Deckard Cain made his way across the floor, following the
footprints to an alcove in the far wall. Rotted boards clung to
supports, the last remains of an ancient library. This had been a
ritual chamber, many centuries before, used to summon things from
beyond the human world. A portal to the Burning Hells themselves,
perhaps. The shelves were empty now. He saw a speck of yellow
underneath a splinter of wood and bent to pick up a corner of
parchment paper, curled and speckled with mildew.
Something moved in the shadows to his right.
He whirled, holding the light up. For a moment it appeared as if
the shadows themselves were alive, bunching and swirling like ink
in water. At the same time, a voice like the distant moan of wind
drifted through the empty room and raised the hairs on the back of
his neck.
"Deckaaaaarrdddd Caiiinnnn . . ."
Cain felt a strange doubling, a memory of a night many years
before, when he was just a boy. A whispered voice calling to him,
just like this. He backed away, fumbling in his rucksack with one
hand, holding the lighted staff with the other against the
darkness. Already he was doubting himself: had it just been the
wind moving through the broken remains of the building above him, a
trick his mind had played after so long in the sun?
The voice came again, a sound like bones scraping together in
the grave.
"Your ghosts are many, old man, and they are
active."
A grating of metal over rock seemed to come from everywhere at
once. Once again a pool of black smoke thickened and then
dissipated, only to reassemble somewhere else: a shape carrying a
sword, the form of a man, but with eyes that glowed red with the
fires of hell.
Cain knew what this was, yanked from the depths of his own mind
and used against him: the image of the Dark Wanderer himself,
conjured up to weaken his resolve. The smoke-shape swirled and
shifted, reforming into two indistinct human shapes, one taller and
clearly female, one small and delicate. Shock raced through Cain's
limbs as an older, familiar memory fought to surface. He closed his
eyes against the darkness as the yawning pit of despair opened
within him, threatening to pull him in. You must not
listen.
***
Deckard Cain is the last of the Horadrim, the sole surviving
member of a mysterious and legendary order. Assembled by the
archangel Tyrael, the Horadrim were charged with the sacred duty of
seeking out and vanquishing the three Prime Evils: Diablo (the Lord
of Terror), Mephisto (the Lord of Hatred), and Baal (the Lord of
Destruction). But that was many years ago. As the decades passed,
the Horadrim's strength diminished, and they fell into obscurity.
Now all of their collected history, tactics, and wisdom lie within
the aged hands of one man. A man who is growing concerned.
Dark whisperings have begun to fill the air, tales of ancient
evil stirring, rumblings of a demonic invasion set to tear the land
apart.
Amid the mounting dread, Deckard Cain uncovers startling new
information that could bring about the salvation-or ruin-of the
mortal world: other remnants of the Horadrim still exist. He must
unravel where they have been and why they are hiding from one of
their own.
As Cain searches for the lost members of his order, he is thrust
into an alliance with an unlikely ally: Leah, an eight-year-old
girl feared by many to carry a diabolical curse. What is her
secret? How is it tied to the prophesied End of Days? And if there
are other living Horadrim, will they be able to stand against
oblivion? These are the questions Deckard Cain must answer . .
.
. . . before it is too late.
