Diablo III: Storm of Light

by Kenyon, Nate

  Tyrael watched the gathering creatures with growing horror. It made no sense. Beasts such as these did not often travel together. And they seemed to be acting with some coordination, almost as if they had been herded to this spot.

  How had they found this place, and what was their purpose?

  He didn’t have any more time to ponder the question. The lead berserker charged forward, snarling, maul raised and ready to crush Gynvir’s skull. The barbarian sidestepped neatly and swung her battle axe with one hand, burying it in the beast’s shoulder. The berserker howled and yanked free, black blood spurting across Gynvir’s chest as she pivoted to swing again, meeting the beast’s maul with her axe, sparks showering through the rain.

  “Keep your distance!” Jacob shouted. The fat undead had waddled forward, surprisingly fast for their bulk. Zayl muttered into the wind, and a nest of bones rose up from where they had been scattered across the steps. A gesture turned them into hurtling spears that impaled two of the monstrous creatures in multiple places. They started shuddering uncontrollably, then burst apart, spreading a shower of corpse worms that wriggled toward Jacob’s boots. He stomped at them, slicing and hacking at their sightless heads with his sword as green slime joined the rainwater in a slick, oozing sheet of muck.

  Across the clearing, the spiders advanced on scuttling legs, hissing, venom dripping to the ground and sizzling like acid. Tyrael sliced the front limbs off one that had reared back to strike, leaving it mewling in pain and waving stumps that sprayed sticky fluid. He stepped back, avoiding the mess, and thrust El’druin into its broad abdomen, spilling guts onto the forest floor.

  More hideous creatures left the cover of the woods. Tyrael’s heart sank at the sight; this was a far more dangerous skirmish than Tristram. But the Horadrim fought back hard. Shanar was throwing bolts of purple energy that burned the flesh from the bones of the closest hellions, and the monk was protecting the flanks of Thomas and Cullen, who were fighting off another pack of giant spiders and trying to avoid their deadly venom while being attacked from behind by a berserker. Nahr fought bravely with his sword, slicing hellions in half with mighty blows.

  Tyrael felt a strange surge of pride for them. They were beginning to work together. Perhaps they had a chance after all.

  Something flitted among the trees, moving quickly, a dark shape that had vanished before Tyrael could get his bearings. He turned and saw another hovering like a gigantic bat above the cliff face, and that too disappeared. More black shapes moved at the edges of his sight, and each time he whirled to face them, they were gone.

  “Show yourselves!” Nahr screamed, his voice full of anguish. The big man turned quickly, searching for something else to strike. The heavy rain made it even harder to track movement, causing confusion and panic; he almost sliced Tyrael’s arm as he spun with his bloody sword, then stumbled to his knees in the muck.

  As the archangel turned back toward the approaching dark vessels, a flash lit up the clearing, searing the trunks of trees into vivid relief and washing everything to a white, blank emptiness that lingered far too long. Tyrael threw his arm up to shield his face, blinking into the heavy rain to clear his sight.

  Spots floated before his eyes.

  A portal had opened beyond the tree line.

  A Sicarai emerged from the trees. The angelic destroyer scanned the clearing and then charged at Tyrael, weapon ready to deliver a deadly strike.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Sicarai

  The destroyer’s huge, golden, double-bladed sword sang as the mighty angel flew forward through the clearing. The Sicarai’s aura glowed red like fine droplets of blood, wings like writhing tongues of energy that snapped through the rain like bolts of lightning. His armor-covered, ethereal body was gigantic and crackling with power. And he was relentlessly focused on his target, zeroing in with singular precision.

  Had Imperius sent a destroyer after Tyrael, with no regard for the implications for Sanctuary, a world that had never encountered a thing like this? Would the Council have chosen to look the other way and allow it to happen?

  If he could not stop the Sicarai, they would surely all be slaughtered like cattle and lost forever in this forsaken place in the mountains, and their mission would end before it had even truly begun.

  Tyrael knew most of the Sicarai well. He had trained many of them himself as the archangel of Justice. But this one was a stranger to him, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t know any particular quirks or tendencies he might have, any weaknesses to exploit. The Sicarai were nearly unbeatable fighters, and without some kind of advantage, the battle was already lost.

  There was a time when I would stand up to a warrior like this and teach him a lesson, he thought. But I am mortal now. My flesh is no match for such a thing.

  Yet Tyrael was still skilled with his sword, and he had his wits to use as a weapon.

  Tyrael scanned the clearing. As he glanced behind him, he saw one of the black creatures scuttling up the sheer cliff face like a spider, its wings acting like extra legs, before it launched itself into the rain and soared overhead. A fresh chill fell over him; the creature was an abomination of the light, a faceless horror that seemed to have come from nowhere, and yet there was something familiar about it. More of them flitted beyond the clearing, slipped through the shadows of the trees. But they kept their distance and did not attack, and Tyrael wondered with a sinking feeling whether they were allowing the Sicarai space to do his work.

  Shanar struck at the destroyer with arcs of bright energy, but the purple lashes fell across his armor with little or no effect. The Sicarai’s wings snapped and writhed as he bore down on Tyrael. Gynvir stepped into his path and was tossed aside like a rag doll by a single, mighty blow, the barbarian flying halfway across the clearing and landing with a heavy, lifeless thud in the muck.

  Shanar cried out and rushed to her friend’s aid, kneeling at her side and keeping the hellions at bay with flashes of energy. Tyrael lost sight of them both as more creatures converged on their location, and then the Sicarai was upon him.

  The warrior swung his sword in a strike meant to take his head from his shoulders. Tyrael raised El’druin to fend off the blow, and the two weapons clashed with a mighty explosion of light. The impact nearly shattered Tyrael, causing his muscles to clench and shudder, his arms feeling as if they would be yanked from their sockets. He stumbled sideways, somehow keeping his feet underneath him, but the Sicarai swung again at an angle meant to get under his defenses and break his sword in half.

  El’druin held, though, the weapon glowing fiercely as Tyrael parried the blow with a defensive move that directed the Sicarai’s sword to glance harmlessly off his own. But the shuddering impact nearly took El’druin from his hands. The destroyer’s speed and strength were astonishing. Already the Sicarai had readied himself for another blow. Tyrael managed to duck away, countering with a quick slash that did not come close to landing. I cannot defeat him this way. He needed time to think.

  Rain fell even harder than before, the ground becoming slick and soft. Tyrael glanced quickly to his right, searching for an answer. One of the grotesques was waddling closer, its patchwork skin crawling with insects and parasites, belly bulging and rolling as the corpse worms squirmed inside. Tyrael sliced a wide wound across the creature’s abdomen before stepping lightly clear. It shuddered, gave a wet choking sound, and then exploded, sending fluid and worms flying.

  The gore splattered the Sicarai across the chest. More worms writhed in the mud, fixed themselves to the destroyer’s armor, wriggled across his helmet. They soaked up his energy like sponges, growing larger. The Sicarai wiped them off, but the momentary distraction had worked enough to slow him down.

  The dark vessels had advanced across the clearing, their horned heads jerking and bobbing, clawlike limbs shivering uncontrollably, entrails dragging in the mud. Tyrael slipped behind them, gaining another precious moment. The Sicarai was about brute force, seeking to overpower through momentum a
nd intimidation. But swordplay was also about defense, quickness, and skill. He had to hope he had enough of those to find a way to survive in time for the others to join him. Their only chance was to fight as one.

  With a single, vicious slash, the destroyer cut the closest dark vessel in half. The remaining pieces quivered violently, emitting a blood-red light as the demon that had inhabited its shell was released, howling, into the wind. Tyrael noticed more of the dark-winged phantoms in the trees as several hellions tried to slink away, cutting the beasts off and pushing them back. Another thought occurred to him: could the phantoms have herded this pack of demons to the clearing in the first place? If so, that implied a cunning and sinister purpose that he couldn’t yet grasp.

  His focus returned to the Sicarai as the warrior charged him once again over the twitching remains of the dark vessel. Tyrael parried and kept enough distance to avoid a killing blow, keeping his arm motions quick and light to deflect the destroyer’s sword. But he was tiring, and the Sicarai was relentless, driving forward with his weapon again and again. Tyrael dodged each blow, using the creatures in the clearing as shields and lunging at the merest glimpse of an opening, eventually scoring a strike with El’druin that clashed across the destroyer’s armor with a flash of sparks, drawing a growl of rage but doing little damage.

  He looked across the clearing at the others. Mikulov darted forward, lashing out with his fists and landing a blow that released a powerful concussion of energy. But the Sicarai barely paused long enough to swipe at the monk, the way a man might swat a buzzing insect.

  Mikulov danced away unharmed. Thomas and Cullen had fought off a giant arachnid and called out to the necromancer, who had impaled a berserker through the neck. Zayl muttered into the wind, raising a thicket of bones that fell around the Sicarai and quickly wove themselves into walls, more of them piling on until the destroyer was lost from sight behind them. A moment later, a massive blow from his sword shattered the bones, and they fell uselessly to the ground.

  Tyrael was beginning to lose hope. But it was Gynvir who finally turned the tide in their favor.

  Against all odds, the barbarian had regained her feet. An aura enclosed her, glowing softly in the rain as she raced toward where the Sicarai and Tyrael were battling, infused with a righteous fury that lifted her up and propelled her ahead. The destroyer, focused on his target, did not sense her approach as she raised her battle axe and brought it down with a shout of triumph.

  The axe blade, illuminated in the dim light, sliced cleanly through three light strands of the Sicarai’s wing, severing them at the shoulder.

  The destroyer screamed, an inhuman sound full of pain and surprise. He whirled toward Gynvir, leaving a moment for Tyrael to strike.

  The archangel lunged, directing El’druin at a weak point in the joint of armor on the Sicarai’s right arm. The sword’s blade bit down, not through flesh and blood but through the light energy that made up the angel’s being. The destroyer roared again as El’druin flared brightly, and the Sicarai dropped his weapon in the muck. Tyrael’s hand burned with fire, but he held on to his sword as he withdrew, keeping enough distance to avoid being struck by the enraged warrior, who spun around, searching for the enemy that had suddenly attacked him from all sides. Although he had lost his weapon, he was still a very dangerous foe.

  Red-tinged light spewed through the Sicarai’s armor like blood as Jacob darted in quickly and snatched the destroyer’s sword from the ground.

  Tyrael could see Jacob grit his teeth, but he held on to the weapon, standing up straight and brandishing it in the air. Water sizzled on the hot blade.

  “Come for me!” Jacob shouted, cords standing out in his neck. He looked around wildly, searching for the phantoms that dipped and flitted through the rain. Smoke was rising from his flesh, his hair beginning to stand on end. But he held strong. “Come on, if you dare!”

  The Sicarai roared again, then slipped backward and away into the trees as the other beasts that remained standing also began to retreat. A sound like a moan echoed across the cliff face and the valley below as the black-winged phantoms withdrew, fading into the steel-gray clouds above their heads as if they had never existed at all.

  Spent, his muscles trembling and near collapse, Tyrael looked down in the muck at his feet. The severed strands of the Sicarai’s wing had lost their light, and the thin gray threads woven through them appeared clearly now, standing out in relief like veins, before the strands turned black, fusing into glass that shattered into tiny pieces and disappeared.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Hallowed Destroyer

  “Are you in pain?”

  Jacob’s jaw was set in a hard line, and a sheen of sweat had broken out on his face, which was the color of old parchment. But his eyes were strong, and his gaze met Tyrael’s with a steady calm that the archangel hadn’t seen before.

  “I’ve had worse,” Jacob said. “I’ll live.”

  The healer from Bramwell, a woman named Idalki, had just finished wrapping Jacob’s hands in salve-soaked bandages made of the sap of an okris plant and spider’s silk. She had chanted something softly over the wounds, but whether it had helped or not, Tyrael couldn’t tell. Jacob’s hands had blistered badly, and the skin was sloughing off in red strips. The necromancer had offered to try a healing spell, but Gynvir wouldn’t let him near Jacob.

  No human was meant to hold a Sicarai’s sword, Tyrael thought. And yet in spite of the agony it must have caused him, Jacob had brandished it before an angelic destroyer, an act of courage that had quite possibly saved them all.

  “Commander Nahr is waiting for you,” Zayl said. The necromancer stood in the doorway of the modest home, hands clasped at his waist. Tyrael held his gaze for a moment, and Zayl nodded slightly. It is done.

  “I felt it,” Jacob said, to no one in particular. “The sword, flowing through me . . . I felt alive again.”

  Tyrael rested a hand on Jacob’s shoulder, then rose from his kneeling position. There was hope yet for him to become the leader Tyrael believed he could be, hope for their mission to succeed.

  “I will be back shortly,” he said. “Try to rest.”

  The fire was roaring in the workshop as Nahr worked the bellows and manipulated his tools and the object before him with skill and great speed. Sparks flew; energy coiled and released. Red and orange light flickered across the faces of Thomas and Cullen, who had gathered around a table near the door, poring over the artifacts Cullen had brought back with him from the hidden temple.

  Cullen looked up when Tyrael entered, his face shining in the heat and flushed with excitement. “This is an original scroll, written in Akarat’s own hand!” he said.

  “The crusaders would be very interested in this, indeed,” Tyrael said. “I have met several, and their goal is to redeem the Zakarum. An original scroll written by Akarat would be one of their most prized possessions.”

  “It describes his vision that led to the founding of the Zakarum faith,” Cullen continued, “and it is much as Deckard Cain had suspected. From reading this, I am certain that the vision he received was in fact a cosmic echo of Uldyssian’s sacrifice and not a message from an angel. But there’s more.” He picked up a newer text. “Based on the writings contained in this volume, I believe these artifacts were placed in the cavern by Korsikk for safekeeping and then lost when he was taken by the barbarians.”

  “The son of Rakkis?” Tyrael took the book from Cullen’s hands as Nahr’s hammering filled the air. The book was dense with scrawled handwriting, notes scattered across the page. He’d had some experience lately compiling the lore Cain and Leah had left behind, but this was far more difficult to piece together. He didn’t know how Cullen was able to decipher it all.

  Cullen nodded. “According to Korsikk’s journal, his father was obsessed with a search for an early lair of the nephalem, the supposedly hidden city, and Korsikk joined in the pursuit,” he said. “Korsikk discovered the location we found in the mountains, whic
h he believed was originally used as a shielded outpost—a place for the nephalem to hide when they were in danger. Korsikk had a Vizjerei sorcerer trap the bone demon to guard it, intending to return. He thought these outposts existed all over Sanctuary. But he believed the nephalem’s city and base of operations was constructed by an ancient nephalem called Daedessa and located to the west. It was near there where Westmarch was built, and where they put Rakkis upon his death.”

  “The lost tomb of Rakkis.”

  “That’s right.” Cullen nodded, glancing at Thomas. His excitement was palpable. “We believe the city may be some distance away from the outer walls of Westmarch, but a tunnel leading to it lies directly below Westmarch itself. The entrance to the tunnel is quite possibly under the Church of the Holy Order. There are hand-drawn maps here. But it will be protected by a magic infused many centuries ago, and only a true nephalem will have the key to opening the door.”

  “If you travel to Westmarch, you’ll be entering a hornet’s nest,” Nahr said. He had been listening as they spoke, the heat from the fire making him glisten. “The templar control the Church of the Holy Order, but the knights won’t stand idle much longer. The king will demand a cleansing. The people of that city have no idea what danger they’re in.”

  “We leave tomorrow,” Tyrael said. “Commander Nahr, you could be an asset to us.”

  Nahr shook his head. “I cannot leave,” he said. “My duty lies here in Bramwell until General Torion calls for me to lead the Knights of Westmarch once again. But I can send word with you, so that the knights know you can be trusted.” He turned back to his table for a moment, wiped his hands, and returned with something wrapped in heavy cloth. Nahr moved slowly, as if whatever he had been working on had taken a terrible toll on him.