by Kenyon, Nate
Tyrael nodded. “I can tell you that the angels never knew of this place through all the years it has existed, and it appears that the Burning Hells never discovered it, either. Does that tell you something?”
“I suspect the power that shields this place is tied to the creation of Sanctuary itself,” Cullen said, “and the interaction between the physical and ethereal planes. But the destruction of the Worldstone did not seem to weaken it. It may even be that this place exists within its own realm and that we have crossed over a bridge between worlds.”
“And do you think that by entering here, we have altered it in some way, opened this bridge to others?” asked Tyrael.
Slowly, Cullen shook his head. “The power is tied to the nephalem. One of them can open the door, but it will close again.” He looked around at the Horadrim. “One of us,” he said. “I did this, with the key—it tapped into something within me, a push and pull that I felt in my bones.”
“At some point in the past, you have all done something to tap into the power within you,” Tyrael said. “You are all nephalem. It is your birthright, your essence, given to you by the blood that runs through your veins. The very shape of these chambers can channel this energy, providing a focal point as you learn to control it, resonating at the proper pitch to increase these abilities, just as the Crystal Arch’s song does for the Heavens. But we must find the tomb. Rakkis would have chosen the center, where the power was the strongest. The tomb will provide a base of operations and the place in which to bury the stone forever, once we have retrieved it.”
“If we retrieve it,” Shanar muttered. “Jury’s still out on that.”
The wizard’s seemingly offhand remark struck perilously close to the truth.
Lorath spoke up. The young man was nervous, his gaze flitting from face to face. “I do not know you well,” he said. “But I do know of the Horadrim. It is said that my family is descended from knights who fought alongside the great Horadric mages Tal Rasha and Jered Cain during the battles against the Prime Evils. As a young man, my own uncle, Adleric, was part of the forces of Westmarch that fought against King Leoric’s army when the king went mad. Adleric even once met Deckard Cain in Tristram, and he has seen demons with his own eyes.”
Lorath paused, as if gathering himself. “I believe in your quest,” he said. “I want to become a part of history, fight alongside you, and learn the ways of the Horadrim.”
“That’s a great story, kid, and a touching thing to say,” Shanar said. “But being part of a battle against the Burning Hells without any real training—or against the Luminarei from the Heavens, for that matter—isn’t an honorable pursuit. It’s a death sentence.”
“I’m not a boy,” Lorath said. “I’m a lieutenant in the knights under the commander—my father, now that Commander Barnard is dead. And I have been told I have a knack for magic. Perhaps—”
“We owe the young man a great deal already,” Thomas cut in. “We could use his help in working with the knights.”
Tyrael was uncertain whether it was wise to take on what might be another liability at such a crucial time. Lorath had no idea what he would face, and they had no way of knowing what he would do when pushed. But several others were nodding at Thomas’s words and seemed ready to accept the young man, at least for now.
They had much work to do if they had the barest chance of success, and they could use the knights’ support. It was time now to begin the planning and the training in earnest. They would have to prepare themselves for what lay ahead. The High Heavens would offer many nearly impossible challenges for mortal beings, both physical and psychological. They would be tested to their limits. In order to escape with their lives, they would need to learn how to precisely control their nephalem abilities and to resist the wonders and horrors they would encounter.
Most chilling of all, Tyrael’s plan depended on Shanar learning how to use her unique abilities in a way that had never been attempted before—and failure would mean their certain doom. And he did not yet know if he could trust her.
Tyrael felt the tug of the chalice once again, but he would not acknowledge it in front of the Horadrim. “Very well,” he said. “Young Lorath shall be considered an apprentice in the order and will work with the Knights of Westmarch to forge an alliance.” He paused, holding each of their gazes in turn. What he saw there helped his strength and conviction return. “We will find the tomb of Rakkis. It is here, somewhere below our feet. I am sure of it.”
As it turned out, the search did not take much longer.
At first, the archangel lit blue flames in stone bowls and torches as they went, adding to the strange light that pervaded these ruins, but eventually, they found that the flames were already glowing in the new spaces they entered.
It seemed as if their presence had awakened something ancient after all, Cullen thought. The weight of the air around him pressed on his shoulders, squeezing his lungs as if it might come alive itself and wrap him in giant hands.
Far below the surface, they reached an archway that led to a circular chamber. Directly before them stretched a stone bridge over a deep chasm. The bridge led to a platform with an altar of some kind and continued over the other side and reached another archway in the opposite wall. Darkness loomed beyond.
“The tomb of Rakkis,” Cullen breathed softly. “Incredible.” It did appear to be the resting place of the old king of Westmarch, matching the crude drawings in Korsikk’s journal. The altar was shaped like a sarcophagus. The thought of Zakarum coming through these rooms, carrying the dead in a somber burial procession, and of the bones of Rakkis lying in the silence of the chamber for generations sent a chill through him, although they had already seen plenty of other bones on their way through tonight.
There was new energy among the group, even at this late hour, their exhaustion melting away with the excitement of their find. Shanar touched her fingers to the edge of the altar.
“Not exactly my idea of a peaceful eternal resting place,” she said. But her eyes sparkled as Jacob approached her, and she leaned into him slightly, her soft skin appearing to brush against his hand.
There was nothing more they could do that night, and the energy that had given them all a lift faded swiftly as exhaustion once again set in and the reality of what they still faced came back to them. The Horadrim returned through the empty and silent passages toward the surface and passed back through the shimmering wall. As soon as the last person stepped through, the shimmering ceased and the wall of the cavern was smooth and unmarked, and the stone statue once again followed Tyrael with its cold, lifeless eyes as they left.
So it is true, Cullen thought, much as I suspected. The shield remains intact. It gave him little comfort when he knew what they now had to face.
They took the other fork in the path to see where it led. Sure enough, the cavern ascended quickly to the surface, and they emerged through a natural formation of rock and a carefully constructed entrance at the edge of a great bog some distance from the city. It looked like nothing more than the ruins of an ancient and long-forgotten temple. Their luck had held, and they would not have to test the rock bridge after all.
The tall spires of Westmarch twinkled in the distance, touched by the rising sun. The smell of sulfur and mud was strong, and the sounds of frogs and other marsh creatures broke the early-morning quiet.
“A perfectly concealed lair,” Thomas said. “No one would suspect what lies beneath these waters.”
Indeed, when Cullen turned to look at the place where they had emerged, he saw nothing but crumbling stone among the weeds and thrushtails. Even if someone wandered into the catacombs below, they would never find the hidden key slot and shielded wall that led to the nephalem’s sanctuary. For that was how he had begun to think of it, not as a city but as a second sanctuary hidden within the first, a place that remained protected much as Sanctuary itself had been protected from the Heavens and the Hells by the Worldstone.
Of course, that protection
hadn’t lasted, he thought. The demons had found a way in, as had angels. Sanctuary had been corrupted, and innocence was lost long ago. Would this place be any different, once they had brought the stone here?
A mournful call drifted out over the murky waters and echoed through the woods, a chilling sound like the cry of the dead. Some kind of bird, perhaps, or other animal. But it served to punctuate their moods as they made their way around the worst of the swamp toward Westmarch.
As exhausted as they were, none of them was likely to sleep much today, Cullen thought, afraid of what dreams might come.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Calm before the Storm
Lorath led them back to the Inn of the Snapping Dog, where despite Cullen’s worries, they did indeed sleep through the day like the dead. That night, when they awoke, a raucous celebration by the knights in the tavern below was in full swing. The Horadrim were welcomed for the most part by the revelers, as full of drink and good spirits as they were. The group’s role in the siege had already spread through the ranks, and the knights were curious about them, although Zayl received a number of looks and muttered words from those who were less hospitable to spellcasters of the dark arts.
In spite of the Horadrim’s misgivings, all of them took some food and drink, except for the necromancer, who continued to be distracted by the possible nearby presence of the so-called phantoms, as he confided in Mikulov in a place by the door, far enough away from the noise for them to talk freely. Zayl spoke of a disturbance in the Balance and the restlessness of those long departed from this world, which he could sense like the murmur of a crowd in the background.
Zayl slipped away shortly after to walk the streets, and the monk would have accompanied him, but he was concerned with other things at the moment. Jacob and Shanar had retired to a table together, their heads bent close, the conversation quite intimate. Gynvir stood apart from them and appeared to be stricken with something physically painful; Mikulov had little experience with affairs of the heart, but from the way she looked at her two friends, it seemed obvious that she had strong feelings for Jacob that were tearing at her insides like a knife.
Ordinarily, Mikulov would have considered this none of his business, but in this case, a rift between them could have a direct impact on the mission. He resolved himself to watch them closely. Perhaps Tyrael should be made aware of it, he finally decided.
But when Mikulov went to look for the archangel, he was gone.
Tyrael slipped away unnoticed from the Snapping Dog, leaving the warm light from the lanterns and the raucous voices behind and entering the dark city streets.
It was time to consult the chalice. He had waited long enough. What did it matter that the others wasted precious hours in the tavern, rather than preparing themselves to storm the Heavens? The responsibility for this plan was his. And he needed the wisdom that would come to him from Chalad’ar—in particular, insights into Shanar’s role in the deception and whether it had the slightest possibility of succeeding.
He had awoken that evening with every muscle on fire. He felt every step, every breath, like a hot iron dragged across his chest. His skin itched with need for the chalice, his fingers trembling to hold it. When he was buried within its depths, he felt like an angel again. And yet he remembered what the chalice had brought the last time, the feelings of horror, hopelessness, and loss.
What was Chalad’ar doing to him? What were its effects on flesh and bone? It had never been meant for a mortal.
But the thirst was too strong to ignore.
The streets immediately outside the inn contained too many people, the noise of the city as it settled too much for him to bear. Tyrael wandered farther away, into an area of Westmarch that he hadn’t seen. He found a place off the street where a fountain had once spouted but was now dry and cracked, near a building that was crumbling and dark. A man huddled there in rags, muttering; when Tyrael entered the courtyard, he heaved himself to his feet and stumbled away, the smell of mead wafting in his wake.
When Tyrael removed Chalad’ar and peered into the chalice, a wave of relief washed across his aching bones. His mind drifted away from his physical form, leaving it slumped on the cracked and broken flagstones as he soared through singing strands of light and emotion. Almost immediately, he sensed a presence watching him, but this time, it felt soothingly familiar. This is where you belong. And yet he could not completely turn away from another voice, one that came from within and warned him that what he was doing could be the end of him.
As if in answer, the pools to which he was connected began to change, and the light wrapped itself around him in a suffocating, tangled mat. Whispers came from every direction, paranoia and fear and rage dominating them all.
A sense of darkness and corruption grew stronger. The archangels were gathering against him. Imperius had sent the Sicarai to destroy him and his team, and it was only a matter of time until he tried again. The Council had found him too easily. Did he have a traitor in his midst, and if so, would that destroy any chance Tyrael had in orchestrating the bold deception he had planned?
The monk had been watching him carefully, had spied on him in the woods and always seemed to be eyeing him. Perhaps it was indeed Mikulov, and he had been leading the phantoms to them all along. Or Jacob, who had been touched by one and still bore the mark of the creatures on his shoulder. Or even the necromancer, who seemed to know so much about the Balance between light and dark and was always nearby, lurking in the shadows like a phantom himself.
But it mattered little in the end, as long as Tyrael brought the stone back with him to Sanctuary. He had been wasting time. Many lives would be lost in the fight, just as many lives had been sacrificed before for the greater good. The stone’s corruption of the High Heavens was accelerating, and he was determined to do whatever it took to succeed in his mission.
Sometime later, Tyrael came to his senses sitting crookedly against the broken fountain. Shadows danced around the empty courtyard as the clouds played across a pregnant moon.
His lips were chapped, his throat dry. His limbs trembled with exhaustion as he forced his way to his feet.
Chalad’ar was sitting on its side a short distance from him. Momentary panic filled his thoughts at the idea that someone might have stolen it while he was asleep. The chalice was his and his alone. He was the only one who could peer into its depths and return with his mind intact. Its insights must remain with him.
Tyrael scooped up the chalice and returned it to his pocket, and relief washed over him. He glanced at each corner of the courtyard, searching for anyone who might be watching. But nothing moved, and after some time, he trudged slowly in the direction of the Inn of the Snapping Dog, full of a swirling, grasping darkness that was his and his alone.
PART THREE
Rise of the Nephalem
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Wastelands
The archangel of Wisdom stood on an endless plain of stone, dusty and cracked. His arms were pinned by a wrap of thorns that pierced his flesh and drew blood, which trickled hotly down his sides. He was naked, his mortal flesh shriveled and sagging, white and a marbled blue.
The angels surrounded him and the altar, upon which lay the child.
It was a boy; that much was apparent, although his age was difficult to say. Spikes had been driven through his wrists and ankles, nailing him to the black stone, bled white like an alabaster statue. He was human and familiar, although Tyrael could not fathom why he was here.
The archangel looked around, trying to see through the forest of angels that stood still and silent and cold, an execution squad doubling as witnesses to mark the boy’s passing. Beyond them, Tyrael could see the remains of the Pools of Wisdom, crumbling to dust. This was Heaven, and yet it was not; it was a once-familiar world seen through the eyes of a stranger.
A prodding forced him forward. He stumbled, nearly falling to his knees. He turned back for a moment, just long enough to catch a glimpse of Imperius
directly behind him. The archangel of Valor was drenched in blood. Imperius gestured with his weapon. They wanted him to look at the boy, see what had been done to him.
Dark tendrils emerged from the cracked ground beneath the altar. They slithered up the side of the black rock, hugging its glittering facets, setting off pulses of bloody, glowing light. The tendrils wrapped themselves around the boy, and as they slid into place, he opened his eyes.
There was something familiar about him. Tyrael moved closer, shuffling against his thorny bonds, aware of his nakedness and the angels watching. He looked upon the face of Jacob. His eyes were wide with pain, his mouth open as if to scream, as a squirming black strand wriggled down his throat. Jacob arched upward in agony as Tyrael’s bonds fell away, disappearing into the stone. Tyrael looked down; he held a hammer and a spike in his bloody hands, and he raised the spike and placed it against Jacob’s chest.
When he glanced up again, Jacob’s face had changed, and the archangel found himself peering into eyes identical to his own.
Tyrael sat upright on his straw mattress, sweat coating his skin. Faint gray light filtered into the room through the window as morning broke across the city of Westmarch. The dream clung to him like cobwebs, the ache in his skull compounded by images of Jacob as a child sprawled across the black altar and his own face upon the slab.
Death comes for you all, and it comes upon dark wings.
In the silence of the early dawn, Tyrael was afraid of his own mind’s betrayal. Afraid he was not strong enough to lead these people through the blinding light. This week, they would continue their preparations, culminating with an exploratory journey beyond the borders of Sanctuary. Tyrael had described some of the dangers they might face, but he had to give them a taste of it in person. It was the only way, and time was running short.
