. I am not interested in your explanations."

"Oho, you are a fireball. I'd love to get a look under that cloak before we cut out that quick tongue of yours," Nigel purred, moving closer.

Iona smiled. "I thought you would never ask."

She reached for the fastenings of her cloak with her free hand and ripped the whole garment away, revealing her body armor and the arsenal of weapons strapped to it. Nigel balked, and the other thieves backed away in shock.

"Who are you?" he demanded, drawing a wicked knife from his boot.

In the space of two heartbeats, Iona's crossbow was pressed against his temple. "I'm armed, Nigel," she whispered through her teeth. "The pleasure is all mine."

She squeezed the trigger.

Nigel's jaw dropped. His eyes rolled upward as if to examine the narrow tunnel the bolt had made as it passed through his brain. He raised his hand slightly, dropped to his knees, and then fell face-first into the mud. The miller's daughter screamed, clapping her hands over her mouth, and the remaining four thieves roared in outrage. Iona turned. As one, they rushed her. The demon hunter swept Nigel's knife from his limp hand, putting the force of her turning body into her throw as she straightened again. The knife was well-crafted. It flew true, burying itself in the throat of the nearest man. He clutched at it, gagging, and collapsed.

The three survivors surrounded her. Iona slipped her grenade back into its pouch. It had been a bluff; she couldn't use it without endangering the girl. She holstered her crossbow, too, eyeing the men warily. They were too close. If she shot one, the other two would be on her in an instant. Her dark powers were useless, as well. She could not summon real hatred for these men. They were not demons. They were only scum.

She danced out of the circle, forcing them to regroup, maneuvering until they were more or less in a clumsy line, in each other's way. The closest one dove at her, and she kicked out hard and high, driving the heel of her boot into his chest. He flailed, and one of his brothers shoved him roughly out of the way. Iona took the opportunity to deliver a tooth-rattling kick to this next man's groin, and when he doubled over invitingly, she accepted and slammed a knee into his face. She felt his nose break, dropped, and swept his feet out from under him. The third man tripped over his body and lost his balance, but the man she had kicked first was coming for her again. Staying low, she drove her boot into the side of his knee as hard as she could and was rewarded by a scream and a horrible crunching sound as his leg bowed outward.

The men lay on the ground, moaning and nursing their injuries. Iona pulled out her handbows once more, taking aim. "Now that you know who I am, I suggest you take my earlier offer. Leave, and do not come back….or die here in the dirt like the dogs you are."

She felt a surge of relief when two of the thieves staggered to their feet, half-carrying and half-dragging the groaning man with the broken knee between them. She did not like to kill human beings if she could help it. That was not what she had been trained for, and it was not what she lived for. She was a protector, not a butcher.

I am not a murderer, she told herself firmly. I'm not. I do what is necessary. No more.

"This isn't over," the least injured man rasped, casting a baleful glare in her direction. "The Thieves' Guild will find you."

"Will they? Well, let us hope they behave with more civility than poor Nigel did." Iona ripped Nigel's blade out of his dead comrade's throat and tossed it at their feet. "That is a fine blade. Take it with you. Unlike you, I am no thief."

He spat bitterly and helped the other two along as they made their way off the miller's land.

"He's right, you know."

Iona spun. The man she had freed was approaching from the road, gazing at her with both admiration and calculation. Her eyes narrowed. His dark, glossy hair was pulled away from his face, which was very handsome in a rugged, roguish sort of way. The miller's daughter gasped.

"Oh, my love! You came for me!" she gushed, running into his arms. "I didn't give them anything. The relic is here, safe and sound. Father is beginning to become suspicious of us…but that won't matter once we're married," she said rapturously, handing him something in a burlap bag.

"Yes, of course." The bag vanished into a pocket in his roadworn coat. "Soon, we'll have a wonderful life tilling fields and raising brats—er, children…but first, I have to sell the relic you hid for me. You, there," he said to Iona, smiling disarmingly. "You seem like you might know a lot about markets. Let's share the road a while."

"Let's," Iona said warily. …Lyndon. A rake and a scoundrel. I might have known.

Lyndon kissed the miller's daughter goodbye, then jogged to Iona's side as she finished refastening her cloak.

He opened the burlap sack eagerly once they were out of the girl's sight. His face fell. "The damn thing is a fake! Gods, I should have known!" He tossed it aside disgustedly. "I can't wait to put as much distance between myself and this bog as possible."

"But what about your betrothed?" Iona asked incredulously, staring at him.

"Betrothed?" he scoffed. "Do I look like the marrying type to you? Leaving them alive was a mistake by the way," he continued breezily. "They'll be back. Your work was inspiring, but letting them go…" He shook his head. "Sloppy, my friend. They will kill the miller and his daughter if they survive to carry word to the Guild."

Iona stopped, frowning. He was right. However much she hated it, there was no choice in the matter. She turned, peering into the distance. The thugs had not made it very far. In all likelihood, they would be killed before they reached the city. But that was a chance she was not willing to take.

She reached into her cloak and drew out the grenade again. After a moment of thought, she uncapped its safety mechanism. Lyndon took several startled steps back, but Iona ignored him, walking toward the hobbling thieves with long, purposeful strides. With one foot behind her for balance, she lifted her front leg and leaned backward slightly, raising her arm. As she brought her foot down again, she lobbed the grenade at them with all of her strength. It made a graceful arc through the grey sky. Lyndon's eyes followed it as Iona walked back to him. The explosion was deafening, and a sudden gust blew Iona's black hair around her expressionless face. Flecks of grit flew into Lyndon's eyes, and he winced, bringing a hand to his face. When she glanced over her shoulder, the men were in pieces on the ground. She looked back at Lyndon and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, jerking his face close to hers.

"Haedrig Eamon sends his regards, Lyndon." She punched him between the legs, and he blew out a rush of breath, his veins standing out from his reddening face. She threw him to the ground and sat on him, pinning his arms beneath her and leaning over him with a smile that did not reach her dark eyes.

"I want the crown."