The sandstorm had not abated; even now, in the dead of night, it raged on. Yet to Cyrus, there was something oddly comforting about it; it reminded him of his childhood in Khanduras, long stormy nights spent alone in the family manor. Alone with the voices. Without, unknown turmoil, within, familiar safety. His own little island of order in a sea of chaos.

The guards had barricaded the building and set up a watch, and he had volunteered to helm it throughout the night. This did not mean he had any intention of sharing his vigil with the sentries, to the latter's great relief. He sat alone in a corner of the stables, away from the others who were fast asleep. The day's events had taken a heavy toll on everyone, including himself, yet he knew he would find no slumber in this village. The voices were too loud. Might as well give his comrades some much needed rest.

The memory of his days in the manor awoke something within him. He reached for his black leather satchel, and from it he produced a skull. It was small, the size of a child's. He looked deeply into its dark sockets, as though communing with it. The two guardsmen on watch glanced worryingly at the ghastly sight, whispering among each other in hushed tones. Cyrus didn't need to hear them to guess the gist of their conversation. He had been the target of such wary looks for much of his life.

The grinning skeletal visage stared back at him sympathetically, or so it seemed to him. He closed his eyes, and the voices came unbidden. He tried to hone in on one voice among the many, one small voice that could barely be heard above the confusion of wailing and whispering. Slowly but surely, the other voices faded away, and he could now hear it as though it were right next to him.

"Are the bad men gone?" it asked tremulously.

"Yes," the necromancer replied in a barely audible whisper. "It's safe now."

"I don't like it here. Everyone is so sad. I want to go home."

"I've told you before: we won't be able to go back home for a while."

"Why not? Are you still searching for that scary old man?"

Cyrus offered no reply. He hadn't given his mentor much thought since joining his newfound companions on their quest. There were more pressing matters at hand now, yet he could not help wondering if it was all connected somehow. After all, the old man was in Khanduras before he disappeared, and it was around the time of the darkening of Tristram.

Whatever the truth of it, he could not afford any distractions at the moment. The hunt for Diablo took precedence over his personal affairs.

He closed his mind to the voices and turned his gaze towards his sleeping allies, wondering whether their meeting was happenstance or whether it too was some twist in the weave of fate. They didn't look like much at the moment: the barbarian was unceremoniously splayed on a haystack, his snoring almost as loud as the storm outside; the sorceress was curled up in a corner like a housecat; and the paladin and amazon were asleep against one another, their body language still hovering on the cusp of outright intimacy. Yet they were some of the most powerful and skilled individuals he had ever met, and together they had succeeded in bringing down a Lesser Evil. Perhaps Sanctuary had a will of its own, and had summoned its mightiest children in its hour of need.

Or perhaps his thoughts were nonsensical and he was in dire need of sleep.

Sighing heavily, he put away the skull and shut his eyes once more, trying to meditate to find some semblance of rest. He melded with the relative silence, interrupted only by the occasional coughing and stirring; uninterrupted sleep is hard to come by when you have sand in your lungs. He had just managed to still his mind when a shuffling sound next to him stirred him from his state. He opened his eyes to find Deckard Cain of all people sitting down next to him.

"No rest for the wicked, eh?" the last of the Horadrim asserted wearily.

The necromancer looked his unbidden guest up and down with confusion. He had never been the type to inspire spontaneous cordiality in people; quite the opposite in fact. Having someone just walk up to him and initiate a friendly conversation of their own accord was something of a new experience, and it left him speechless.

"Of course, at my age, sleep is a fickle mistress," Cain continued, unfazed by his interlocutor's silence. "Sitting all day in a wagon doesn't help matters either. Ah, would that I were young and spry again; I was never much of a warrior, but at least I could pull my own weight on this journey."

"Your sage advice is invaluable to us," Cyrus replied, having found his tongue again. "We would be rudderless without your wisdom, elder."

Cain was pleasantly surprised to find the necromancer showed proper deference to his seniors. Perhaps the priesthood of Rathma had more decorum than popular imagination gave them credit for.

"Whether my guidance will bear fruit remains to be seen, young hero. No one knows where the legendary Canyon of the Magi, where Baal is imprisoned, can be found. The Horadrim kept it a secret, even from their kin. The good news is that Diablo couldn't know the location any more than I do."

"That is some consolation, but the lord of Terror is cunning beyond measure. Surely your forebears have left some clues?"

"Perhaps we will find more answers in Lut Gholein. The city's history stretches far back into the mists of time. In any case, I doubt the dark wanderer's arrival will have gone unnoticed. He is sure to draw attention in the search for his brother."

"Hopefully that attention won't be in the shape of demons swarming the city. Diablo seems more wont to rely on force than subtlety."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Cain demurred. "During the dark exile, when the Three were deposed and banished from Hell, they wandered our world as spirits, working in secrecy to corrupt human hearts and spread the seeds of chaos. The Prime Evils may enjoy death and destruction, but they are not mindless in their pursuits."

"I have only heard stories of that time," Cyrus lamented aloud. The books of Kalan, sacred to his order, held much of the secret histories of Sanctuary, yet they were written long before the Dark Exile.

The old Horadrim took this as a cue to display his vaunted lore, and began recounting what he had read in countless tomes and years of research. The necromancer did not protest the unsolicited lesson; instead, he listened intently, seizing upon this opportunity to learn about the otherworldly influences that shaped the world from a source outside his priesthood. It felt a bit like the first time his mentor had shared the order's occult knowledge with him.


Dawn snuck up on the two unawares. They were still deep in conversation when they realized the sandstorm outside had abated, and dim grey light filtered through the improvised wooden barricades. The morning brought with it a sense of relief. The night had been uneventful, the weather had cleared, and near everyone had gotten some desperately needed sleep.

As the caravan came to life again, Galen reluctantly tore himself away from Dana as she stirred him awake. His body had mostly recovered from the trials of the last two days, but his heart yearned to remain in that blissful proximity with the amazon, half adream, far removed from the urgency and peril of their quest. Perhaps one day soon, if they succeeded in stopping Diablo, he would get to fully embrace such moments. Perhaps even more…

He dared not follow his train of thought any further. To name his desire would be to give it power over him, and he could not allow himself to grow unfocused given the circumstances. Too many entanglements lay at the end of that thread were he to pull on it. He knew firsthand the price of wartime dalliances.

He began donning his armor, giving every piece a good shake to get rid of the sand before putting it on. They had all been coated with the stuff, and despite doing their best to pat themselves off before sleeping, they were all still grimy and dusty. They needed a good wash, but they could not afford to waste their drinking water.

There was still some chafing involved, but the inevitable sweating that lay ahead would sort it out. He felt around for the damage his brigandine had sustained; parts of the leather were charred or torn open and whole chunks of steel padding were bent or missing. It was in sorry shape, and Ko'kal's armor looked just as worse for wear. Dana's, in contrast, had lost little of its sheen apart from a few scrapes.

"Thank the heavens, it was a quiet night," Warriv proclaimed as he approached the trio. "We should head out as soon as possible. The sooner we reach the safety of Lut Gholein, the better."

"Do we have enough supplies for the journey?" the paladin asked.

"I was hoping to resupply here, but if we ration our water, we might have enough to reach the Far Oasis."

"I can create ice from thin air," Talia interjected as she groggily joined the conversation. "It's harder in this dry clime, but we won't be dying of thirst any time soon."

"That leaves food, then," the caravan master retorted. "With our reduced number we have fewer mouths to feed, but it would be wise to ration it as well."

The barbarian seemed to blanch at those words.

"I'll lead a foraging party to scavenge any supplies we can find here," Dana chimed in.

"Good idea," Galen agreed. "Ko'kal and I will each lead one as well to hasten the search. Heaven willing, we might even find some survivors."

"I just hope none of them are near-sighted spell slingers," Ko'kal quipped with a wink at the sorceress.

Her only reply was to wave her fingers menacingly at him in a mock casting gesture.

As the guards set about taking apart the barricade, Cyrus approached her with a snide look on his face.

"Alas, it seems you're stuck on guard duty with me again," he taunted.

"I'm not nearly awake enough to go out in the sun just yet anyway," she replied. "Besides, you're growing on me."

He turned to her with surprise written on his face.

"Much like fungus," she finished with a sardonic grin.


The demons had been thorough. The town was desolate, and Dana had yet to find either supplies or survivors. All she found was death and ruin, with the occasional zombie still traipsing about, which she was quick to put down.

She had stumbled upon the local well, but it was fouled with dismembered corpses. Now she was headed for what appeared to be the village's grain silo, or what remained of it. Perhaps they could salvage some food there.

Her hopes were soon squashed as they found the place totally ransacked. What hadn't been pillaged had been burned, and only handfuls of grain were left among the ashes. As she sifted through the debris, she happened upon something she had not expected: there was a trap door on the floor of the silo. It looked as though it had remained undiscovered during the attack. Perhaps some of the villagers had found refuge there?

She called over some of the guards to help her clear the rubble and open the trap door. The mouth of the shaft yawned darkly, a simple fixed ladder disappearing down into the shadows below. The amazon took the lead, climbing down as her men followed suit, though a couple stayed topside as a precaution.

The ladder went on further than she had expected, and she was in total darkness by the time she reached the bottom, the hard stone floor coming as a surprise as her foot sought another rung. Even her keen eyes could see nothing but the dimmest of shapes, so she struck her spear on the ground and the tip flared to life.

She had expected to find a small cellar or some such; instead, she found herself standing in wide tunnels that seemed to stretch and wind in every direction around her. They looked ancient, the architecture radically different from that of the town above. Some of the passages were caved in, but the place looked remarkably intact for its age. Strewn about were sacks of fine wheat and millet, baskets of produce and even barrels of salted meat.

Upon closer inspection, these were all choice viands; she should know, having grown up in a palace. Her time as a mercenary had been much more frugal, but it had taught her to piece together a story from simple clues. From tracking down criminals and missing persons to hunting monsters, she had become a veritable bloodhound, and her keen instincts painted an all too familiar picture: some crooked official must have been using these vestiges to hide the best commodities for himself, though now he would never get to enjoy any of it.

"Bless your greedy little heart," she prayed for the soul of whoever had spirited the goods here. "Your secret stash might yet turn out to be a boon to those in need."

As the handful of guards accompanying her arrived, she ordered them to gather what they could and prepare to carry it out. A call went up to the two men still topside to throw down a rope. Soon, the tunnels were abuzz with the shuffling and loading of foodstuffs.

Amid the activity another noise came to Dana's ears, one she had heard before: the click-clacking of

shambling bones.

"Enemies!" she cried out.

The men dropped their loads and scrambled for their weapons.

Sure enough, a horde of skeletons came charging out of the darkness, wielding ancient rusted blades yearning to rend the flesh of the living. The first of them quickly fell to the disciplined humans, but there were always more to take their place.

The only thing the amazon hated more than fighting in cramped quarters was fighting the undead; they had no vital organs to pierce, no weak points to target, and no sense of self-preservation to take advantage of. She cursed as she and her men were forced to cede ground, forsaking the supplies and access to the ladder in order to funnel the attackers into a side tunnel where their numbers were more manageable.

Ko'kal would likely never forgive her, but no victuals were worth her men's lives, no matter how exceptional. She only hoped the tunnels had another exit.

"Fall back! I'll hold them off!" she commanded as she stepped out of formation, jabbing, slashing and twirling her spear in great flaming arcs to fend off the enemy.

The momentary respite allowed the guards to flee in good order, but the skeletons did not recoil from her fiery weapon as most foes would, and they swarmed her. With so little room to maneuver, even her incredible reflexes could not counter every strike, and she knew she was about to be overwhelmed.

Gathering her energies she swung her spear wide to create some space only to twist it overhead and smash it down on the floor; the tip erupted in fire like the gaping maw of Mount Karcheus, obliterating the closest undead and pushing the rest back.

She used the opening to dash after her men as though her feet had wings. Unlike amazons, skeletons were not known for their feats of speed, and she had soon evaded them and caught up to the others.

They pushed on in the dark, hounded by the distant clacking of bones, her spear tip lighting the way. There were many passages, and at every intersection Dana followed her nose, hoping it would guide her to the surface. At the very least the labyrinthine architecture would help them lose their single-minded pursuers.

Her nostrils wiggled excitedly as they made yet another turn in the seemingly endless tunnels; there was no mistaking it, it smelled like fresh air. They were near an exit!

The corridor led to a rusted grate that lay broken on the floor, trampled by the passage of time. They filed out into the open, thanking their respective gods for seeing the sun once again. As their eyes adjusted to the light, they found themselves in a wide, marbled courtyard with elegant arches and intricate tiling that ran all along the walls. This was clearly an abode of some importance, but the thing that caught the amazon's eye was the centerpiece of the courtyard: there, framed by rich mosaics depicting a procession of frolicking nymphs and animals, looking totally out of place amidst the extravagant décor, was an ancient waypoint carved in unadorned stone, just like the ones in the Tamoe Highlands.

Dana rushed to the teleportation nexus, hope swelling in her heart. Perhaps they would no longer have to brave the desert after all! Wiping her hand on one of the cuts inflicted by the skeletons, she smeared her blood on the rocky surface of the waypoint, holding her breath in anticipation.

The runes carved onto the waypoint flared to life in a flash of light, buzzing with magical energy. Yet the amazon's sudden sense of triumph was dampened almost instantly: she did not recognize any of the destination symbols inscribed on the stone. The glyphs were still inert, signaling the other waypoints in this land lay dormant. She tried touching them at random, hoping to trigger something, yet her efforts were in vain. The spellcraft was unresponsive.

As if to compound her disappointment, the cacophony of articulated bones echoed once more from the tunnel, growing louder. The flare up of magic had not gone unnoticed.

The waypoint would have to wait, they needed to regroup with the others.

"Everyone outside! Go!"

They were soon in the streets of Mafqud again, looking for the other parties, but skeletons began pouring out from several directions, having found other access points to the surface. Retreat was no longer possible.

The melee was joined once more, the amazon and her band fighting street by street. The relentless din of rattling bones was enough to drive her mad, but there was another sound, something different that her ears picked up before the others.

It was the sound of galloping hooves.

From the street to her left Galen appeared atop her absconded steed; the one-man cavalry charge smashed into the ranks of the undead as he brought the Pillar of Heaven cracking down upon their skulls like judgment from above. Behind him came Ko'kal and the other guards, and the tide turned decisively in favor of the living.

As Dana felled the last skeleton to face her, the paladin rode up, his mount crushing its fallen bones beneath its hooves.

"Look who I found," he said with a satisfied grin.


Mafqud grew small and hazy in the caravan's wake as it once more took up its perilous journey across the sands. The additional supplies they had managed to claim ensured they would not lack for food, to Ko'kal's particular delight. They had tarried a little at the waypoint, hoping to circumvent the dormancy of the destination sigils and teleport to safety, but even Deckard Cain could not puzzle it out.

The wagon wheels squeaked along eastward on the Rakkisroad; they had suffered from the frenetic pace of the day before, but the teamsters had carried out makeshift repairs. Warriv sighed at the thought of the coin he would have to part with to restore his caravan, not to mention what he had already forfeited in this unhappy expedition. Little of what he had set out with from Westmarch had survived the journey.

Still, life and limb were more precious than riches, he supposed. At least his crew was still intact. Most had worked with him for years, and he couldn't see himself plying his trade without them. Wagons could be replaced, but he knew gold could not buy the kind of loyalty that bound his crewmen to him.

Besides, he was well connected within Lut Gholein's merchant guild; he would find new funding soon enough. Though considering the state of overland travel these days, he wondered whether he would not be better served by buying a merchant ship instead. Seafaring was as alien to him and his crew as the desert is to a fish, but he could always hire an old seadog to whip them into sailors. He knew just the man for the job, too.

"Razan," he called out to the adolescent inside, who poked out his head from the canvas, his mess of jet-black curls bouncing merrily with the wagon.

"Yes, uncle?"

"You remember that captain down by the docks who always buys our stock of figurines whenever we're in town? What was his name again?"

"Meshif?" came the reply.

"That's the one. Say, how would you feel about a life on the open sea?"

"Like a pirate?"

"Hmm, I hadn't considered those. Still, I'll take pirates over demons any day. What say you to forsaking the Rakkisroad and becoming seamen?"

The youth took a moment to ponder the question.

"I went out on a fishing boat with my father once. I felt nauseous."

"Well, you'll have to find your sea legs. We can't have a captain losing his lunch every time he puts out to sea."

"Captain?"

"One day these bones will be too old for the rigors of travel, and you'll have to take over for me."

Warriv was still unmarried, to his mother's great chagrin. He treated his nephew like the son he never had.

"I think I'd prefer leading the caravan on solid ground, uncle," Razan decided. "I've already learned everything there is to know about it from you."

"Have you now? Well, I suppose we'll have to put that to the test on our next expedition. We'll have plenty of time to come to a decision once we're safe inside the city.

Razan was too busy gawking at the amazon, who was riding back towards the rear of the caravan, to answer.

Warriv allowed himself a smirk. The boy was at that age. Yet he too turned to follow the amazon with his gaze; why had she headed back from her scouting?

"Trouble?" he called out inquiringly.

"I see dust in the distance behind us," she replied.

"Another sandstorm?!" he asked worriedly.

"No, it's too small. I'm going to get a better look."

She rode past her companions who all gave her the same inquisitive look, yet she stayed silent. She didn't want to alarm the whole caravan for no reason.

She guided her mount away from the rear wagon and up the closest dune, and there both rider and steed stood unmoving for a long while, the former shading her squinting eyes with her hand, focusing her keen sight on a singular point.

All at once she turned her horse and galloped back to the caravan, stopping by one of the supply wagons.

"Guard, give me all the arrows we have!" she commanded without explanation.

The guardsman hesitated, but under her steely gaze he decided against questioning her order and got to work gathering projectiles.

"What's going on?" Galen asked as he walked over.

"Saber cats," she replied. "They must've picked up our trail now that the sandstorm has passed."

"By all the fires of Heaven, will we never be rid of these infernal beasts?"

"The sand raiders' numbers are spent. The Lacuni are all that's left of our pursuers. I'm going to make sure they give up the chase once and for all."

"Alone?" the paladin asked incredulously.

"You may be intimately familiar with battlefields and the clash of armies, but I've been protecting caravans and fighting skirmishes longer than you've been a knight. Lead the others0 ahead, I'll catch up with you again once I'm done," she finished as she secured the abundance of loaded quivers onto her saddle.

Seeing the half-pleading, half-disapproving look the paladin was giving her, she offered him her best smile.

"Trust me," she said once again.

When she smiled like that, how could he not?


Dana had not ridden to meet her foes. She simply waited for them to approach, sparing her steed; it would need its strength for what was to come.

When they finally arrived within bow range, she knocked an arrow and aimed high. The missile flew into the sky and caught the sun on its gleaming tip before arcing down and embedding itself into a charging Lacuni, killing it instantly. Its comrades growled menacingly and rushed forward at an even greater pace.

The amazon simply knocked another arrow and calmly took aim again. She repeated the same motion, and the same fate befell another saber cat. Five more of their number were struck down before the Lacuni managed to get within javelin reach of their enemy. Yet, just as their spear throwers were getting ready to unload, Dana wheeled her horse about and rode away. This did not stop her from knocking another arrow, and, twisting in her saddle as she aimed backwards, loosing it into the oncoming foes. She had learned this technique from the mercenaries of Kehjistan who always fought on horseback. She had affectionately named it "the parting shot."

The saber cats were fast, but not as fast as a horse. More and more of them fell as they fruitlessly chased the amazon across the sands, their javelins and fulminating potions falling well short of the mark; whenever they would stop she would come to a halt, and whenever they would attempt to catch up to her she would simply retreat, but never beyond bowshot. Always her bow sang, whether her horse was stationary or galloping away. The Lacuni soon understood their peril. There was nowhere to hide on the open sands, and they could not outpace the rider and her steed.

And it didn't seem like she was running out of arrows any time soon.


A couple of hours passed before the amazon rejoined the caravan, looking no worse for wear except that her horse was in a lather. Galen rushed to meet her as she unmounted.

"What news? Are you hurt?" he asked as he checked for any injuries she might be sporting.

"Only that you have so little faith in my abilities," she laughed. "I'm unscathed, though my faithful steed here needs a good rest."

With that she proceeded to tie her horse to the back of the rearmost wagon, letting it trot along behind.

"What of our pursuers?" the paladin queried as they walked beside it.

"Let's just say the carrion birds will be eating well this week," she replied.

"You routed the enemy singlehandedly? That's…incredible!"

She smirked at the admiration in his eyes. After all, why not let the handsome, impressionable young knight imagine her as some golden goddess of war plowing her way through a sea of foes like a living hurricane? Why not enjoy it?

But that sort of bravado was unlike her. Lydia had been the quick-tongued braggart, and she had always been the serious, earnest one. Yet, she found herself becoming more like her lost lover around Galen. It was a strange thing, and she found the realization somewhat unsettling. She decided against her vainglorious impulse.

"It was not as glorious as you make it sound. I simply rode circles around them and picked them off one by one. You paladins are all about facing the enemy in honorable combat, but that is not the way of my people. The Askari are hunters, and a hunter does not give its prey a sporting chance."

Her heart sank a little as his admiration turned to perplexed introspection. Knowing him, he was probably weighing the morality of denying demons a fair fight, Athulua bless his heart.

"You can be quite terrifying sometimes, you know that?" he finally declared.

"Yes, but you like that in a woman."

"Heaven help me, I do."