Diablo III: Morbed by Micky Neilson Page B

foothills.
    â€œAye,” the fisherman answered, rubbing his fingers as if he were invoking prayer beads. His voice was little more than a hush.
    â€œWe’ll need to move quickly if we’re to reach it by nightfall,” said Morbed, setting off.
    *  *  *
    They encountered the first corpse near the trailhead.
    Aedus had smelled it well before they laid eyes on the bloated form, still covered in leather and light armor, its skin the color of cream custard in some places, blackened in others, wedged in the crotch of two thick branches. It appeared to have been male. Large black flying insects busied themselves nesting in and feeding on the remains.
    â€œLooks as though he was cast off from the trail above,” Aedus observed. “Hard to say whether or not he was already dead when he hit the tree.”
    â€œHe was dead,” croaked Vorik. Morbed turned to see the necromancer gazing up at the tree, holding his hand and fingers outstretched as if calling upon some forgotten deity. “The spirit appears to have departed this mortal shell within the last two fortnights. It remains here, as do the others.” The old man nodded his head and gently closed his eyes. “The Balance in this place is greatly disturbed.”
    Morbed knew that to a necromancer, life and death were more about an evening of scales—the Balance between light and dark, good and evil—than about mortality. Here some great calamity had tipped those scales.
    Without a word, the fisherman continued on. The others also departed. Casting a final glance at the putrefying corpse, Morbed followed.
    *  *  *
    The trail was narrow and loosely paved with gravel. They passed two more corpses, dressed as the first, one lying in the center of the path and the other by the wayside, its left leg missing, presumably deposited somewhere in the rocks above. Both exhibited the same creamy, partially blackened pallor and had become hives of beetle activity. Movement of the insects under the cadavers’ skin made even Jaharra cringe.
    While the others scrutinized the bodies, Morbed observed the fisherman keeping his distance, back turned, scanning the forest anxiously. It seemed as though the seafarer purposefully avoided the corpses, and he appeared relieved when the party continued up the trail.
    The air had grown icier with the sun now hidden behind the mountain. Morbed’s legs protested with every step.
    The path doubled back, and after a few more strides, Morbed could make out above them a grand entry carved in stone. But where one would expect to find massive doors, he beheld only a gaping void.
    The curtain wall towered skyward, and from it small, squat bartizans loomed at each corner. The formidable, weatherworn stone face stretched outward, its span giving little indication of the fortress’s overall size. A long crimson standard hung over the former gates, billowing in the crisp wind. Upon it was a sigil: a cross with a curved line joining the vertical and horizontal, creating a closed loop on the top-right side. The stonework of the structure was uneven, and the entirety of it seemed to lean ever so slightly.
    As the leaders climbed the last stretch to the threshold, they spied missing chunks of mortar and stone from both sides of the aperture. Just beyond the path’s elbow, a vast, thick, timeworn door lay where it had fallen. Of its companion there was no sign. What struck them most acutely was the stench of decay flowing out of the musty, inscrutable depths.
    Jaharra and Clovis drew close. Morbed turned around to survey the forest below. The higher ground afforded a greater view of the woods, and Morbed now spied a swath of felled trees creating a path that led north and out of sight. The fisherman stood several steps away, eyes wide and darting to and fro, one hand over the other, knuckles white.
    Jaharra spoke what the rest were thinking. “Looks like something broke out. Something