by Kenyon, Nate
They had come too far to turn back now.
He glanced at the others in the room. Cullen and Thomas slept peacefully, but the monk’s bed was empty, as it had been every morning since they had taken the rooms at the Snapping Dog. Mikulov did not seem to have much need of sleep, but he would always return perfectly calm and rested, seemingly refreshed, from wherever he had gone.
Tyrael set his shoulders and put his darker thoughts and burdens away. He dressed quietly, then woke the others as dawn broke fully and strands of bright light burst through the clouds, painting the city in sharp blacks and whites.
Mikulov stood upon the ramparts of the city walls as the sun came up, drenching Westmarch with light. With dawn came renewal, energy, fresh life. The breath of the gods was contained in the breeze that caressed his skin, their warmth cradled in the sun’s rays. No visions had come to him this morning, and he wondered about the meaning of such silence but did not question it. The gods would provide for him, when the time was right.
The monk climbed directly over the wall, flexing his muscles from slight handhold to handhold as he moved quickly down the nearly smooth stone. The city guards did not see him, nor did anyone on the streets. He was careful this way not to raise the alarm.
He had spoken to Tyrael about his concern over Jacob, Shanar, and Gynvir. The archangel had appeared to take it in, but the monk had the sense that something else was distracting him, and it wasn’t the impending invasion of the High Heavens. Tyrael’s plan for stealing the Black Soulstone was surprising, but although the odds of success were incredibly long, Mikulov could find little in it that he would improve.
Tyrael had outlined the plan to the rest of the group several days before, drawing diagrams in the dust as they gathered once again among the catacombs. The timing was crucial. They would have to understand the realms of the Heavens and how they related to one another in order to make it through. Each realm would bring its own set of dangers, and if they wanted to survive, they would need to realize that beauty often led to ugliness and horror. Angels were not their friends, and they did not offer protection; in this case, they were as dangerous as the denizens of the Burning Hells, perhaps more so, because they would strike from behind a curtain of blinding light and majesty.
Mikulov moved quickly through the streets as the city awakened, passing citizens of Westmarch going to their places of business, unaware of the drama unfolding in their midst. What worried him now was Tyrael’s state of mind. The archangel was conflicted, and it had something to do with the object he carried. The monk had a sense that it was an object of great power, but it brought a darkness that chilled his blood. That, along with the tension between Jacob and the two women and Gynvir’s continued distrust of the necromancer, was the greatest risk they faced.
Mikulov sensed that there was something else about Tyrael’s plan that haunted him, but if the archangel was hiding a deeper truth, he would not say. The monk knew one thing for certain: together they had a chance. But without focus and trust in one another and a leader who believed in their success, the quest to steal the Black Soulstone would be very short, indeed.
Tyrael took them through the bog and back to the tomb, past echoing halls covered with strange and unknowable carvings of gigantic faces and pits filled with bones, as if the nephalem of old had simply dropped dead where they stood and rotted until their flesh was gone. The floors were made of beautiful blocks of stone, sometimes set in patterns with some purpose lost to time. In other places, the floors had crumbled away, leaving a jagged hole that revealed levels below.
Jacob walked close to Shanar. Her scent was light and clean, and he felt a strange surge of passion for her, strong enough to make him blush. Every sense was suddenly heightened. She was sending more mixed signals lately, warm one moment and cool the next, and his head swam with emotions. He was well aware of Gynvir’s jealousy, although whether it was because of her own feelings for him or simply because she was left out, he did not know.
“Tonight we will conduct our first true test,” Tyrael said, after they had once again reached the tomb. “But before that, an order of business. You will face extreme emotional and spiritual stress during our mission and truly long odds. Some of us—perhaps all—will lose our lives.” He looked around at all of them. “I am giving you one more chance to leave now, before it is too late. After this, there is no turning back.”
Jacob glanced at the others. Nobody moved, although he sensed uneasiness in Shanar, and Thomas had turned pale, his forehead slick with sweat.
The moment stretched as Tyrael continued to study them. “Very well,” he said finally. “We have made strides together, strengthened ourselves for the great challenge ahead. You have gained confidence through our prior skirmishes and our successes. But hear this: the Heavens are like nothing you have ever experienced before. Tonight I will give two of you a taste of what will come.”
Tyrael directed them into smaller groups. Thomas, Cullen, Gynvir, and Mikulov would remain in the chamber, refining the plan to reach the soulstone, familiarizing themselves with exact pathways and obstacles, and learning to navigate through the halls of the Heavens as quickly and efficiently as possible. Cullen had a detailed drawing of the Heavens’ realms, and Tyrael had pointed out a few minor mistakes. They would use Cullen’s knowledge and brains, Thomas’s skills in battle tactics, and Mikulov’s and Gynvir’s strengths in combat and stealth to settle every possible detail and lead the rest of them through.
Working alone and in the quiet of another abandoned chamber nearby, Zayl would focus on the transportation of the stone itself, beginning his construction of the satchel that would contain the great power held within it, at least for a short period of time. The realm of the dead would help channel some of its corruptive forces, and he would use all of his gifts as a necromancer to keep the others safe.
“Jacob and Shanar,” Tyrael said. “Come with me. You will be the first to experience the Wastelands.”
Tyrael took them into a secluded area farther away from the others, a room filled with the blue glow of the nephalem torches. In centuries past, both the Hells and the Heavens had used the Pandemonium Fortress, a structure Tyrael himself had helped construct around the Worldstone, as a staging ground for their attacks on Sanctuary. But that was now abandoned and could not be reached through a portal.
The Wastelands, however, a murky world on the fringes of Pandemonium itself, were accessible to them. “It is a realm impossible to explain,” Tyrael said. “The Wastelands are like the center of Creation itself. They are constantly shifting and changing. What you see and experience one day may be completely different on another. There is no true matter there, no substance. You may hear or feel things that do not make sense, and those who are not prepared may become lost forever. Imagine being cast into the depths of the ocean, down where no light can penetrate, tossed about by the movements of the water. It is a dangerous and frequently misunderstood place, even by the angels.”
Shanar glanced at Jacob and shifted on her feet, looking uncomfortable. Tyrael took a small object from his robes and placed it on the ground. He drew a symbol around it and spoke strange words Jacob did not understand. A portal sprang to life, emitting a fierce glow that expanded rapidly into a shimmering plane of light.
“I’ll go first,” Jacob said, meaning to take the lead, but Tyrael stopped him.
“We go together,” he said.
Shanar clasped Jacob’s hand. As they stepped through the portal, a surge of crackling energy enveloped them. Jacob was immediately disoriented, floating unmoored from his body, all five senses refusing to cooperate, while every ounce of his mind screamed danger. The wave of vertigo, dread, and panic that came over him was almost too much to bear; he found himself floating in the void, like death in the wind, a whirling vortex of pure, soundless fury that threatened to consume his very essence.
Just do what you must, and do it quickly.
His father’s voice came to him, as loud and clear as if
he stood alive nearby, strong as the entire world to a small boy who was still finding his way within it.
Put aside any joy or lust for glory. Think only of the duty you fulfill.
With a tremendous force of will, Jacob remembered what his father had taught him: the importance of justice without rage, reasoned argument and judgment, and bloodshed only when there was no other choice. He struggled to find himself in the waves that battered him back and forth. Dimly, he began to sense his physical form again: his flesh cold and aching, a dull rushing sound like water in his ears, and the pressure of Shanar’s hand in his own.
He could hear her calling him. He followed the voice, suddenly yanked through an ice-cold wall of mist and into some form of reality. They were standing on a giant stone plain that stretched out in all directions, the horizon an unbroken gray line. Shanar was watching him. Her shape faded in and out, outline becoming blurred before snapping back again, like hallucinations bleeding through a haze of smoke.
“The outer limits of Pandemonium are more difficult to navigate for those nephalem who have experienced a transformation,” Tyrael said, stepping out from nothingness to take shape. His voice was muffled, as if he were speaking underwater. “Your power lies in controlling your emotions—and the key to unlocking that power also serves as your greatest weakness.”
Shanar’s voice came as if from within his own mind. “Feelings are messy things. I’ve given them up.”
“You hide behind humor,” Tyrael said. “Your abilities are considerable but could be so much more. You must let go of your resistance and learn how to harness what you feel, overcoming your fear to amplify your natural strength. Shanar, you will play one of the most important roles in our plans—and one of the most difficult. I must ask you to do something no human has ever done before.”
Tyrael drew his sword. El’druin burned like a torch in the faint light, and the sword sang as he wielded it from hand to hand. Shanar let out a gasp, and Jacob felt her hand tighten in his own.
The resonance was achingly beautiful. “You recognize the sword’s song,” Tyrael said. “You have heard it before.”
“It called me to that cave years ago,” Shanar said. “I followed the call . . . and I met you.” She glanced at Jacob again, squeezed his fingers, and released them.
“And now you must answer it.” Tyrael swung the blade again, and the song reverberated through the Wastelands, bringing tears to Jacob’s eyes. It was something he could not possibly describe and nothing that could have been created on Sanctuary, but he knew it well. This was the weapon he had carried for all those years, one that had become a part of him. He longed to hear more of it.
“Answer the sword, Shanar,” Tyrael said. His voice had grown more commanding. “Let it flow from you. The angelic resonance from the Arch flows through all things and can shape the paths of both humans and angels. You know this—you, of all mortals, understand it. Now you must reflect it back.”
Shanar closed her eyes. A low moan escaped her lips. A tingling sensation flowed through her fingers and into Jacob’s own, and a vibration began, faint at first and then louder. Soon it became painful, and Jacob released his grip, spinning away from her into the fog, becoming untethered from any physical place. He fought to get back to the sound, but now there were two songs from two distinct locations. He pushed through, grasping at swirling ghosts that dissipated with his touch. Shapes appeared through the fog. An angelic being, its wings open, resonating with the sword. No, not an angel.
Shanar.
The wizard had her arms outstretched, her head thrown back. Energy crackled from her fingertips like angel wings, and the song that poured from her was identical to the sword’s resonance.
Jacob saw Tyrael stride forward through the fog, El’druin above his head. “The Heavens will reveal things you do not want to see, and you must not doubt or hesitate in order to survive.”
Without warning, Tyrael brought the sword down in a whistling slash toward Shanar’s throat.
Jacob had the Hallowed Destroyer out before he realized what he had done, meeting the strike and parrying it in the flash of a second. Sparks flew in the strange, glowing mist, and Tyrael’s form rippled like melting glass before disappearing into the vast, endless plain.
The two of them stood alone, listening to the howl of wind. Shanar was shaking. Jacob slipped back through time, felt his blade sliding into his father’s hot flesh. El’druin had forged him into an instrument of Justice, and the pain and guilt over what he had done had been removed from him. But it had come back again this past year, like a creeping sickness, and he had lost sight of what he knew.
No more, he thought. The weapon that had been forged for him had brought back his strength and his confidence, had given him the abilities to become an instrument of Justice once again, just as his father had long ago, before the plague had twisted him with evil and madness.
But something else still nagged him, something he had gotten wrong.
The thought was swept away in an instant. Someone was watching them. He felt it like blades boring into the back of his skull. Jacob searched the mist that swirled again around him. But he could see nothing, and as Shanar came back into focus, he spotted the glowing shroud of the portal behind them. The feeling dissipated like a nightmare banished by the morning sunlight.
As he passed through to the other side, the scar on his shoulder throbbed dully, a question mark burned into his skin.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Attack at the Bog
Sometime after the battle for the Church of the Holy Order, their brothers arrived from Gea Kul, twelve of them brought by the messenger Lorath had sent. It was a smaller group than they had hoped it would be. The Horadrim had begun disappearing under strange circumstances, the new arrivals explained, and their ranks had been depleted. Some of the remaining members reported seeing creatures that kept to the shadows and vanished when confronted. The Horadrim had not been able to find any traces of the missing, and other than a handful left behind to guard their library and artifacts, these twelve were all who remained.
Thomas, Cullen, and Mikulov seemed to take the news hard. They had known several of the brothers well. The disappearances certainly appeared to be similar to what had happened to the people of Bramwell. But there was nothing they could do from so far away, and in spite of their questions, their brothers from Gea Kul could tell them nothing more.
Still, the newly arrived Horadrim added numbers to their ranks. They knew next to nothing of what they faced and would provide precious little support against the army of the Heavens, Jacob thought. But their purpose was not to go through the portal. They would remain in Sanctuary and stand guard against any attack while the others were gone.
And there were enemies nearby; of that Jacob was certain. He felt them in the pulse of the puckered scar near his throat, like the touch of the dark-winged creature that had seared it into his flesh, a pulse that had grown stronger since he had passed through the Wastelands. That night in Tristram seemed so long ago, and he had already changed so much, but the touch had followed him every step of the way.
The phantoms were somewhere near, biding their time. For what, Jacob could not say.
They intensified their efforts.
Tyrael took the rest of them through the Wastelands, testing their nerves and abilities to the breaking point, forcing them to adjust to the very personal ghosts they found there. When they spoke about the experience, each reported a different environment; some floated in the dark while screams and moans and strange sounds assaulted them, while others could see colors and shapes but heard nothing at all.
Mikulov stood on an empty plain that slowly gained the shapes of mountains and jungle. Ivgorod assassins stalked him through the thick foliage, their eyes boring into his soul. He crept forward with nothing for cover, and the jungle dissolved into the ragged cavern walls of the Burning Hells, where demons waited to consume him. Cullen relived the fall of the Black Tower, the undead rising up
from the ground and dragging him down. Gynvir took on the hordes overcome by the rage plague, her own brothers and sisters drowning in a sea of blood.
They fought hard against these visions, steeling themselves against the emotions each invoked.
“Your abilities are all drawn from the same source,” Tyrael told them. “Those of you who have shown the strength to bend the elements, tap into magic, wield spells, and slay demons in Sanctuary have already learned to harness some of your nephalem powers and can do so much more, if given the chance. You have felt the breaking of emotions within you, an awakening of the blood that will allow you to reach new heights. Now, harness them and control them, for they will be used against you in the realms of the Heavens.”
He worked even harder with Shanar, helping her continue to focus her abilities and mimic the angelic resonance as closely as possible. She hadn’t quite forgiven him for his sudden attack during their first trip to the Wastelands, but he had explained that she had never been in any real danger, and it had been for Jacob’s benefit, not hers; Jacob had to trust his own instincts again, and that was a place to begin.
Lorath Nahr observed all this with wonder and served them ably as a liaison between the Horadrim and the knights, bringing nourishment and keeping an account of the events as they unfolded. He was also eager to learn and showed some early promise in manipulating the elements as Mikulov worked with him in the moments when the formal training was over. The young knight and the monk had swiftly developed a bond, and Mikulov’s patience with Lorath’s questions and general eagerness seemed endless.
Commander Nahr had arrived from Bramwell and had been working around the clock in a local blacksmith’s shop in Westmarch, pushing himself to the point of collapse. And Zayl’s satchel was complete. Once exposed to the stone, the necromancer explained, the satchel would expand to carry it, but it would only protect them for a few minutes before the spell began to break down.
