Back in the bedroom, Gillian’s breathing had eased, and her heart had slowed its frantic pace. Cain managed to get her off the floor and onto Leah’s bed. Then he closed the door and threw the latch.
Satisfied for now, he took the knife and went back to Leah, going over in his mind what had just happened. The girl’s power seemed to be defensive, reacting only when she was threatened, but it was stronger than a simple spell. He had never seen anything quite like it before. Leah’s real mother had been a powerful witch, and it was possible she had passed her abilities to her daughter. But witches were not mages. Trained sorcerers were able to control the elements in similar ways, harnessing their power to influence the physical realm, but it took years of training to control such things. For a small girl like this to do so—and to do it without a conscious knowledge of the craft—was shocking. And potentially very dangerous.
There must be someone who could provide better counsel. Almost in spite of himself, Cain thought of the mages Kulloom had mentioned. If they were studying the ways of the Horadrim, perhaps they would be able to help. True Horadrim would understand her gifts and be able to guide her through the stormy waters she would enter as she grew to adulthood.
They may not even exist, his own mind insisted. But you, old man, are just a scholar playing at these things. You are no mentor. Without them, what hope do you have?
The smell of blood was still thick in the air. He looked into the kitchen and found the carcass of a large rat. It had been decapitated and partially disemboweled, as if Gillian had been preparing it for their meal.
Too exhausted to be disgusted at the thought, he swept the remains into a refuse barrel and sat down in the chair, watching Leah’s sleeping form. The powder would keep her under for at least another couple of hours, but he would have to decide what to do with her and Gillian before then. This situation could not remain the way it had been, yet he could not think of a remedy.
The burden of this new responsibility bore down on him like a heavy weight, and his dream from the night before drifted back to him: hiding in the shadows of the Zakarum cathedral with Gillian, and turning to find a monstrous figure looming over them, the other woman and child close behind. He’d imagined a look of reproach in their eyes, an accusation that he had tried to bury for nearly fifty years: Why couldn’t you save us?
That was not how it had really happened. There had been no hulking figure, no unsettlingly familiar woman and child. King Leoric had been slain by Lachdanan, but things had only worsened after that. Lachdanan had been cursed, and the townspeople began to disappear. The madness creeping through their little town and the strange sounds and glimpses of demonic creatures had sent many of the people who were left fleeing, and brought adventurers from across the land, looking to become heroes or intending to pillage the riches they had heard were hidden under the ancient Horadric building.
One by one, in spite of Cain’s warnings, these wanderers had descended into the depths of the catacombs, and their screams had echoed back through the dark corridors as they had perished against the black hordes of Diablo.
Cain had been wracked for so long by guilt over his lack of faith, his insistence on turning away from his own mother’s teachings and the ways of the Horadrim. He had read obsessively through the early morning hours, poring over every shred of information he could find and joining others at the Tavern of the Rising Sun to recount the histories. But he was too old and frail to have been able to go himself to face the demon hordes, and he had not been able to make the others understand what they were up against until it was too late.
More warriors had come, some of them more impressive than others. But everything had seemed hopeless until the king’s oldest son had returned from the disastrous attack on Westmarch: Aidan, who had left seeming like little more than a spoiled child, had come back an accomplished young man. Cain had barely recognized him, and it had swiftly become a measure of respect for Cain to refer to Aiden as simply “the hero.” Cain had explained what he had learned from Jered’s texts and those he had found in the cathedral, trying to warn Aidan about what he would find in the catacombs below the old structure.
But nothing could have prepared the young man for the horror of what was to come.
The corridors of the inn were dark and empty, whatever ghosts that lived here now silent and still. Cain found Aidan sitting on the edge of the bed, his head cradled in his hands. He was dressed in full armor, his heavy sword at his side.
As the old man entered, Aidan looked up, and for a single moment Cain saw beneath the young man’s carefully constructed shelclass="underline" a mixture of anguish and white-hot rage twisted his handsome features.
“My father is dead,” he said, “my brother missing. The entire town is in shambles. How can you tell me to wait?”
“I did not mean to make light of your loss,” Cain said, as gently as he could. “But before you go down there, you must better understand what you are facing—”
“I understand enough.” The young man stood and took up his sword, running it into its sheath. He was calm once again. “The demon responsible for this abomination must be sent back to the Burning Hells. You’ve said so yourself.” He crossed the room and put his hand on Cain’s shoulder. “I am not the scared boy you once knew, my friend. I have studied and trained with the best teachers in Kurast. I have fought the brave soldiers of Westmarch. I will face the demonspawn, and I will strike them down one by one until I find the source and let him taste the edge of my blade.”
“The depths of these catacombs will be overrun by legions of demons, lesser ones and those more powerful,” Cain said. “Lazarus has led many of the people to their deaths. There will be . . . those you know, those you have loved, back from the dead and horribly changed. They may eat human flesh, desecrate the bodies of those in their path. Your father may be one of them.”
Aidan’s eyes grew dark, flashing with anger. “Lazarus is a traitor, and I will have his head before I am finished. I will do whatever it takes to drive these hellish forces from Sanctuary.”
“And your brother, Albrecht.” Cain placed his own hand over the hero’s own, interrupting him. He needed to make the young man see the truth, before it was too late. “What will you do, should you have to face him? He may have suffered an even more terrible fate. It is possible he is corrupted—”
“Then I will strike him down, too. It is my duty to end his suffering.”
“At least allow others to accompany you. There is a rogue from the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye who is of sound spirit, and a Vizjerei sorcerer—”
A horrible, wrenching scream split the night. Aidan rushed to the small window, then ran from the room. Cain followed as fast as he could manage, his old legs aching as he descended the stairs and emerged to find Aidan kneeling over a wounded woman, another form standing nearby with a pitchfork drenched in blood. It was Farnham, who had followed Lazarus into the catacombs and returned unable to speak of what had happened. After bouts of drinking, he had tried several times to return to the depths, and it appeared he had finally succeeded, only to return again to the surface, bringing someone along with him.