by Kenyon, Nate
For all Zayl knew, they were dead, and he and Humbart were alone.
Alone against an army.
The necromancer had circled the Halls of Valor, slipping through the guards stationed at the entrance and working his way past the main auditorium. The sight chilled his blood: a vast hall full of Luminarei, all of them restless and murmuring together, waiting for the new angel to arrive. It was only a matter of time until what he had done was discovered. By then, he hoped to be far away from them and inside the Angiris Council room.
When the explosion had occurred, the guards seemed to be thrown into disarray, and some of them had gone streaming out the doors toward the gardens, while others had remained in place, searching for their leaders. But Zayl had kept hidden and crept away, and soon enough, he was once again alone. The corridors and halls seemed to go on forever. It was darker here, enough so that flames were held in troughs that ran along the ceiling far above him. There were heads mounted on the walls, demons of all shapes and sizes, and weaponry, huge swords and spears and chains with spikes and metal rods. He passed through an atrium with some kind of tapestry made of light strands, the moving pictures depicting the great battles fought over the millennia between the Heavens and the Hells. Zayl saw demons disemboweled, the skies darkening with a scourge of angels in flight, the ground torn open and giving birth to monstrosities. He saw the Prime Evils launching at the archangels in a clash within the bowels of the Hells themselves. And he saw the dragon, lit up like a constellation in the night sky.
As he passed through each chamber, he felt larger than before, nearly invincible, and the darkness that had fallen over him began to fade. Perhaps he was the only Horadrim left, but did it matter? He could still get to the Council room and steal the stone out from under the Luminarei, accomplish the mission he had vowed to complete. And if they discovered him, he would fight to the death and take as many of them with him as possible. He had already killed the guards and Gealith, so why not more?
Perhaps he should forget the stone, Zayl thought. Perhaps the fight itself was more important. The destroyer who had come after them was Luminarei, after all, and it was quite possible Imperius himself had sent him to hunt them down. And the destroyer had seemed to work in tandem with the phantoms.
The phantoms that had killed Salene.
It was clear that the archangels were responsible for everything that had happened to him. They deserved to die for their sins.
“Put it away,” Humbart muttered. “Do you want them to see us?”
Zayl realized he had drawn his dagger. “Be quiet, Humbart,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”
“You think you can cut them all down? This place plays tricks with the mind, lad! Don’t do anything stupid. Remember the Balance. That is what you’ve come for, to restore it, not for revenge, Zayl! That’s not who you are.”
Unfamiliar feelings raced through the necromancer, battling for control. Humbart was right; he had forgotten his training and let the overwhelming presence of the Heavens affect him. And yet he could not seem to let go of the rage he felt, an all-consuming fire that burned out of control—
A noise came from somewhere just ahead where the hall opened into a larger space. Zayl flattened himself against the wall below a series of snarling, glassy-eyed fallen heads, creeping ahead more slowly toward the angle in the hall where the noise had come from, aware that he was exposed. The thought of hand-to-hand combat made his heart race and his blood sing. He sensed that an archangel was just around the corner, perhaps Imperius himself. I will see if archangels bleed.
“Careful, lad,” Humbart said. “Careful . . .”
But Zayl was beyond hearing. He leaped forward, his dagger ready and glowing with a fierce light—
And ran straight into Jacob of Staalbreak.
Mikulov swam back through deep waters, the screams of the dying monks of Floating Sky echoing in his mind. He had been watching them from above like a sun god, and as the assassins crept closer to his location, monkeys clambering up towering ladders of light and sound, he unleashed a wave of devastating power that tore away the monastery walls like matchsticks and blew bodies apart, limb from limb.
The Patriarchs were gathered inside the worship room, sitting cross-legged in a circle and chanting prayers to the gods. The wave of power caught and lifted them up into the wind, pulling the flesh from their bones, distributing them into the elements as they became one with all things.
As Mikulov watched the place where he had grown up vanish into the ether, he felt himself torn apart, the layers that had formed him yanked away, one by one, until he was left with nothing but a beating heart, and then even that was silenced as the angels descended on his world, swords of pure light slashing and burning the ground to a bare, smoking husk.
Mikulov’s head pounded. He sat up. Scorch marks ran across the carved columns around him, and a thin crack had opened in the polished stone floor. Pieces of armor, the only remains of Luminarei guards, lay scattered across the corridor. For a moment, awe over what he had done swept through him as he eyed the devastation, and then sorrow overwhelmed him. I have done damage to the Heavens themselves.
It seemed impossible. He had killed angels. What did it mean?
They would have murdered him and the rest of his friends if he had not acted first. But the knowledge did not soothe him. An Ivgorod monk was not supposed to feel pride, shame, or fear; there was no sense of accomplishment, no selfishness in pursuit of the greater good and the service of the thousand and one gods.
But he had changed, and perhaps his identity had changed, too. He was no longer only a monk from Ivgorod. Deckard Cain himself would have warned him always to act in service to those who were not able to help themselves. Sanctuary’s fate lay in his hands.
Mikulov heard the thunder of approaching wings. He stood amid the crater he had created, rising out of the crouch he had held with a single breath, and he raised his arms. Around the corner came a flood of angels, hundreds of them or more, deadening the Heavens’ resonance, which still played gently from nowhere and everywhere at once.
“I’m here!” he screamed, words torn from his throat. “Come for me, if you dare!”
And then he turned and ran faster than he had ever run before, leading the angelic horde away from the Courts of Justice and the Angiris Council room.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Black Soulstone
Zayl had Jacob by the hair, dagger poised to strike. His eyes were violent and unfocused, and for a moment, Jacob actually thought he might slit his throat.
Gynvir leaped forward, unslung her axe, and swung at the necromancer, who parried her blow with the blade, a seemingly instinctual move. The energy of the clash released a shower of sparks and a burst of violet color. Gynvir came at him again. The next swing took the bone dagger from his hands, and it went clattering across the floor.
“Wait!” Humbart shouted as she raised the axe to remove Zayl’s head from his shoulders. “Don’t be foolish, woman! It was an accident, can’t you see? Zayl mistook you for the enemy!”
The barbarian growled deep in her throat, the sound turning into a strangled cry. She seemed to struggle with herself, muscles quivering, before she dropped the axe head to her side and turned away.
“I am sorry,” Zayl said. He raised his hands. “For a moment, I saw . . . the black-winged phantoms and Salene’s mutilated body. I let this place affect me and lost control.”
“That remains to be seen,” Jacob said. He rubbed his throat. “Where are the others?”
The expression on the necromancer’s face changed. “Tyrael and Cullen have been taken by the Sicarai into the Courts of Justice. Thomas . . . Thomas is dead.”
No. Jacob shook his head, unable to believe it. “How?”
“The Sicarai struck him down. Cullen fought bravely, but it was too late. Tyrael was ambushed from behind.”
“You lie,” Gynvir said. “It’s some sort of trick—”
“Damn you, w
oman,” Humbart said. “He’s telling the truth.”
The barbarian took a step toward Zayl and the skull, but Jacob stopped her. He tried to calm the quiver in his voice. “There’s little time left before they discover we’re here. Thomas would have wanted us to keep fighting.” He put out a hand to Zayl. “Give me the satchel.”
Zayl shook his head, his eyes going glassy again for a moment before regaining their focus. “No,” he said. “You cannot carry it.”
“I can, and I will,” Jacob said. He was surprised by the firmness in his own voice. This was how he would find peace and justice within himself, one way or another. “Now, give it to me, necromancer.”
Zayl removed the satchel from where it was belted around his waist, fumbling clumsily until Jacob helped him with the buckle. “Jacob,” Shanar said, “the satchel’s magic has been damaged. It’ll kill you.”
He ignored her and took the enchanted satchel in his own hands as Zayl retrieved his dagger from the floor. It was almost as if Jacob could feel it beat like a heart. He drew his sword, felt the energy thrumming within the blade, and turned toward the entrance to the Council chamber. “Let’s go,” he said, and stepped inside.
They all stopped abruptly, overcome by the beauty of it. Light streamed down from the tall, narrow windows that lined the chamber and the domed ceiling that soared far above them. The circular walls were carved with incredibly detailed patterns that evoked the movement of water or energy. The floor appeared to be made of glass or crystal. It was inscribed with golden lines in a pattern that led to the center, where five circles lay around a star, and a stone altar rose up to support the object they had come to see.
Carvings of wings stood below the thrones of the archangels. Jacob had expected to see a guard stationed inside, but the room was empty. He sheathed his weapon. In spite of the beauty, there was darkness here. The Black Soulstone stood upon its perch, swollen and glowing gently with a deep, blood-red light.
It knows we are here, Jacob thought. I don’t know how, but it does.
The stone was nearly the size of a man’s torso, much larger than they had been led to believe. He approached it cautiously, circling the altar it sat upon. He thought he saw it pulse in the rays of light from above. It was a hideous thing, an abomination of the natural world, built and fed by hatred, misery, and pain. And a man had created it. A member of the Horadrim, no less. The thought filled Jacob with dread. And yet there was something hypnotic about the stone, something that drew him inexorably forward.
That is its secret, he thought. Hatred is seductive and easy to embrace.
“Don’t touch it,” Shanar said.
“Don’t worry,” he said, his flesh crawling at the thought. Then another thought. “How can we possibly carry that?”
“The satchel will expand to contain it,” Zayl said. “I believe the stone swells in response to the emotions of mortals, but I have accounted for it. That is, if the satchel has not been damaged too badly by the Sicarai.”
Jacob’s heart beat faster, seemingly in time with the pulse of the stone. He noticed gray lines tracing the golden design in the floor beneath his feet, running toward the walls. They were coming from the stone. He thought of the gray streaks tainting the trees in the Gardens of Hope. It was like a web encasing the Heavens, holding the angels captive. The creeping sense of disgust ran through him again, and he had to stop himself from jittering in place as if he had stepped into a vat full of spiders. He wanted to get away from this room, the faster the better.
But first, they had to collect the stone.
Jacob opened the satchel, but it was far too small to fit anything much larger than Humbart. He began to speak, but his words trailed away as it flapped in his hands and expanded like a hungry mouth. He let the satchel go, and it flew through the air and fastened itself against the black, glossy surface like a snake unhinging its jaw to swallow its prey whole, surrounding the stone inch by inch, consuming it.
Jacob glanced at his friends in astonishment. Gynvir made the sign of her forebears, backing away, while Zayl remained in place, swaying slightly. Shanar muttered something under her breath.
He looked back at the satchel, fascinated and revolted in turn, as it finished its work. A sucking, slippery noise filled the room. The soulstone was being reduced in size as it was taken inside, the bloody glow dying away. Finally, it was done, and the satchel sat silently on top of the altar. The stone inside was small enough that he could carry it.
“It will not be heavy,” the necromancer said. His words came slowly, as if with great effort. “But I do not know what level of protection the spell will offer. You may touch the surface and find it overwhelms you. We will need to move fast and get to the portal before the effects are irreversible.”
Jacob picked up the satchel, tested it, and found it solid. Zayl was right; he could carry it without much effort. A slight burning sensation made his hand begin to tingle. “I think I can make it. But we have a stop to make first.”
“There’s no time for detours,” Shanar said.
“He wouldn’t leave any of us behind willingly,” Jacob said. Until just now, when he spoke the words aloud, he wasn’t sure if he believed that himself, but he knew it was true. Tyrael would not leave us, no matter what he has told us about this mission. Justice is about more than duty. “We won’t, either, not until I breathe my last.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Ring of Judgment
Chalad’ar consumed him.
With the slavering beasts howling and rattling their chains in the depths of the Fist, their bloodlust breaking free, Balzael held his blade against Cullen’s throat and forced Tyrael to look into the chalice.
He tumbled down a bottomless hole, falling through strands of emotion that caught and spun him back and forth, threads of sorrow, loss, and despair. He sensed what the mortals he had once loved felt at the moment of their deaths; he became them for that moment, losing himself within the shock, anger, pain, fear, and ultimately, acceptance of their own ends. They were gone, and there was nothing left and no one to mourn them.
Death is inevitable. All mortals would die, and then they would rot away, their bones turning to dust and returning to the elements that birthed them. But the legacy of what they left behind endured. In a war where worlds hung in the balance, every possible advantage must be explored, every strategic option utilized. If they died in service to the greater good, was that the right choice? How did you weigh the loss of one soul against the epic struggle of good against evil, light against darkness?
If one were to make that choice for them, was that also justified? Or was it murder? Could a mass execution be a just act if it ended a larger war that had raged for millennia?
A strange feeling crept over him, a reaction to the void beyond, and in spite of himself, he began to wonder if Imperius had been right all along. Above all else, light must triumph over darkness. Tyrael drifted through endless strands of light. Clarity came to him. There were really two questions for which he needed answers. The first was what to do with the Black Soulstone, and the second had to do with the fate of Sanctuary.
The stone remained in the Heavens, spreading hatred and pain. It must be removed. Sanctuary, for all its promise, was a blight on the world of angels, and perhaps the safest and best choice was to remove the threat entirely, to burn it out before it had a chance to spread enough to consume them.
Tyrael did not know how long he was under. Someone was slapping his face, lightly at first, then harder. He blinked, his surroundings swimming into focus; Balzael stood before him, backhanding him with his armored glove. When he saw Tyrael open his eyes, he stepped back. “Better,” he said. “Not quite time to give up. You have work to do yet.”
They were no longer in the Fist. Tyrael was shackled to the Column of Tears, where the statues of the guilty and the damned reached eternally for their salvation.
“A stunning turn of events, is it not?” Balzael said. He nodded at the Sicarai, who stood
rigidly at attention at Balzael’s side. “As the archangel of Justice, you sat on your throne in this very room and cast your judgment down upon the heads of countless prisoners. Today we will hold a very short trial and act as judge, jury, and executioner. I want to show you just how easily we control you now.”
“You control nothing,” Tyrael said. But his voice was rough, too weak to command an answer.
Balzael moved aside to reveal Cullen standing behind him, arms lashed, mouth gagged. Cullen blinked, eyes wide and staring vacantly at nothing.
“We have sent word to Imperius that I have cornered those who have dared to invade our halls,” Balzael said. “He will arrive just in time to watch you cut down your friend, and he will see me end the threat, once and for all. Or so he will believe. Your actions will show the weakness of your mortal heart as you turn upon a defenseless human to save your own skin. Imperius may hold no love for humanity, but he is, above all else, about honor on the battlefield, and this, combined with your betrayal of the Council, will make him see that I had no choice but to execute you on the spot for your sins.”
“You are consumed with bloodlust,” Tyrael said. “The stone has gotten to you, too, Balzael. You are making mistakes.”
“Far from it.” Balzael forced Cullen to his knees. “This spectacle I am staging will draw attention away from the rest of your little team and allow them to escape with the stone. They already have it in their possession. By the time Imperius and the others realize there are more of you in the Heavens, it will be too late to stop them.”
“Perhaps, except I will not play your part.”
“And why not? I can sense you are beginning to come around to our point of view. Is that not right? Chalad’ar speaks the truth. Sanctuary was never meant to exist. Inarius was a fool. It is a boil on the face of the forces of light, a doorway for the Burning Hells and all darkness to enter our world, and it must be eliminated forever.”
