Richard A Knaak Legacy Of Blood

GROWING MORE HORRIFIED BY THE MOMENT . . .

. . . the half-mad soldier struggled to his feet. Around him he noticed tall hills, even mountains, and the

first glimmers of sunlight. Yet, none of them looked at all familiar. None of them at all resembled the peak

in which he and his friends had discovered the tomb of Bartuc. Norrec took a step forward, trying to get

his bearings.

An unsettling creaking accompanied every motion.

Norrec looked down to discover that not only his hands were clad in metal.

Armor. Everywhere he stared, Norrec only saw the same blood-colored metal plates. He had thought

that his shock and horror could not possibly grow worse, but simply gazing at the rest of his body nearly

threw the formerly steady soldier into complete panic. His arms, his torso, his legs, the same crimson

armor now hid all. To add to the mockery, Norrec saw that he even wore Bartuc’s ancient but still

serviceable leather boots.

Bartuc . . . Warlord of Blood. Bartuc, whose dark magic had apparently saved the helpless soldier at

the price of Sadun and the sorcerer’s lives.

LEGACY

OF

BLOOD

Richard A. Knaak

POCKET BOOKS

New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental.

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For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-7434-2312-7

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

To my brother, Win—fellow creative spirit

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Epilogue

About The Author

LEGACY

OF

BLOOD

One

The skull gave them a lopsided grin, as if cheerfully inviting the trio to join it for all eternity.

“Looks like we’re not the first,” Sadun Tryst murmured. The scarred, sinewy fighter tapped the skull with

one edge of his knife, causing the fleshless watcher to wobble. Behind the macabre sight, they could just

make out the spike that had pierced their predecessor’s head, leaving him dangling until time had let all

but the skull drop to the floor in a confused heap.

“Did you think we would be?” whispered the tall, cowled figure. If Sadun had a lean, almost acrobatic

look to his build, Fauztin seemed nearly cadaverous. The Vizjerei sorcerer moved almost like a phantom

as he, too, touched the skull, this time with one gloved finger. “No sorcery here, though. Only crude but

sufficient mechanics. Nothing to fear.”

“Unless it’s your head on the next pole.”

The Vizjerei tugged at his thin, gray goatee. His slightly slanted eyes closed once as if in

acknowledgment to his partner’s last statement. Whereas Sadun had a countenance more akin to an

untrustworthy weasel—and sometimes the personality to match—Fauztin reminded some of a withered

cat. His nub of a nose, constantly twitching, and the whiskers hanging underneath that nose only added to

the illusion.

Neither had ever had a reputation for purity, but Norrec Vizharan would have trusted either with his

life—and had several times over. As he joined them, the veteran warrior peered ahead, to where a vast

darkness hinted of some major chamber. Thus far, they had explored seven different levels in all and

found them curiously devoid of all but the most primitive traps.

They had also found them devoid of any treasure whatsoever, a tremendous disappointment to the tiny

party.

“Are you sure there’s no sorcery about here, Fauztin? None at all?”

The feline features half-hidden by the cowl wrinkled further in mild offense. The wide shoulders of his

voluminous cloak gave Fauztin a foreboding, almost supernatural appearance, especially since he

towered over the brawnier Norrec, no small man himself. “You have to ask that, my friend?”

“It’s just that it makes no sense! Other than a few minor and pretty pathetic traps, we’ve encountered

nothing to prevent us from reaching the main chamber! Why go through all the trouble of digging this out,

then leave it so sparsely defended!”

“I don’t call a spider as big as my headnothing,”Sadun interjected sourly, absently scratching his

lengthy but thinning black hair. “Especially as it wasonmy head at the time . . .”

Norrec ignored him. “Is it what I think? Are we too late? Is this Tristram all over again?”

Once before, between serving causes as mercenaries, they had hunted for treasure in a small, troubled

village called Tristram. Legend had had it that, in a lair guarded by fiends, there could be found a treasure

so very extraordinary in value, it would make kings of those fortunate enough to live to find it. Norrec

and his friends had journeyed there, entering the labyrinth in the dead of night without the knowledge of

the local populace . . .

And after all their efforts, after battling strange beastsand narrowly avoiding deadly traps . . . they had

found that someone else had stripped the underground maze of nearly anything of value. Only upon

returning to the village had they learned the sorry truth, that a great champion had descended into the

labyrinth but a few weeks before and supposedly slain the terrible demon, Diablo. He had taken no gold

or jewels, but other adventurers who had arrived shortly thereafter had made good use of his handiwork,

dealing with the lesser dangers and carrying off all they could find. But a few days’ difference had left the

trio with nothing to show for their efforts . . .

Norrec himself had also taken no consolation in the words of one villager of dubious sanity who had, as

they had prepared to depart, warned that the champion, socalled the Wanderer, had not defeated Diablo

but, rather, had accidently freed the foul evil. A questioning glance by Norrec toward Fauztin had been

answered at first with an indifferent shrug by the Vizjerei sorcerer.

“There are always stories of escaping demons and terrible curses,” Fauztin had added at the time,

complete dismissal of the wild warning in his tone. “Diablo is generally in most of the favorites whispered

among common folk.”

“You don’t think there’s anything to it?” As a child, Norrec had grown up being scared by his elders

with tales of Diablo, Baal, and other monsters of the night, all stories designed to make him be good.

Sadun Tryst had snorted. “You ever seen a demon yourself? Know anyone that had?”

Norrec had not. “Have you, Fauztin? They say Vizjerei can summon demons to do their bidding.”

“If I could do that, do you think I would be scrounging in empty labyrinths and tombs?”

And that comment, more than anything else, had convinced Norrec then to chalk the villager’s words

down as yet another tall tale. In truth, it had not been hard to do.

After all, the only thing that had mattered then to the three had been what mattered now—wealth.

Unfortunately, it seemed more and more likely that once again those riches had eluded them.

As he peered down the passage, Fauztin’s other gloved hand tightened around the spell staff he wielded.

The jeweled top—the source of their light—flared briefly. “I had hoped I was wrong, but now I fear it is

so. We are far from the first to delve this deep into this place.”

The slightly graying fighter swore under his breath. He had served under many a commander in his life,

most of them during the crusades from Westmarch, and from surviving those various campaigns—often

by the skin of his teeth—he had come to one conclusion. No one could hope to rise in the world without

money. He had made it as far as captain, been broken in rank thrice, then finally retired in disgust after

the last debacle.

War had been Norrec’s life since he had been old enough to raise a sword. Once, he had also had

something of a family, but they were now as dead as his ideals. He still considered himself a decent man,

but decency did not fill one’s stomach. There had to be another way, Norrec had decided . . .

And so, with his two comrades, he had gone in search of treasure.

Like Sadun, he had his share of scars, but Norrec’s visage otherwise resembled more that of a simple

farmer. Wide brown eyes, with a broad, open face and a strong jaw, he would have looked at home

behind a hoe. Yet, while that vision occasionally appealed to the sturdy veteran, he knew that he needed

the gold to pay for that land. This quest should have led them to riches far beyond his needs, far beyond

his dreams . . .

Now, it seemed as if it had all been a waste of time and effort . . . again.

Beside him, Sadun Tryst tossed his knife into the air,then expertly caught it at the hilt as it fell. He did this

twice more, clearly thinking. Norrec could just imagine what he thought about. They had spent months on

this particular quest, journeying across the sea to northern Kehjistan, sleeping in the cold and rain,

following false trails and empty caves, eating whatever vermin they could find when other hunting proved

scarce—and all because of Norrec, the one who had instigated this entire fiasco.

Worse,thisquest had actually come about because of a dream, a dream concerning a wicked mountain

peak bearing some crude resemblance to a dragon’s head. Had he dreamt of it only once, perhaps twice,

Norrec might have forgotten the image, but over the years, it had repeated itself far too many times.

Wherever he had fought, Norrec had watched for the peak, but to no avail. Then, a comrade—later

dead—from these chill northern lands had made mention of such a place in passing. Ghosts were said to

haunt it and men who traveled near the mountain often disappeared or were discovered years later, all

flesh stripped from the shattered bones . . .

There and then, Norrec Vizharan had been certain that destiny had tried to call him here.

But if so—why to a tomb already vandalized?

The entrance had been well hidden in the rock face, but definitely open to the outside. That should have

been his first clue to the truth, yet Norrec had refused to even see the discrepancy. All his hopes, all his

promises to his companions . . .

“Damn!” He kicked at the nearest wall, only his sturdy boot saving him from a few broken toes. Norrec

threw his sword to the ground, continuing to curse his naÔvetÈ.

“There’s some new general from Westmarch hiring on mercenaries,” Sadun helpfully suggested. “They

say he’s got big ambitions . . .”

“No more war,” muttered Norrec, trying not to showthe pain coursing through his foot. “No more trying

to die for other people’s glory.”

“I just thought—”

The lanky sorcerer tapped the ground once with his staff, seeking the attention of both his earthier

partners. “At this point, it would be foolish not to go on to the central chamber. Perhaps those who were

here before us left a few baubles or coins. We did find a few gold coins in Tristram. Certainly it would

not hurt to search a little longer, would it, Norrec?”

He knew that the Vizjerei only sought to assuage his friend’s bitter emotions, but still the idea managed

to take root in the veteran’s mind. All he needed were a few gold coins! He was still young enough to

take a bride, begin a new life, maybe even raise a family . . .

Norrec picked up his sword, hefting the weapon that had served him so well over the years. He had

kept it cleaned and honed, taking pride in one of the few items truly his own. A look of determination

spread across his visage. “Let’s go.”

“You’ve a way with words for one using so few,” Sadun jested to the sorcerer as they started off.

“And you use so many words for one with so few things worth saying.”

The friendly argument between his companions helped settle Norrec’s troubled mind. It reminded him of

other times, when, between the three of them, they had persevered through worse difficulties.

Yet, the talk died as they approached what surely had to be the last and most significant chamber.

Fauztin called a halt, staring briefly at the jewel atop the staff.

“Before we proceed inside, the two of you had better light torches.”

They had saved the torches for emergencies, the sorcerer’s staff serving well until now. Fauztin said no

more, but as Norrec used tinder to light his, he wondered if the

Vizjerei had finally noted sorcery of some significance. If so, then perhaps there still remained some sort

of treasure . . .

With his own torch lit, Norrec used it to set Sadun’s ablaze. Now surrounded with more secure

illumination, the trio set off again.

“I swear,” grumbled the wiry Sadun, a few moments later. “I swear that the hair on the back of my

head’s standing on end!”

Norrec felt the same. Neither fighter argued when the Vizjerei took the lead. The clans of the Far East

had long studied the magical arts and Fauztin’s people had studied them longer than most. If a situation

arose where sorcery had to take a hand, certainly it made sense to leave it to the thin spellcaster. Norrec

and Sadun would be there to guard him from other assaults.

The arrangement had workedsofar.

Unlike the heavy boots of the warriors, the sandaled feet of Fauztin made no sound as he walked. The

mage stretched forth his staff and Norrec noticed that, despite its power, the jewel failed to illuminate

much. Only the torches seemed to act as they should.

“This is old and powerful. Our predecessors may not have been so fortunate as we first believed. We

may find some treasure yet.”

And possibly more. Norrec’s grip on the sword tightened to the point that his knuckles whitened. He

wanted gold, but he also wanted to live to spend it.

With the staff proving unreliable, the two fighters took to the front. That did not mean that Fauztin would

no longer be of any aid to the band. Even now, the veteran knew, his magical companion thought out the

quickest, surest spells for whatever they might encounter.

“It looks as dark as the grave in there,” Sadun mumbled.

Norrec said nothing. Now a few steps ahead of both his comrades, he became the first to actually reach

thechamber itself. Despite the dangers that might lurk within, he almost felt drawn to it, as if something

inside called to him . . .

A blinding brilliance overwhelmed the trio.

“Gods!” snapped Sadun. “I can’t see!”

“Give it a moment,” cautioned the sorcerer. “It will pass.”

And so it did, but as his eyes adjusted, Norrec Vizharan at last beheld a sight so remarkable that he had

to blink twice to make certain it was not a figment of his desires.

The walls were covered in intricate, jeweled patterns in which even he could sense the magic. Precious

stones of every type and hue abounded in each pattern, blanketing the chamber in an astonishing display

of refracted and reflected colors. In addition, below those magical symbols and no less eye-catching

were the very treasures for which the trio had come. Mounds of gold, mounds of silver, mounds of

jewels. They added to the overall glitter, making the chamber brighter than day. Each time either fighter

shifted his torch, the lighting further altered the appearance of the room, adding new dimensions equally

as startling as the last.

Yet, as breathtaking as all this looked, one shocking sight dampened Norrec’s enthusiasm greatly.

Strewn across the floor as far as he could see were the many mangled and decaying forms of those who

had preceded him and his friends to this foreboding place.

Sadun held his torch toward the nearest one, an almost fleshless corpse still clad in rotting leather armor.

“Must’ve been some battle here.”

“These men did not all die at the same time.”

Norrec and the smaller soldier looked to Fauztin, who had a troubled expression on his generally

emotionless countenance.

“What’s that you mean?”

“I mean, Sadun, that some of them have clearly beendead for far longer, even centuries. This one near

your feet is one of the newest. Some of those over there are but bones.”

The slight warrior shrugged. “Either way, from the looks of it, they all died pretty nasty.”

“There is that.”

“So . . . what killed them?”

Here Norrec answered. “Look there. I think they slew each other.”

The two corpses he pointed at each had blades thrust into one another’s midsections. One, with his

mouth still open in what seemed a last, horrified cry, wore garments akin to the other mummified body by

Sadun’s feet. The other wore only scraps of clothing and only a few strands of hair covered an otherwise

clean skeleton.

“You must be mistaken,” the Vizjerei replied with a slight shake of his head. “The one warrior is clearly

much older than the other.”

So Norrec would have supposed if not for the blade thrust into the other corpse’s torso. Still, the deaths

of two men long, long ago had little bearing on present circumstances. “Fauztin, do you sense anything?

Is there some sort of trap here?”

The gaunt figure held his staff before the chamber for a moment, then lowered it again, his disgust quite

evident. “There are too many conflicting forces in here, Norrec. I can get no accurate sense of what to

seek. I sense nothing directly dangerous—yet.”

To the side, Sadun fairly hopped about in impatience. “So do we leave all of this, leave all our dreams,

or do we take a little risk and gather ourselves a few empires’ worth of coin?”

Norrec and the sorcerer exchanged glances. Neither could see any reason not to continue, especially

with so many enticements before them. The veteran warrior finally settled the matter by taking a few

steps furtherinto the master chamber. When no great bolt of lightning nor demonic creature struck him

down, Sadun and the Vizjerei quickly followed suit.

“There must be a couple dozen at least.” Sadun leapt over two skeletal corpses still trapped in struggle.

“And that’s not counting the ones in little pieces . . .”

“Sadun, shut your mouth or I’ll do it for you . . .” Now that he actually walked among them, Norrec

wanted no more discussion concerning the dead treasure hunters. It still bothered him that so many had

clearly died violently. Surelysomeonehad survived. But, if so, why did the coins and other treasure look

virtually untouched?

And then something else tore his thoughts from those questions, the sudden realization that beyond the

treasure, at the very far end of the chamber, a dais stood atop a naturally formed set of steps. More

important, atop that dais lay mortal remains still clad in armor.

“Fauztin . . .” Once the mage had come to his side, Norrec pointed to the dais and muttered, “What do

you make of that?”

Fauztin’s only reply was to purse his thin lips and carefully make his way toward the platform. Norrec

followed close behind.

“It would explain so much . . .” he heard the Vizjerei whisper. “It would explain so many conflicting

magical signatures and so many signs of power . . .”

“What’re you talking about?”

The sorcerer finally looked back at him. “Come closer and see for yourself.”

Norrec did just that. The sense of unease that had earlier filled him now amplified as the veteran peered

at the macabre display atop the platform.

He had been a man of military aspirations, that much Norrec could at least tell, even if of the garments

only a few tattered remains existed. The fine leather boots lay tipped to each side, pieces of the pants

sticking out ofthem. What likely had once been a silk shirt could barely be seen under the majestic

breastplate lying askew on the rib cage. Underneath that, blackened bits of a formerly regal robe covered

much of the upper half of the platform. Well-crafted gauntlets and gutter-shaped plates, vambraces, gave

the illusion of arms still sinewy and fleshbound; whereas other plates, these overlapping, did the same for

the shoulders. Less successful was the armor on the legs, which, along with the bones there, lay askew,

as if something had disturbed them at some point.

“Do you see it?” Fauztin asked.

Not certain what exactly he meant, Norrec squinted. Other than the fact that the armor itself seemed

colored an unsettling yet familiar shade of red, he could see nothing that would have—

No head. The body on the dais had no head. Norrec glanced past the dais, saw no trace on the floor.

He made mention of that to the sorcerer.

“Yes, it is exactly as described,” the lanky figure swept toward the platform, almost too eager in the

veteran’s mind. Fauztin stretched out a hand but held back at the very last moment from touching what

lay upon it. “The body placed with the top to the north. The head and helm, separated already in battle,

now separated in time and distance in order to ensure an absolute end to the matter. The marks of power

set into the walls, there to counter and contain the darkness still within the corpse . . . but . . .” Fauztin’s

voice trailed off as he continued to stare.

“But what?”

The mage shook his head. “Nothing, I suppose. Perhaps just being so near to him unsettles my nerves

more than I like to admit.”

By now somewhat exasperated with Fauztin’s murky words, Norrec gritted his teeth. “So . . . who is

he? Some prince?”

“By Heaven, no! Do you not see?” One gloved finger pointed at the red breast plate. “This is the lost

tomb of Bartuc, lord of demons, master of darkest sorcery—”

“The Warlord of Blood.”The words escaped Norrec as little more than a gasp. He knew very well the

tales of Bartuc, who had risen among the ranks of sorcerers, only to later turn to the darkness, to the

demons. Now the redness of the armor made perfect and horrible sense; it was the color ofhuman

blood.

In his madness, Bartuc, who even the demons who had first seduced him had eventually come to fear,

had bathed himself before each battle in the blood of previously fallen foes. His armor, once brilliant gold,

had become forever stained by his sinful acts. He had razed cities to the ground, committed atrocities

unbounded, and would have continued on forever—so the stories went—if not for the desperate acts of

his own brother, Horazon, and other Vizjerei sorcerers who had used what knowledge they retained of

the ancient, more natural magics to defeat the fiend. Bartuc and his demon host had been slaughtered just

short of victory, the warlord himself decapitated just in the midst of casting a dire counterspell.

Still untrusting of his brother’s vast power even in death, Horazon had commanded that Bartuc’s body

forever be hidden from the sight of men. Why they had not simply burned it, Norrec did not know, but

certainly he would have tried. Regardless, rumors had arisen shortly thereafter of places where the

Warlord of Blood had been laid to rest. Many had sought out his tomb, especially those of the black arts

interested in possible lingering magic, but no one had ever claimed to truly find it.

The Vizjerei likely knew more detail than Norrec, but the veteran fighter understood all too well what

they had found. Legend had it that for a time Bartuc had livedamong Norrec’s own people, that perhaps

some of those with whom the soldier had grown up had been, in fact, descendants of the monstrous

despot’s followers. Yes, Norrec knew very well the legacy of the warlord.

He shuddered and, without thinking, began to back away from the dais. “Fauztin . . . we’re leaving this

place.”

“But surely, my friend—”

“We’releaving.”

The cowled figure studied Norrec’s eyes, then nodded. “Perhaps you are right.”

Grateful, Norrec turned to his other companion. “Sadun! Forget everything! We’re leaving here!

Now—”

Richard A Knaak Legacy Of Blood

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