by Kenyon, Nate
Finally, it was time to put their plans in motion.
The night before the attack, Tyrael lay in the bed of straw, unable to sleep. His mind was spinning, putting one scenario after another, imagining things that could go wrong and how he could fix them; all the long hours, the painful separation from his brothers and sisters, his mortal body’s failings, had led up to this.
The archangel of Wisdom remembered his brother’s words that day after the Council meeting. And once again, you have chosen to stand with Sanctuary. If the Council votes to destroy it and eliminate the threat it holds for the Heavens once and for all, will you remain with the world of men and perish with them?
Imperius was wrong, Tyrael thought. It was not about choosing one over the other. He would lead the Horadrim and try to save both worlds he had come to love. Uldyssian’s sacrifice centuries ago came back to him, a memory untarnished by time. It was the moment Tyrael had begun to fully realize mankind’s potential for salvation. The good in humans could triumph over darkness, no matter what the odds.
He counted on that now. His team was as ready as it would ever be and needed to rise above the temptations and the horrors that would come. Surely mankind was capable of greatness. And yet in the back of his mind, he also remembered Zoltun Kulle, a founding member of the Horadrim and a man who had let himself be corrupted by darkness. The Black Soulstone was his creation.
Kulle had been human, too.
Tyrael had his own temptations. Before the sun came up over Westmarch, he could wait no longer. Feeling like a failure, he removed the chalice and lost himself in its depths.
They set off before dawn, heading away from the city. The knights had been told of their departure so the city guard would not raise an alarm at the sight of people in heavy cloaks moving through the streets, and General Torion was amenable to it. But the Horadrim did not want the people of Westmarch to encounter them as the shopkeeps and errand boys began their day. They would avoid the Church of the Holy Order and the broken underground bridge, which was impassable, entering the catacombs through the bog.
The Horadrim’s bulky robes hid thicker frames. Commander Nahr had done a fine job with what he had been given, although the effort and speed at which he had worked his own magic with the forge had very nearly killed him. But to Mikulov, the clever disguise he wore felt heavy and strange. As a monk, he was used to lighter garments and unrestricted movement, and he wondered what it would be like in combat, should their mission come to that.
“Would you truly not allow me to accompany you after proving my worth this past week?”
Lorath Nahr spoke in low tones as they walked in single file through the treacherous terrain, thirty of them in all, Tyrael in the lead. Lorath had recruited several knights to accompany them and stand guard outside the catacombs’ entrance. Mikulov was slightly ahead of the young man, and the monk was only half listening as Lorath pleaded his case for being part of the team that invaded Heaven’s realms. Lorath was not ready, and the monk had other concerns.
Mikulov did not like the feel of the dark encroaching upon them. They walked without torches, trusting the moonlight to help them avoid the thick clumps of bog grass and soft spots within the weeds. The gods lived in all things, and tonight their voices spoke of danger.
The tension among the Horadrim had been growing steadily as they skirted the bog’s edge. “Hush,” Mikulov said, as Lorath began to speak again. “Listen to the—”
Without warning, a great black shape swept in from the left.
The creature moved so quickly there was no time to react. Scuttling forward like a spider, its wings extended like spears, it struck one of the new arrivals from Gea Kul with a vicious and deadly blow.
The man was impaled through the throat.
He made a small gurgling sound as blood gushed down, and the creature swept him into an embrace like a hunter with its prey, disappearing into the dark.
The attack had lasted mere seconds, and most of the Horadrim hadn’t even seen it. But Mikulov was only steps behind, and even as he raised the alarm with a shout, he was already sprinting toward where the creature had vanished.
As he skirted a place where the ground turned to a pool of murky water, he heard another cry of pain as Tyrael began barking orders at his team. Another dark shape had swept in like a demon and grabbed a knight with talon-like claws, gutting him with a smooth, vicious yank downward that sliced through the man’s cloak and what lay beneath it like butter. Entrails spilled in a hot gush over the swamp grass as the knight was dragged into the trees.
An ambush. Mikulov paused, searching the dark, but he could see nothing except the faint shapes of the gently waving grasses and trees nearby, and the gods did not speak to him. There was no sign of the creatures or the men they had stolen away.
He turned back toward the others as crackling light burst from Shanar’s hands, arching over their heads. The landscape was laid bare and bright for a few moments; movement came from all around them, a dizzying whirl of darting shapes too fast to follow as the creatures retreated from the light. Phantoms. They were impossible to count. But there were many, the monk thought. Far too many.
Men were screaming.
Another man was yanked backward into the trees, and another. None had the chance to strike a single blow. The slaughter was relentless, the phantoms moving too fast. Their original group of eight was far more prepared than the rest and managed to hold the creatures at bay, but the new arrivals and the Knights of Westmarch were helpless against such an overwhelming force.
As Mikulov entered the fray, a blinding flash erupted nearby, and the Sicarai stepped forth from the portal, awash in the glory of his battle armor, fully restored and magnificent. The destroyer searched the marshy ground for a moment, and then, fixing upon Tyrael where he stood with El’druin drawn, he gave a howl of rage and charged forward into battle.
Tyrael silently cursed himself as the dark-winged creatures snatched more of his men. Something had him in its grip, and he could not escape it. His head felt filled with cotton, his movements too sluggish. He should have been ready, but instead, he had let his wandering mind get away from him. The phantoms had been lying in wait, of course, probably had planned it all along, and now, just moments from their destination, the Horadrim were in trouble.
“Reveal yourselves!” Tyrael shouted. Under the light from Shanar’s starburst, the Horadrim pulled off their cloaks. Beneath them were the replicas of Luminarei armor Commander Nahr had created for them based on Tyrael’s detailed drawings. The armor was so good that even he had trouble telling it from the real thing, at least from a distance. It would not hold up to close scrutiny by the angels in the Heavens, but it might buy them some time.
He hadn’t wanted to show his hand, not until just before they passed through the portal. But they had to be able to move freely now, or they would be slaughtered.
“Go!” he shouted at the others. “Get them to the entrance, Jacob! They cannot follow us through the wall!”
The knights loosed arrows at dark shapes that flitted in the shadows. Jacob led the Horadrim and Lorath Nahr through the tall weeds, Thomas and Cullen taking up the rear. Mikulov circled to protect them against any more creatures that might dart in and try to steal away another from among them. Shanar’s crackling bolts of energy kept the phantoms from the skies above their heads.
Tyrael waited to see that they had reached the opening that led to the catacombs before he turned to face the Sicarai.
The archangel was not often intimidated in battle. But the destroyer was a horrifying sight, even larger than before, glowing a fierce red and wielding a new double-bladed weapon that sang like the pulse of blood in his ears.
The Sicarai bore down without hesitation, and Tyrael barely got El’druin up before the destroyer’s blow nearly shattered the blade.
He stumbled backward, aware of the dangers lurking somewhere in the darkness behind him. Another blow rained down, and another; again and again, the destroyer
swung on him, and each time, Tyrael managed to deflect the blade just before it bit down into his flesh. But he was tiring quickly, and there were no enemies to hide behind, no tricks to distract his foe. He was alone.
The Sicarai spread his wings and screamed, and the flare of red light from the crackling strands nearly blinded Tyrael. He blinked furiously against the spots dancing before his eyes, trying to locate the next blow before it landed. A soft spot in the bog behind him sucked against his foot and sent him sprawling on his back in the muck as the destroyer’s blade traced a line down his chest. The fierce blow sliced through his armor and drew blood before it clanged off something harder than iron. The chalice.
Pain blossomed wetly. He rolled just as the Sicarai slammed his sword against the ground where he lay, but there was no way to avoid the next blow. The sky had begun to glow with the soft light of early dawn as the destroyer raised his weapon once more, standing for a brief moment in triumph above Tyrael’s prone form.
Is this how it ends? he thought wearily. Blood pulsed from his wound. Will I die here, in the muck of a forgotten land, before we have even truly begun?
A slim, dark form with a pale face like a moon slipped over him as the Sicarai struck. The necromancer met the sword with a burst of brilliant orange sparks that showered over Tyrael where he lay. The impact deflected the weapon, and the Sicarai screamed again, this time in fury.
Zayl darted away out of reach, and the Sicarai turned to follow. Tyrael managed to regain his feet. Searing pain shot across his chest as he stumbled toward the entrance to the catacombs. He heard the Sicarai coming, but he was almost there, just a few more steps . . .
The world began to fade. Phantoms swept in from both sides, black shapes barely visible in the early dawn light. Tyrael’s arms were like lead, his every movement an overwhelming effort, and as he felt himself collapse, he was lifted up as if by a breath of wind and carried into the darkness of the tunnel that led far below their feet.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Catacombs
Jacob left Lorath Nahr at the entrance to stand guard and led the others through the faintly lit tunnel. They did not speak a word; everyone was grim-faced and in shock at the speed of the attack. He didn’t know how many they had lost. It was a miracle that they weren’t all dead.
Tyrael was still out there alone against the destroyer. Jacob almost turned back, but he knew his responsibility was to get the rest of the group to safety. Lorath would warn them if danger approached. Anger flared within him, and he quickly pushed it away. His father would not have approved. Never think your anger makes you unbeatable.
“Where’s the necromancer?”
Gynvir’s voice echoed through the silence. She was breathing hard. Jacob looked back through the gloom and did not see Zayl anywhere. Cullen was already working at the key slot, opening the entrance and allowing the others to go through.
“You’ve been complaining about him since Tristram,” Shanar said. “Now you’re worried?”
“He has the satchel,” the barbarian said. “We can’t bring the stone back without it.”
A moment later, two figures shuffled into sight around the bend. Zayl had his arm around Tyrael’s waist, and the archangel’s head slumped loosely forward. His armor had been split open, his chest slick with blood.
Mikulov rushed to help them as a war cry came from somewhere beyond. The Sicarai was close; whether he could enter the tunnel or not was unclear, but if so, they had to hope Lorath could distract him. Jacob had to get everyone through the wall and close the entrance before it was too late.
Zayl and Mikulov reached them, completely supporting the archangel’s weight now, and slipped through the shimmering wall. Jacob waited for Shanar and Gynvir to step through, took one last look up the tunnel, and then followed.
Inside they laid Tyrael on the stone floor of the large room, in front of the steps that led down to the lower levels. The blue light from the torches played about their worried faces as the necromancer bent over the archangel, gently separating his armor where it had been slashed and exposing a nasty gash about eight inches long.
Blood oozed from the wound. Quickly, Zayl set aside several vials and packets from his pouch and began to sprinkle their contents across Tyrael’s chest, chanting softly. After a few moments, he waved a gloved hand slowly over the gash and closed his eyes, his face going ash gray. When he removed his hand, the wound had sealed itself, an alabaster scar like a worm across Tyrael’s flesh.
Finally, the necromancer shook his head, looking drained and barely able to speak. “Something protected him from a fatal blow,” he said. “Something stronger than armor.” He touched an object that gleamed like strange metal. “But he has lost much blood. My magic can heal wounds and give him some strength back, but there is not much more I can do for that.”
“Help me to my feet,” Tyrael said. He had opened his eyes, and his voice was rough with the pain but firm. He pushed Zayl’s hand away and tucked the metal object deeper inside his armor, then stood upright, assisted by the others. He winced but set himself and looked around at the grim faces of the Horadrim gathered before him.
“The Sicarai will raise an alarm since we have escaped his ambush, and our mission depends on us infiltrating the Heavens in secret,” Tyrael said. “Even now, the ceremony of the Ascension—the rise of the new angel—will begin in the Halls of Valor. Our window is short.”
“But you’re too weak,” Shanar said. “You’re not going to be able to fight.”
“I will live,” Tyrael said. “We must go on. This is our only chance.”
The others glanced uneasily at one another. “Master Zayl.” Humbart’s voice spoke up from his pouch. “They should know about our little problem, don’t you think?”
“The satchel has been damaged,” Zayl said, his face slowly regaining its color. “I used it to block the destroyer’s killing blow. Its magic was effective enough for that, but it’s diminished now. I do not know how long it will last, but we will not get the stone back to Sanctuary before it degrades completely.”
“Then you are at great risk in carrying it,” Tyrael said. “The stone’s corruptive power will influence you in ways we cannot predict.”
“I accepted your mission in New Tristram,” Zayl said, “knowing the risks that come with it.”
Tyrael studied his face and then nodded. “Good,” he said.
“We do not know what strange results may occur with the use of magic in Heaven’s realms,” Cullen said. “The blood and your wounds will be noticed, and with the damage to the satchel, perhaps we should—”
“They will not challenge me until it is too late,” Tyrael said. “I am still an archangel, and those in the Heavens will do well to remember it. We must move. There is no other alternative.” He grimaced again, set his mouth in a firm line. “Follow me.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Halls of Valor
In the Heavens, the angels had begun to gather for the Ascension.
The main hall in Valor’s realm was filled with shifting, murmuring shapes. Auriel and Itherael were with Imperius in his private chambers. Soon they would make their appearance, and the new angel would be welcomed into the ranks as a full member of the Luminarei and a Defender of the Arch.
Balzael watched from the shadows above the crowd, standing on a platform that gave him a good view of the sweeping ceremonial hall. Usually when an angel died, another would eventually be born at the Arch to replace it. Such an angel was not an exact replica of the one lost but would join the same Aspect of the Heavens in service to the archangel who ruled it. It was the way of the Heavens, except in a single instance where an angel had been re-formed: Tyrael after the destruction of the Worldstone. Such a thing was unprecedented.
The blindness with which his brothers and sisters offered up their praise to the traditions of the past disgusted him. He was driven by honor and tradition when they were appropriate to advance his own agenda, but there were far to
o many times when they got in the way of progress.
Take the fate of Sanctuary, for example. The Angiris Council might debate the issue for what would be measured by mortals as weeks, months, even decades, and all the while, the sickness that was mankind spread like a plague and threatened to tip the scales of the Eternal Conflict toward the Hells. Balzael could not afford to wait any longer, nor could the Guardian. They had hoped the Black Soulstone would be enough on its own, but it was time to be more forceful. They would use whatever they needed in order to accomplish their goal.
Regardless of Tyrael’s meddling, the soulstone had been created by men, and it would be their undoing.
There was a kind of poetic justice in that.
The murmur of the crowd below was growing in pitch. They watched the archway that led to the hall, waiting for Imperius to make his grand entrance. But Imperius had a flair for the dramatic and would let them wait while he remained in his chambers until the last moment.
The wait was not the issue for Balzael. He sensed something else. There was a strange feeling in the air, a feeling of something important about to happen, and it wasn’t the binding of the new angel to the Aspect of Valor.
Where was the Sicarai?
Balzael turned away from the spectacle, the sense of concern growing within him. He had sent the destroyer back to Sanctuary some time ago. It shouldn’t have taken him long to deal with Tyrael and his band of humans; his spies had spent a good deal of time learning about this team, watching from afar, getting to know its strengths and weaknesses, the bickering, the human folly of relationships. They had even branded one of them, a link that kept the others tethered to his mortal soul.
