Diablo III: Storm of Light

by Kenyon, Nate

  “It is done, as you asked,” he said. “A mortal with tremendous skill may be able to wield it, although it will take great strength, even with my adjustments.”

  Tyrael took the bundle. It was warm. He could feel the sharp, deadly edges of the weapon under the cloth that cradled it. He unwrapped enough to see the handle of the Hallowed Destroyer, the Sicarai’s sword. Nahr had bound it in wire and leather that he had branded with a seal, and he had done something to the blade that cooled its power to make it possible to wield. But the sword still thrummed with energy.

  “You have done well,” Tyrael said. “We thank you, Commander, for everything.”

  “Show this brand to my son in Westmarch,” Nahr said, pointing at the seal. “It is the mark of the house of Nahr, and he will know it is my work and that you have my blessing.” For a moment, a look of pain came into Nahr’s eyes. His face seemed haggard, his cheeks sunken and gray. “Many people have died,” he said. “Whatever you must do to stop this . . . it is not fast enough.”

  And then Nahr turned and left the workshop, hobbling like an old man, his broad shoulders bent as if he carried a heavy burden.

  Tyrael left Cullen and Thomas arguing over the details of the journal and the artifacts they had found, and slipped into the twilight. Nahr was nowhere to be seen, and he felt a twinge of guilt for what he had asked of the man. Reshaping an angelic blade took tremendous skill and energy and could be extremely dangerous.

  But if he was right, the results would be worth the sacrifice.

  The darkness was deeper than before, and the cold air from the gulf made him draw his robes closer around him. The weapon Nahr had reforged was still warm in Tyrael’s grasp. He had asked the commander to make these alterations for Jacob’s sake; it would become a focal point for him, a way to harness his inner strength. But the challenges that lay ahead would take more to overcome than this. They were closer to finding the nephalem stronghold than ever, but what then? Once they reached the lost city, the true test would begin. They would have to face the Heavens themselves, eight mortals against an army of angels.

  If they got that far. None of them had spoken much about what had happened on the mountain. But Tyrael knew Imperius and the Sicarai would not stop. The destroyer would be back and would not be taken by surprise again. The real question, Tyrael thought as he made his way to a quiet spot behind the shop, was how the Sicarai and the demon horde had found them in the first place. Had they been tracked ever since they left Tristram? Were the so-called phantoms behind it? And how were they connected to the stone?

  He thought about Jacob’s puckered wound from the dark-winged creature’s touch. He has been marked . . .

  A breeze rustled through the trees that lined the edges of Nahr’s property. Beyond lay the deeper forest that rose into the mountains, and beyond that lay Westmarch, several days’ hard travel to the west. Anything could be hidden in that forest. With slightly trembling fingers, Tyrael laid the wrapped weapon at his feet and removed Chalad’ar from the interior pocket of his robes. He was out of view of anyone who might emerge from the shop or Nahr’s home, away from the others, and there was time later to sleep. A strange and yet familiar desire stirred within him. The chalice would offer him satisfaction and understanding, a way to relieve the burden that had been placed on his shoulders.

  But when he peered into Chalad’ar’s depths, that relief did not come. Instead, a wave of despair washed over him, more powerful than any he’d experienced before. The web of light strands encased him, running through his flesh and bringing with them the truth of what they faced; he saw clearly the end of their lives, one by one, as they were overcome with terror and the ache of violence and loss. Anger turned itself inward, and he saw his own weaknesses, his own failings laid bare. He was neither angel nor man, but he had all the trappings of both—pride and recklessness, lust and sorrow, and the frailty that came with a beating heart. Love was a fatal flaw, caring for others a handicap that would lead to his own end.

  He saw Deckard Cain dying on the rough floorboards of his home in Tristram, reaching out for solace and finding none; Leah consumed by the Prime Evil, her body twisting and tearing to pieces as she shrieked in agony. He saw Commander Nahr drained and lifeless on the ground; he saw Jacob roasted alive, the flesh boiling from his bones. He saw Cullen’s headless body, quivering before its collapse in a lake of blood.

  The worst of it was the understanding that the void was waiting for them all in the end and that there was nothing but emptiness and oblivion after their mortal shells had fallen to dust.

  Tyrael screamed without sound, his body convulsing, the agony going on endlessly as time ceased to exist. Dimly, he was aware of another presence that watched him with clinical detachment, seeming to decide the next move to make.

  Sometime later, he came to his senses with a start. He was in the woods in full dark, the trees looming like faceless giants all around him, faint moonlight filtering down through heavy branches. The frigid air prickled his skin.

  Tyrael’s body ached with every breath. He clutched the chalice in both hands, his fingers cramped and his shoulders like blocks of ice. He looked around, disoriented. How long had he been gone? He remembered nothing, except that presence watching him through Chalad’ar.

  Something moved in the darkness nearby.

  He returned the chalice to his robes and put a hand on the hilt of his sword. The barest whisper came to him through the trees, the sound of a branch sliding past a body in motion. He turned, saw a dark shape slip past him and disappear.

  Phantoms? He waited, quieting his own breathing, motionless, but nothing else happened. The moonlight grew stronger and he could see the surrounding forest and the path that he must have broken coming up from below. Perhaps he had been wrong and had seen things that were not there, a lingering effect of the chalice. The cold eased slightly as he made his way back down. Soon he could see the back of Nahr’s workshop, the bundle that contained the Sicarai’s sword still lying where he had left it.

  As he emerged from the forest and picked the bundle up, Mikulov stepped from the shadows.

  “You should not be out alone,” the monk said. “Anyone can disappear in woods such as these.” He studied Tyrael’s face for a moment. “You are troubled. There is a great struggle within you, and you seek answers. But you will not find them out here.”

  Something fiercely protective came over Tyrael. Did the monk know about the chalice? What had he witnessed in the woods tonight? Had it been Mikulov that Tyrael had seen moving in the shadows of the trees? “You should not be so quick to judge,” he replied. “You know nothing about what I face.”

  “I do not judge,” the monk said. “I do not pretend to understand what it means to go from angel to mortal or the burden of deciding what is right for the future of Sanctuary and the Heavens. But whatever choices you make must be yours alone, if you seek the truth. The gods have shown me this.”

  “Your gods,” Tyrael said. “Not mine.”

  Mikulov simply nodded. “Perhaps we call them different things,” he said. “But the advice is the same. I believe your heart is pure, your intentions honorable. I would not be here if I did not. But there are dangerous forces at work that threaten us all, and they will use any means necessary to disrupt our plans. Some we might recognize. Others . . .” He shrugged. “We may not see until it is too late.”

  Tyrael kept his hands steady, but inside his rage was boiling to the surface. The monk should not have been spying on him tonight, and his concerns were misplaced. Chalad’ar simply showed him what already existed in a way that helped him understand what must be done. That was its purpose, to steel him against the difficult choices he must make as a leader.

  You may lose some of those you care about in order to save millions. It was the way of the world, and nothing he could do would change that.

  “We leave for Westmarch in the morning,” Tyrael said. “I do not believe the destroyer could heal so soon, but it is only a matter o
f time, and Imperius may send others instead. Keep watch until I send someone to relieve you.”

  He did not wait for the monk to respond, slipping by him and around the workshop toward Nahr’s home, his heart hardening against all doubt. Things would proceed as planned. Gynvir had tapped into her nephalem powers for the first time, and the others could also do so. He would present the Sicarai’s sword to Jacob tonight, and they would leave Bramwell at the break of dawn and push hard to reach Westmarch before their enemies could gather against them once again.

  What mattered now was locating the lost nephalem stronghold and preparing for their invasion of the Silver City. Above all, Imperius and the Angiris Council must not know they were coming.

  Mikulov watched the archangel go. His heart was heavy, his thoughts conflicted. He had seen Tyrael enter the woods as if in a trance, carrying an object of great beauty and power with him, but the monk did not know its purpose. Judging by the look of it, the object had come from the Heavens and not Sanctuary. And yet he sensed a terrible danger emanating from it. The conflict between the two worlds boiled within the archangel, and Mikulov knew that it could very well mean their doom.

  Hear me, he said silently to the gods. Help me discover the path to light and peace.

  Mikulov closed his eyes. He felt the air caress his face, heard the murmur of the pine boughs in the forest, tasted salt on his tongue. And then all fell silent. He could sense the gods trying to communicate, but something held them back, a barrier of some kind that deadened sound, turned light to darkness, turned fire to ice, and brought eternal sleep.

  The monk opened his eyes, searching for the source. His mind took flight, drifting through visions. The moon faded from the sky; the trees disappeared into a black emptiness that ate the world and left him floating alone and untethered, his soul separating from his physical form. He drifted up above himself, feeling the wind lift him higher as the commander’s property stretched below, the sound of a moan coming from the figures gathered like statues around the fallen body lying crumpled on the ground: his own lifeless form. He saw the phantoms that finally took him away on silent black wings into the night as a plague of angels descended upon the world, carrying death with them.

  Chapter Twenty

  The High Heavens

  The Sicarai stood at attention, his bearing betraying little of the agony that must have consumed him. The destroyer’s arm hung uselessly at his side, and his wing had been partially severed near the shoulder. Pride and training would not allow the fierce warrior to show any pain, but Balzael could tell his wounds would take time to heal.

  Balzael had already listened to the Sicarai’s account of the battle. Somehow Tyrael’s group had managed to find an ancient nephalem location that had been concealed for millennia from the Heavens and the Hells. What was worse, the scouts had told the Sicarai the group was searching for a larger, secret nephalem stronghold for a purpose that remained unclear.

  How could a small band of ragged humans have stood strong against an army of demons and an angelic destroyer, not only holding their own but actually causing such damage? And what was their ultimate purpose—to come after the Black Soulstone?

  They couldn’t possibly think they could succeed. He looked at the Sicarai’s wing. A barbarian female has done this with an axe. No human weapon should have been able to penetrate the energy contained in an angel’s wings; even the slightest contact should have burned her to ash.

  It amazed Balzael, and he wondered what it meant. A single nephalem warrior had managed to turn back the Prime Evil from the Crystal Arch where the Luminarei had failed, but Balzael had always assumed that had been a miracle brought by a human who had transcended the race itself and become greater than the mixed blood that pumped beneath all their skins. Humans were dangerous under certain circumstances, like a cornered animal, nothing more than that.

  But now he must adjust his thinking. Tyrael had been cleverer than he had realized, assembling his team of new Horadrim. He was doing the same thing he had done centuries ago. These humans would require a more aggressive and thought-out approach.

  “You have failed me,” Balzael said. “And you have lost your weapon. A Sicarai never drops his sword. The Guardian will not suffer this lightly.”

  “I am sorry, my lord,” the Sicarai said. His voice was still deep and strong, with no hint of the pain that he must be experiencing. “I will not allow this to happen again.”

  “Of course not.” Balzael tried to keep his rage from boiling over. The destroyer had been taken by surprise this time; it was the only explanation. He thought about unleashing the Luminarei in all its fury right now. But he could not order it alone, and the Council was not yet ready to agree, in spite of all Balzael had done. Imperius would never allow the army to descend upon the land of men until the final decision had been made on Sanctuary’s fate.

  Not until the stone had been given time to do its work.

  No, the Sicarai and their friends on the ground were enough. There were parts of this disaster that he could use, if he thought things through carefully. Tyrael’s team was seeking something important. They had already proved more resourceful than Balzael’s allies in Sanctuary.

  He must learn more about the nephalem stronghold and consult the Guardian about it. Perhaps there was something they could use—and perhaps the humans would lead him right to the stronghold’s location, if he showed patience and cunning.

  Balzael had gone in too blindly this time, seemingly assured of an easy victory. He needed weaknesses to exploit; humans cared far too much for one another, and that meant they were vulnerable. First, he had to know more about them, and then he needed to understand the alliances among them so he could tear them apart.

  Balzael studied the warrior still standing at attention. This was his very best. And now he held a grudge.

  “Tell me again exactly what they were doing on that mountain,” Balzael said. “Leave nothing out—I want to know every step, every breath they took, everything they removed from the nephalem chamber. And then you will heal your wounds and prepare to face them again, and this time, you will not fail.”

  For a moment, the Sicarai’s power flared, his anger shining through before discipline and training took over. “They will regret what they have done; I promise you.”

  Balzael nodded. He had much to do; Imperius was waiting, and there were others who also needed to be updated. One, in particular, who would not be pleased. But Balzael was still confident that no humans, regardless of their skills, could possibly stand against them for long. And just in case Tyrael proved to be even more resourceful than Balzael had anticipated, there were other ways to attack him, ways that he would not see coming.

  Balzael readied himself to brief his commander and for the lashing that would surely come. It would not be much longer now before he would have far better news to report.

  And then all of Sanctuary will burn.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Church of the Holy Order

  The Horadrim kept to less-traveled paths for the next few days, sleeping in brief stretches with lookouts. Zayl used a concealment spell that deadened the sound of their footsteps and cloaked their forms from sight. There was no sign of the phantoms that had plagued them, and the Sicarai did not appear again.

  Jacob walked at Shanar’s side and kept the destroyer’s sword at his waist at all times. Tyrael had presented it to him before they left Commander Nahr’s home, and the weapon gave him strength and courage that had been missing for far too long. He was beginning to feel whole again, even trying to bridge the chasm between Gynvir and the necromancer, which remained as wide and treacherous as the Gulf of Westmarch. The barbarian appeared changed since the battle on the mountain; an awakening of some kind had occurred, a power that now coiled within her.

  Finally, the Horadrim reached the outskirts of the city of Westmarch. They joined a growing flood of people, trying to blend into the crowd. Huge stone walls surrounded an impressive, heavily fo
rtified entrance lined with lookouts and archers. Westmarch was thriving, in stark contrast with Bramwell, and much larger, with ramparts and stone buildings rising up through seemingly endless hills.

  The familiar shape of the snarling wolf was set against deep red banners that snapped in the wind as the Horadrim entered the gates along with carts laden with goods, drawn by packbeasts and others on foot. Jacob could smell the city, a heady mixture of scalded meats and spices, sweat, spoiled refuse, animal spoor, and muddy ground. It reminded him of the area around the trade tents in Caldeum. People jostled one another, shouted out their wares, bickered over prices. Energy and excitement mixed with an undercurrent of violence.

  The road was paved with thick cobblestones, and scattered straw soaked up mule droppings and urine. Makeshift display tents lined any available space of the open market. Spice traders and dealers of fine cloth tried to lure people in. One old woman promising to read their fortunes would not be easily refused; she grabbed Jacob’s cloak with fingers gnarled by arthritis, but he shook her off, and she spit after him and cursed as they kept moving.

  The city was loud and thick with people as they walked. They did not see the man in armor until he was directly in front of them.

  Suddenly, the crowd parted as if by magic, and the man walked through, the metal point of his spear ringing on the stone. The people around them fell back, staring, as if waiting for the show to begin. He wore an armored breastplate and sword, and his eyes flashed above a heavy beard. “State your purpose here,” he said.

  “We look to speak with Lorath Nahr,” Tyrael said. “We have word from his father in Bramwell.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed further as he glanced at the others. “I do not know this Lorath,” he said. “But your kind is not welcome here.” He gestured at Shanar and Zayl with his spear. “Wizards and necromancers have no place in the City of the Light.”