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    Diablo III: Morbed
    Diablo III: Morbed
    Diablo III: Morbed
    Ebook80 pages1 hour

    Diablo III: Morbed

    By Micky Neilson

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    An original e-novella based on the bestselling video game!

    Morbed is a thief and a survivor, and his skills in both roles are about to be put to the ultimate test. Joining together with a wizard, a druid, a necromancer, and a crusader, Morbed has arrived at a remote island to track down an elusive vagabond andreclaim valuable items pilfered from the city of Westmarch.

    But there is something loose on the island, something that has killed and is very close to killing again. In order to leave the island alive, Morbed will be forced to confront not only the terrifying creature that stalks the forests, but the darkest corners of his own spirit as well.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPocket Star
    Release dateApr 21, 2014
    ISBN9781476789460
    Diablo III: Morbed
    Author

    Micky Neilson

    Micky Neilson is the author of several bestselling graphic novels, including Ashbringer and Pearl of Pandaria, as well as numerous video game tie-in novels. 

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    Book preview

    Diablo III - Micky Neilson

    CHAPTER ONE

    One by one they set foot on the island, six weary souls battered for days by the storming Great Ocean.

    The sea was calm now and the shore was solid, but to Morbed it felt as though the ship still pitched and swayed beneath him. The sharp, salty breeze buffeted his ears and flapped strands of walnut hair over his pale blue eyes. He glanced farther down the beach, where the skeleton of some long-dead whale, each rib bone twice the height of a full-grown man, shone in the dull sunlight. With a shiver he lifted the hood of his wool capote.

    Which way, fisherman? Jaharra was the most restless of the band. Morbed mused that patience must not factor highly in the training of a sorceress—no, wizard, he corrected himself. Jaharra bore the title as a coat of arms.

    She huffed indignantly, haversack pushed to one side, eyebrows lifted, awaiting a response. Morbed’s thoughts wandered to the shapely figure beneath her mixture of cloth and plate vestments. Jaharra’s eyes caught Morbed’s. He wondered if she was capable of reading his mind, hoped she couldn’t, and quickly looked away to the fisherman.

    With one hand the seaman tugged at his ill-fitting sheepskin coat. With the other he reached up over his gray-streaked beard and stroked the sharp, jutting bridge of his nose. He turned inland, dark eyes darting nervously over the dense coniferous forest and high peaks beyond. Finally he nodded toward the northeast. That way.

    How far? the wizard asked.

    Less than a day, the peculiar man answered, scanning the woods as if expecting some howling army of savages to break from the tree line at any instant. His gaze flickered to Jaharra, whose own twinkling eyes burrowed into him, weighing and assessing.

    Very well, she said. Marching order—

    Just a wild suspicion. A husky voice broke in around a mouthful of bread, as Aedus, a druid from the distant wilderness of Scosglen, stepped up next to Morbed. We’re trekking into woodland, so you’ll want me in front with the fisherman. And since our good thief here treads lightly, you’ll want him next.

    Former thief. And I say the holy man should take a turn in front, Morbed replied.

    Aedus picked crumbs from his ruddy beard as he clapped Morbed on the shoulder. Nonsense, Aedus said. No chance of a silent approach with that armored mountain stomping before us.

    Morbed and the druid turned to regard the hulking figure of the crusader, Clovis. The man stood like a fortress, girded for war. To his right side he held a thick wood-and-iron shield, more than half his height, which bore on its face the carved head of a mighty dragon. Massive, intricately crafted lion-mane spaulders flared from his shoulders. Tucked under his left arm was a great helm, and in that hand was a two-headed flail. The symbol of Clovis’s order, a design resembling a small upright pitchfork, was emblazoned on a tabard across his barrel chest.

    Excepting the fisherman, Clovis was the last to join their circle. For the flaxen-haired easterner, it was an alliance of convenience. For Morbed, it was also convenient—convenient that much of the ribbing normally leveled at him was now aimed at the crusader.

    Clovis gazed back at the two of them with quiet stoicism.

    Jaharra was set to respond, when a long, deafening peal shook the trees.

    The earsplitting tumult blared from the woods, rolled out over the water, and left a persistent ring in the air. It took several breaths for those gathered to recognize the sound as an outcry—the terrifying bellow of something perhaps primal and most certainly immense. Morbed’s hand instinctively hovered near the six-inch blade sheathed at his side.

    Aedus swallowed. What manner of creature inhabits this isle? That wasn’t the roar of any animal I know.

    The druid called to the fisherman, You hear that sound before?

    The seaman held his hands together, working one thumb back and forth in his palm as he shook his head. No, no. I would surely remember!

    Morbed looked to the east. The sun was still climbing. Maybe . . . maybe there was time to reach the stronghold before nightfall.

    I sense spirits, a threadbare voice offered, scarcely carrying over the keening wind. Confused, angry.

    Morbed glanced toward the necromancer, Vorik. The gaunt figure stood alone, the ocean breeze whipping his sparse, silken hair. His eyes were closed as if he was in contemplation, and even from this distance Morbed could make out the bluish veins that traced his skin. Dark robes and bone-plate armor added little girth to the stooped, skeletal man.

    It was said that necromancers could raise corpses. Morbed often wondered just who had raised the necromancer.

    There has been a great passing here. Many have expired and yet linger. This island is home to a host of restless dead, Vorik warned.

    An uneasy silence hung.

    Aedus cleared his throat. "Ahem, friend Morbed, I see now the wisdom of your words. You had the right of it all along . . . The druid pointed to Clovis. The holy man should go first."

    *  *  *

    The sharp wind whistled through the dense jungle as the band pressed inland.

    Morbed looked ahead to the fisherman, then to the crusader. The holy man, while not altogether stealthy and despite his heavy armor, was remarkably light-footed.

    The only sounds had been those of the occasional small animals dashing through the brush or the needling buzz of insects. The creature had remained silent. Morbed’s eyes roved constantly. The druid, hiking on his right, seemed far more relaxed, although he

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