Diablo III: Storm of Light

by Kenyon, Nate

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  This one’s for Ellie Rose, for sleeping soundly during Daddy’s early morning writing sessions.

  PROLOGUE

  The High Heavens

  Since the dawn of time, the forces of darkness and light have remained locked in eternal conflict.

  Our battles have raged throughout the centuries like flames erupting from smoldering embers. Whenever the angels have struck down the darkness, it has risen again, stronger than before. And yet each time, the keepers of the light and the rulers of the High Heavens have claimed ultimate victory.

  At the End of Days, our foolish pride made us blind. In the guise of a child, Diablo rose up from the ashes, climbing through Sanctuary to shatter the Diamond Gates. And truly, success was close at hand, for the Crystal Arch, the source of angelic power, was within the grasp of the Prime Evil.

  Until mankind intervened.

  One mortal soul stood against the destruction of two worlds. The nephalem’s great courage gave strength to us all, turned the tide of fate, and led to the fall of Diablo and the salvation of Sanctuary and the High Heavens themselves.

  But darkness does not fade so easily. Once more, our victory has been claimed far too soon.

  The Prime Evil has been struck down.

  But there are other forces that would move against the world of men.

  A falcon in flight might have viewed it as a series of silver-tipped mountain peaks rising up through the mist, the scope of them too breathtaking for any mere human to grasp. At its center rose a structure taller than the rest, a shining tower topped with a multifaceted arch that shimmered like cut diamonds. The light of the Heavens kissed these gleaming skins, set fire to them so that the entire vast tableau glowed like outstretched wings, spires reaching ever skyward as glittering crystal threw sparks to warm the darkness.

  The Silver City.

  In the world of angels, the archangel of Wisdom had recently come to realize, there are no beds.

  Bleary-eyed and worn, Tyrael looked up from where his quill lay across the parchment as warmth and light washed through soaring arch and buttress, breathing life into the immense open space around him. He’d had no use for sleep until his mortal soul had taken up residence within his breast. Now the constant light that infused the Heavens confused his newfound internal rhythms, and he longed to lay his head on a gentler surface than the stone floor of these chambers. But he had yet to summon something more comfortable. The shedding of his wings had already given his brethren enough cause to look for any sign of weakness. He would not hand them another.

  Tyrael flexed his cramped fingers. He had been taking his own notes on Deckard’s heavy scrawl, but there would be no more work done tonight, in spite of his unspoken promise to Deckard and Leah to finish what they had begun. And yet he could not bring himself to close his eyes. Not yet. There was much to consider beyond his own mortal failings. His growing rift with Imperius and the Council, for one. The role of men in controlling their destinies. The fate of Sanctuary itself.

  And above all else, what to do about the thing that resided among them, seemingly silent and still as its tendrils crept like blackened pitch across sacred ground.

  The archangel left his solitary chambers and walked through the lonely rooms and corridors that lined the Courts of Justice and the Ring of Judgment, his footsteps echoing on endless planes of polished stone. His mortal senses had difficulty accepting his surroundings. He had resided here for countless millennia, and yet he saw it differently now. Each space opened to one larger and more stunning than the one before; pointed arches and intricate, ribbed vaults soared far overhead; clustered columns ran through infinity; light burst forth at random from countless crystal facets that shifted and changed colors at will.

  When the angels were present, their song resonated along with the Arch in a perfect harmony of light and sound. But Justice was empty now, its vast courts, benches, and seating vacant and cold, and the music of the Heavens was soft and subdued.

  The archangel felt an odd ache in his breast, a longing for things left behind. Although angels still brought their grievances here, Tyrael’s former home had remained largely unoccupied since his transformation. The Luminarei, Defenders of the Arch, had taken up residence with Imperius in the Halls of Valor.

  I should remove myself from this place, he thought. It is an echo of my former self, one that shall never return. And yet he could not. Since Malthael’s disappearance, Wisdom’s domain had also fallen silent, and the Angiris Council suffered for it. Tyrael had meant to assume those duties and act as a guiding hand during the most challenging decisions the Council would face. But the pools that spilled through that realm seemed alien to him, unsettling, and Chalad’ar called with a song he dared not answer. The legendary chalice required abilities that he was no longer sure he possessed.

  He felt an ache in his back, a twinge in his knee. His physical form was already breaking down, the slow decline toward the grave that all mortals must face. He knew in his heart that the choice he made was the right one. And yet you still doubt yourself.

  What did it mean for an archangel to be so fragile? How could he fight back the darkness if his new body was so vulnerable to attack? Would he have been better prepared to face the challenges that were coming if he had not made that choice?

  The Courts of Justice had given way to an atrium that curved far above his head. Through another arch, a platform made of crystal and stone and carved with intricate, flowing designs stretched before him. The Angiris Council chamber. Tyrael was faced with the thrones from which the archangels made their arguments. The chamber was empty, and the light that had streamed through the arching windows earlier was curiously absent here.

  The Black Soulstone sat on its pedestal as if awaiting his arrival.

  The stone’s sharp facets and points thrust up from the base like a blackened claw. It was barely larger than a man’s skull. How could a thing like this hold such terrible darkness?

  Tyrael approached slowly, both fascinated and repelled by the stone’s power. An unfamiliar chill ran through him, a mortal shell’s warning. The bloody light that shone from the Black Soulstone had been extinguished after Diablo fell and the stone was retrieved from a lower realm of the Heavens. But as Tyrael moved closer, he thought he saw the faintest glint from within.

  “Halt!”

  The archangel had reached out a hand toward the stone. He quickly withdrew it and turned toward the voice.

  Balzael stood beneath the arch that led to the chamber, his impressive form partially hidden in shadow. The right hand of Imperius. The Luminarei warrior stepped out onto the platform and unfurled his magnificent wings, tendrils of light snapping up toward the chamber roof. Balzael’s armor was golden, the breastplate marked with the symbols of his rank.

  “What is Wisdom doing here alone?”

  Had Tyrael sensed the slightest mocking tone in the use of his new title? “Do not question me, Balzael. I go where I please. Has Imperius sent you to spy on me?”

  “I guard the stone,” Balzael said. “That is the task given to me, above all else.”

  “Those are not the only orders the archangel of Valor has for you, are they? He does not trust his brother?”

  “Mortal souls are easily corrupted.”

  Tyrael’s heart beat faster at the warrior’s impudence. The implication was clear: Balzael had wings; Tyrael did
not and was the lesser for it. “And angels’ pride blinds them to their fate,” the archangel said. “I commanded you not long ago. Do you forget this so soon?”

  Instead of backing down, Balzael moved closer. “You taught me well enough to know when to be suspicious.”

  Balzael made the slightest move toward his sword, barely enough to be noticeable. But the statement it made was clear. Anger washed over Tyrael at the brazen challenge, and he stepped forward, too, standing tall, his fingers itching to grasp El’druin where it hung at his side. At the same time, he was aware of his limits. Although skilled in battle, Tyrael was not as strong as he had been as an immortal.

  For a moment, Tyrael believed Balzael might draw the weapon. Then a glow of light manifested at the entrance to the chamber. The archangel of Hope appeared before them, sweeping forward and seeming to assess the situation in an instant. “Leave here,” she said to Balzael. “We will be meeting soon.”

  “I have not received notice of such a—”

  “The Angiris Council is not required to notify you of anything,” Auriel said. The light surrounding her changed slightly, pulsing like a heartbeat. She was not often so brief; the impact was all the greater for it. “I will watch over the stone. Now, go.”

  Balzael hesitated a moment and gave a slight bow. “As you wish,” he said, then turned and disappeared through the arch, his light fading away to darkness.

  Auriel and Tyrael were left alone. After a few more pulsing beats, she turned to him. “He has grown arrogant after his promotion.”

  “Bravery and arrogance are close cousins,” Tyrael replied. “He showed great heroism against the Prime Evil and sent more demons back to the Hells than any other. Imperius made the obvious choice. I would have done the same.”

  “Perhaps.” Auriel’s light grew softer and warmer as she studied him. “I would assume you are here to meet, except there is no Council meeting. You look . . . weary, my brother. You cannot sleep?”

  “Would that I had no need of such a thing.”

  “Ah, but you do,” Auriel said. “I sensed your inner conflict. It drew me from the gardens. Balzael, he . . .” She made a motion, as if to dismiss the thought. “The Heavens are not the most forgiving place or the most sensitive. The angels might not agree with what you have done, Tyrael, but that does not make the choice any less valid.”

  Auriel removed Al’maiesh, the Cord of Hope, and reached, the embodiment of light itself, her armor and flowing robes ending with fingered gauntlets. As she draped the cord over his shoulder, warmth flooded through his mortal flesh, a sense of calm and well-being along with it.

  Time ceased to exist as the cord tightened around him. Then Auriel withdrew, and the warmth faded.

  “You are concerned,” she said after a time. “About me?”

  “Never,” Tyrael said. He struggled to remain impassive, in keeping with an archangel’s bearing. He could not answer her with the truth. When he slept each night, he dreamed as mortals did: not the visions of angels but a far more immersive and fluid state that took him places he had never been. At first, these dreams had been joyous, filled with reflections of the High Heavens and his former immortal existence. But as the nights passed, they began to change, the brilliant light and music of his dreamscapes turning darker, more sinister. He dreamed of something chasing him that he could not outrun, a shadow that was relentless and icy-cold, that clenched him tightly until his beating heart was still. He dreamed of entire human cities being wiped away, the screams of people in agony as their mortal bodies were pulled apart piece by piece, as buildings collapsed and the very ground cracked and tore itself to dust.

  Auriel could not possibly understand these dreams. Tyrael was mortal, and the divide between them was too great. And yet his mortal weaknesses led to insights that the rest of the Angiris Council did not possess. The archangels’ pride left them unable to sense the danger they faced now.

  Auriel coiled Al’maiesh at her side, the ribbon of light becoming one with her being once again. “You are Wisdom,” she said. “And yet you do not rest among the pools. You have not yet accepted your role. Your guidance can help us rule the Heavens, should you choose to embrace it.”

  “And if the Council chooses to listen.”

  “The others sense your conflict,” she said. “They do not understand why you shed your wings. If you are clear about where your allegiance lies—”

  “What about the allegiance I have pledged to build between angels and men? Many centuries ago, our votes saved Sanctuary from destruction. Humans have much to offer us now. Without the nephalem, the Prime Evil would have destroyed the Arch, and the Heavens themselves would have fallen!”

  “And without humans, such a thing would never have been created,” Auriel said, motioning toward the stone on its perch. “The Council will debate this, Tyrael. That is the proper place for such a discussion.”

  “The debate will change nothing,” Tyrael said. “Imperius will not be swayed from his position. I believe Itherael will vote against Sanctuary’s survival. This is not what I envisioned for our future, my sister. Together, angels and men can push back the darkness forever.”

  She turned away as if to go, but Tyrael blocked her path.

  “The decision rests with us. Will you stand with me now, as you did before?”

  It went against the Council to speak so plainly of this outside of a formal session, and Auriel did not answer. Tyrael sensed a rigidity and coldness in the archangel’s demeanor that he had never felt before. She had always supported the survival of humanity, and he did not understand her silence.

  But he feared what such silence might mean.

  They stood together for a moment. He had gone too far. Saddened, he stepped aside, and Auriel swept by him without another word. He let her go, the ache in his chest expanding as she disappeared through the arch and left him alone. Their friendship had survived for millennia, and this reaction from her was like a thousand tiny cuts. He felt everything more strongly now, felt the archangels’ growing distrust deep within himself.

  Tyrael turned back to the Black Soulstone. It sat silent and lifeless, as if mocking him. He studied it more closely. Its appearance had changed; he was certain. Had it swollen in size since he had first arrived at the chamber?

  It is reacting to my presence, just as I suspected. If so, time was already running short, indeed. A darkness has pervaded the Heavens in a way it never has before. This is not like the Prime Evil’s brazen assault on the gates but something far subtler and more insidious . . . a creeping evil that only I can sense.

  Wisdom feared for the future of the High Heavens and of Sanctuary and believed now, more than ever, that terrible things were in store for them all.

  In the shadows beyond the Angiris Council chamber, Balzael watched Auriel leave, waiting until the glow from her wings faded away to nothing. He had not heard every word.

  But he had heard enough.

  The halls were silent at this time; angels did not sleep, not the way mortals did, but there were quiet periods of contemplation and study when the music of the Heavens softened and their inhabitants grew still. By all rights, he should have been among them. But he had been given an important task, and he meant to fulfill his duty.

  So far, events had occurred exactly as they had been predicted by the Guardian. Each step would have to be handled perfectly for the Guardian’s plans to succeed. Until then, Tyrael must be carefully monitored, regardless of Auriel’s recent interference.

  Moments later, Tyrael emerged from the chamber. Balzael shrank back, shrouding his wings to keep from being seen. Mortal eyes were weak in many ways, but they picked up the light well. He watched Tyrael walk away from the Council’s meeting place, his footsteps echoing in the corridor. The meaty stink of flesh poured off him. Balzael resisted making a snarl of disgust. How such a legendary archangel could fall so far, so quickly, he did not know. But it would not be much longer before the stench was wiped away forever.

  Balzae
l waited until Tyrael’s footsteps were faint in the distance and then followed, keeping himself carefully hooded. He would brief the Guardian later and receive counsel on what to do next. Tyrael did not know it, but he would play a vital role in a matter of life and death for angels and men, an end to the Eternal Conflict, the war between the Heavens and the Hells.

  Above all, Tyrael must not be allowed to stop the darkness that had begun to creep across the realm of angels.

  The future of the Heavens themselves hung in the balance.

  PART ONE

  The Creeping Dark

  Chapter One

  The Wanderer, Caldeum

  “The entrance to the tomb was black as a thresher’s maw,” the fat man said in a low voice, leaning forward as if imparting a terrible secret. “Our torch revealed only the first few steps before the dark swallowed it up. The smell of rot from the hole spoke of things dead and wanting to stay buried.”

  He looked through the smoke-filled, flickering light at the circle of faces turned toward him, making eye contact with each one to draw their attention from the whining notes strummed from the lyre at the far side of the tavern. His frock coat and trousers might have indicated Caldeum gentry, but they were well worn and patched in several places.

  The number of those gathered around the fireplace grew by one as a woman in a dress sewn from a root sack tossed a jingling coin into the upturned pigskin cap set on the table. The smell of yeast and sour milk wafted over them as she took a stool.

  “What’s this got to do with the boy emperor?” a man called out. “You were going to explain the uprising and the evacuation of the city, you said.”

  “No mystery to it,” another said from halfway across the room. “Some say it was a Lord of the Hells raining green fire, but Zakarum priests are in league with the trade consortium council and want new leadership. They were behind it, I say! Lucky for Hakan he survived.”