Diablo III: Storm of Light

by Kenyon, Nate

  Just as the second one got close enough to bash Jacob’s skull to pulp, it suddenly stumbled, before halting in its tracks, and then shuddered, weaving on its feet. Its huge muscled arms went slack as its head slumped, and it fell forward into the dirt.

  Sticking out of the creature’s back was a battle axe.

  With a low grunt, Gynvir reached down, placed her foot on its spine, and yanked the axe loose. “Move,” she said, and Jacob barely had time to duck before she swung the axe in a whistling arc that caught the other berserker under the chin. The blade bit deep into the diseased flesh, exposing muscle and bone as the creature’s head flopped sideways and tore free, leaving a stump that fountained black blood before the headless torso fell.

  “Thanks,” Jacob said. The barbarian gave him a small smile before turning again and cleaving a hellion in two, her magnificently muscled back glistening in the dying light from overhead.

  The creatures were relentless. Jacob battled on, working just to stay alive. Tyrael killed four berserkers and a dozen hellions with El’druin. Jacob killed two more hellions and kept himself from being bitten when the last one snapped at his leg in its death throes; he knew well enough what the thing’s diseased saliva would do to a wound.

  Finally, he saw something beyond the slope and managed to fight his way through for a better look.

  Below them, he saw the cultists.

  They stood in a rough circle around a pattern of glowing runes drawn in the dirt, dark robes flowing in the breeze as they raised their chanting voices to the sky. Once again, Jacob thought he saw something else flitting at the edges of the circle, something huge and black with wings, but it was soon gone.

  He turned back just in time to see the monk burst through the ranks of the chanting figures as if appearing out of thin air.

  His blade sliced through flesh; his fists flew in a blur as he spun and laid waste to those who remained. In moments, the circle was broken, bodies lying motionless at Mikulov’s feet.

  Beyond him, the ground was clear of hellions and berserkers. The monk looked up the slope at Jacob and nodded. “This way,” he said. “Quickly!”

  Jacob surveyed the graveyard, his heart sinking. Thomas and Cullen fought together back-to-back, managing to keep the hellions off them. But the others were scattered. Shanar and Gynvir had become isolated from Tyrael, and the necromancer stood alone near the far end of the flat tableau.

  Without the cultists’ dark magic guiding them, the berserkers became confused, lumbering back and forth. Zayl raised his hands, and a crackle of energy reduced the creatures’ movements to a crawl. Jacob shouted at the others, motioning them his way as he stood under Cain’s monument.

  Thomas and Cullen were already down the slope and at the monk’s side, and Zayl was right behind them by the time Gynvir made it to the monument. Shanar was the last to reach him, and the berserkers had begun to recover from the necromancer’s spell, turning their way.

  “Go,” she said. “I’ll be right behind you. Just want to slow them down a little more.”

  The ground began to shiver and soften gently under Jacob’s feet. Moisture welled up from formerly dry soil, sucking at his boots before freezing into ice crystals. The air temperature dropped quickly, until Jacob could see his breath puffing in white clouds before his face. Snowflakes started to fall around him.

  Shanar glanced at him, her face twisted with concentration. “Go!” she said again. “I can’t hold it much longer!”

  As he slipped and slid down the hill, Jacob looked back to see the first of the berserkers reach her position. A wave of panic washed over him before a giant ice shard crashed down like a thunderclap, smashing into the creature and driving it to the ground. Shanar danced backward as more columns of ice began to fall upon the graveyard, and the shrieks of rage and pain from the beasts grew louder. None followed as she came quickly after him to where the others waited to make their escape.

  Chapter Seven

  The Slaughtered Calf

  They were in trouble.

  Tyrael led the group across the desolate landscape under the faint moonlight as quickly as he dared. Nobody spoke as they navigated the tricky terrain, everyone watching carefully to keep from breaking an ankle on the pitted, rocky ground.

  What worried him wasn’t their escape route or how far they had to travel to reach safe lodging. He could already see New Tristram’s glimmer of lanterns in the distance, and Shanar’s ice storm had wreaked havoc among the creatures that remained in the graveyard; the humans had not been pursued.

  No, what worried him was the way the group had reacted to its first test.

  Although he had been counting on the pack of rogue demons to appear sooner or later—remnants of the Lesser Evils’ demon army still roamed Sanctuary, and the Tristram Cathedral was a prime location for them—he had been surprised by their numbers and ferocity. He had expected to have more time and less of a fight.

  That number of berserkers and cultists, acting with some coordination, was unusual.

  Even so, he had hoped for a better response under pressure. There had been moments of bravery: Gynvir had likely saved Jacob from an ugly death at the hands of two berserkers, and Mikulov had single-handedly kept the tide from turning against the others. But the monk had also left the circle and acted alone, and the rest had fought with little coordination. Cullen barely held his own against the hellions. Only blind luck had kept them all alive.

  They would have to do a lot better than that to have a chance at succeeding in their mission, or death would be swift indeed.

  You put their lives in danger tonight for a simple test. And they failed.

  As he led them down the final gentle slope toward town, Tyrael wondered whether it had been worth the risk.

  New Tristram had sprung up as a trade town dealing with the treasure seekers who came to loot the ruins of the old cathedral and whatever else remained of Tristram, and as such, it had grown organically, without a great deal of planning. They reached a haphazard collection of huts and wagons first, some glowing with candlelight against the thick darkness, others looking abandoned, but soon these gave way to sturdier buildings made of wood and stone, and rocky paths became winding, roughly cobbled streets that stank of mule dung and smoke.

  The Slaughtered Calf Inn was one of the largest structures, and there was life within it indeed. Lanterns hung from posts, illuminating the rough-hewn wooden sign outside the door, and windows shone with bright yellow light as raised voices and laughter came from inside.

  The group paused in the shadows as the sounds of the crowd followed a bearded man stumbling out the door, muttering to himself as he continued on his way down the street, occasionally tripping over the rough stones and cursing as he went. Tyrael had last been here with Leah and Deckard Cain as a new mortal without a memory, searching for answers to his own past. Looking at the inn now was like staring at a ghost, and he felt a momentary intense pang for his lost friends. As much as anyone else, he had been responsible for their deaths. He had not acted quickly enough, had not been able to protect Cain from Maghda the witch and her minions, had not been able to stop Leah’s slow corruption by Diablo, his ancient enemy. He had not foreseen the true role of the Black Soulstone and Leah’s coming transformation into the Prime Evil.

  She was an innocent. The pang of loss sharpened, digging its claws into him. The strength of his emotions surprised him, and Tyrael was once again reminded of his mortal shell and all that came along with it. He felt sorrow differently now, and loneliness, a melancholy that left a deep, hollow void within him.

  How many human lives had been lost defending the High Heavens? What sort of toll might be expected now, for his new mission to succeed?

  Tyrael thought of the object nestled against his chest, safely hidden under his robes. He thirsted for what lay within it; all his sorrows would be lost, at least for a while, in such swirling depths . . .

  “I don’t like the look of this place.” Jacob had come up to his side
and spoke in a low voice as the others gathered behind. “But we ought to get inside.”

  Tyrael turned to the others. Gynvir had a nasty scratch on her thigh, and Thomas was nursing a sore ankle. “The healer Malachi is always here, and he can attend to any wounds you might have received,” he said. “Cullen, you will draw the least scrutiny. Go secure lodging for us, and find a way to get us in undetected. We sleep here tonight.”

  The Slaughtered Calf was doing good business these days as a stop on one of the trade routes between Caldeum and Westmarch. Tonight there was something else going on, and it didn’t take Cullen long to get the gist of it. A party in support of Bron the barkeep, the apparent owner of the establishment, for mayor of New Tristram was in full swing, and there were enough dealers and thieves drinking with Bron and the other locals that they paid the short, balding scholar little attention as he requested several rooms for himself and his traveling party, which he described as including a high nobleman from Caldeum who would prefer to remain anonymous. Cullen slipped Bron extra payment for his troubles, and the barkeep directed him to a back entrance, out of sight of prying eyes.

  “Mayor’s a job for suckers and fools,” Bron muttered, his eyes bleary with drink. “Holus ran straight for the hills at the first sign of trouble, left us high and dry, he did. Be damned if you’ll catch me doing his duty, but I’ll accept their mead while it runs freely.”

  Cullen nodded as if he sympathized, and Bron went tottering off to bend another man’s ear. Cullen led the rest of the group in through the back door, as Bron had suggested. A barmaid brought them mutton leg and bread from the kitchen, and Malachi came to treat Gynvir’s scratch and Thomas’s ankle, but neither one was suffering much pain, and they required little but salve and cloth wraps to hold the swelling down.

  Cullen paid the healer generously to keep his silence, but Tyrael knew that it wouldn’t last long. Malachi had been drinking, too, his cheeks rosy and his eyes glazed. Soon there would be stories around town of the strange group of spellcasters and warriors who looked as if they had just come from battle and had taken up residence at the inn, and more questions would be asked. They would not be able to stay long, but they needed rest to gather their strength for the journey ahead.

  Still, as they finished eating and settled into their two rooms, the members of the group were unable to sleep and gathered to talk among themselves as Tyrael slipped out the back again for a quiet check of the streets outside the Slaughtered Calf.

  The streets were silent and abandoned, with no signs of danger. Tyrael did not remain, afraid of what he might do if faced with the emptiness of the night beyond the glow of the lanterns. When he returned through the back door, the sounds of a lyre called to him from the tavern. He paused, looking in at the group of revelers gathered there, remembering once again when he had come here with Deckard and Leah. Then the tavern had been mostly cleared out to make room for the wounded, but long tables now occupied its center, most of them full of rough-looking locals.

  The large, open space was filled with flickering candlelight, and thick beams ran across the ceiling and walls, the wide, worn floorboards faded to a dull, weathered gray. Above him was the head of a horned beast, mounted to a wooden slab, its teeth exposed in an eternal snarl. For a moment, he was reminded of Imperius’s trophies which adorned his chambers in the Halls of Valor. Would he ever return to the Heavens again in peace, or would his last glimpse be part of a battle he could not win?

  The lyre player was at the far end of the room, strumming the tired strings with methodical determination. A man was busy tending the bar, pouring mead from a barrel for patrons sitting on stools, while Bron continued to accept offers of free drinks from the crowd.

  A moment later, Tyrael spotted a familiar hooded figure sitting alone at a small table near a bookcase to his right, a mug of mead in his hands. Several people glanced at him, then quickly away. In New Tristram, it was not good to pay too much attention to strangers, particularly those who were armed.

  “You should remain out of sight,” Tyrael said. “We are not here to call attention to ourselves.”

  Jacob took a long drag from his mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nobody pays me much mind,” he said. “I’ve learned how to blend in. You, on the other hand, with El’druin at your side . . .” He did not finish the sentence but finally looked up. His eyes were unfocused, but Tyrael saw pain there, along with something else. Perhaps anger, perhaps simply regret.

  “May I sit?”

  Jacob waved at the empty chair across from him. “Do what you will.”

  “You fought bravely tonight,” Tyrael said.

  “I barely kept myself from getting killed. Gynvir saved me from those two berserkers, or I might have met my end before we began.” Jacob downed the last of his mead and gestured for more to a barmaid who was hurrying by with a tray. “Tell me, are you serious about invading the Heavens with this ragged band of thieves?”

  Tyrael looked to be sure nobody was paying them any attention. “I have tried to appeal to the Council, but they will not listen,” he said. “It is the only way.”

  “The rest of our little group is bad enough. A sorry bunch of lost souls. But I don’t understand why you’ve chosen me. I can’t possibly offer you much, not anymore.”

  “Such self-pity does not suit you, Jacob of Staalbreak. You have a crucial role to play,” Tyrael said. He wanted to speak plainly, although he wasn’t sure Jacob would listen. “You must find your inner strength again and show the others the way if we are to have any chance at success.” You are also the kind of leader this group desperately needs, he thought. But Tyrael was blind in matters of the heart, and Jacob was far from ready to lead anyone. Jacob clearly still held strong feelings for the wizard Shanar. That, coupled with his frustration over the loss of El’druin, made him a liability. One that Tyrael could not afford.

  “You and the wizard have a history,” he said. “I have no doubt it is a complicated one. Do not let that get in the way of what needs to be done.”

  Jacob looked at Tyrael as if finally seeing him. “We were together for a long time, fighting against injustice in this world,” he said. “Ivan, too, although he came and went as it suited him. But when I lost El’druin, I no longer interested her. She left me.” He shrugged. “She is still as beautiful as the moment I first saw her. How is that possible, while I’ve aged twenty years?”

  Tyrael studied the slump of Jacob’s shoulders. “Do you think she was after the sword?”

  “Not the sword . . .” He waved again. “What it did for me.”

  “And Gynvir? What did she want?”

  Jacob paused for so long Tyrael wondered if he had forgotten the question. The barmaid brought him another mug of mead, and he took a large swallow. “She was a loyal friend,” he said. “Perhaps there were some feelings that complicated things. It ended badly for all of us. She left, too. And now, to have her saving my skin when I couldn’t even handle a single wounded berserker . . .”

  He did not have to finish the thought. Jacob had looked weak and helpless at the moment when he had most wanted to impress his old companions. But this was not about impressing anyone; it was about a duty to fight for the side of the righteous, even if it meant acting against the Heavens themselves.

  “Your power was never about El’druin, Jacob,” Tyrael said. “You are a descendant of Inarius and Lilith, and you administer justice with or without it.”

  Jacob shook his head. “The sword was everything. You don’t understand what it’s like . . . to go from a man to a god,” he said, the intensity in his voice rising. “And then back again!”

  “Perhaps I do.”

  Jacob sat back, stared at him for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. “You chose to become like us, and yet you remain a part of the Heavens. Still an archangel but with a mortal soul?”

  “After the Prime Evil’s fall, Justice was no longer needed. I chose to sit as Wisdom, a mortal among the
Angiris Council. But I could not convince them of the danger they faced, nor could I stand with them as they debated the destruction of humanity.”

  Jacob stared off into space and said nothing for a while. “How could you give that up?” he said finally. “The power of it, the beauty, eternal life . . .”

  A chill settled over Tyrael. Mankind struggles toward the stars, he thought, while we, in our gilded rooms, sit in judgment over them and in our hearts wish we could switch places and experience the mortal flesh, the thump of blood in our veins. Or perhaps not; perhaps he was the only one. Now he belonged in neither world, a mortal without a home.

  Instead of answering, he gestured at the mug of mead. “Do you think this is what your father would have wanted, Jacob? Drowning your sorrows in drink, while the innocent are slaughtered?”

  “What do you know about my father?”

  “I know he was a good man, before the rage plague took him. I know he taught you the meaning of right and wrong, the importance of justice handed out without the taint of revenge and with good judgment. These are the things you must remember, not what happened after he was lost.”

  “He murdered my mother for a crime she didn’t commit,” Jacob said. “And I killed him. I had to do it, or he would have done the same to me. Rage plague or not, where is the justice in that?”

  A surge of laughter came from the bar as Bron stumbled, stone-faced drunk, and had to be propped back on his stool. As the candlelight flickered across Jacob’s tortured face, Tyrael glanced around the room and found no eyes upon them. He unbuckled the sheath that held El’druin and set it with the sword on the table between them.

  Jacob stared at the sheath and the sword. For a moment, Tyrael thought he might reach for them, but the man slowly shook his head.

  “You’re wrong,” he said. “I was never the avatar of Justice. I was simply a placeholder, keeping the sword sharp and ready for your return.” Abruptly, he stood. “I need to get some sleep,” he said. “The morning will be here soon enough.”