Diablo III: Storm of Light

by Kenyon, Nate

  “It is better to take the chance of hiding it,” Tyrael said. “If it remains here, the Heavens will surely become hopelessly corrupted and fall to darkness.”

  “The deaths of our brethren will be your responsibility.” Imperius landed in front of Tyrael, pointing Solarion at him like an accusing finger. “You have peered into Chalad’ar at long last. Has the chalice not shown you this? Have you learned nothing?”

  Tyrael smiled bitterly as his brother-in-arms waited for his reply. So Imperius had not been responsible for Balzael’s actions after all—at least, not all of them. But his views on Sanctuary could never be swayed. Imperius saw things as right and wrong, good and evil. There were no subtleties, no shades of gray.

  For a brief moment, he thought about what might have been had he chosen not to shed his wings and become mortal. What would have become of him then? Would he have eventually been convinced of the validity of Imperius’s beliefs? He is still my brother. But Tyrael’s trust in him had been damaged beyond repair, and Imperius would never view him in the same way again.

  Perhaps, after all this time, he was closer to man than angel.

  “I have used the chalice,” Tyrael said. “They say that all emotions of sentient beings are contained there, and that may be true. I found what it means to be human, even if I could not become one myself. But to witness these emotions all at once is to distance oneself from them, to ultimately become immune to them. What I found was the end of mercy, the end of love and kindness, and the end of emotion, rather than its beginning.

  “But Chalad’ar has failed in this. I have chosen to remain in the human world, to embrace their potential for goodness and light. You may believe their potential for evil is too great a risk to take. But I believe we must take that risk. For without them, all hope is lost, and the darkness will eventually win.”

  “If you turn your back on me, we are forever enemies,” Imperius said. His voice had become quiet, but the coldness emanating from him was strong. “There will be no returning from this, Tyrael.”

  Tyrael found Chalad’ar still sitting near him on the floor. He picked it up, feeling the familiar heft of it, the energy. But the thirst to look into Chalad’ar’s depths was gone.

  Such a small thing to contain such power, he thought. But it does not wield that power over me. Not anymore.

  Tyrael threw the chalice in the direction of Imperius. It hit the floor and rolled, coming to rest directly before him. “I am mortal and always will be, and humanity is the future of you all, whether you choose to recognize that or not,” Tyrael said.

  And then he turned and left the Council chamber, walking toward a new and unknown future.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The Return of the Nephalem

  Tyrael was gone.

  Jacob’s first thought, when they all had stepped safely through the portal and reached the nephalem city at long last, was that they had left an essential part of themselves behind. It was like losing a limb.

  There was no way Tyrael could have survived for this long. Their leader had fallen.

  Gynvir set the satchel down and stepped as far away as possible, leaning her shoulder on the wall with her bloody hands on her knees. She looked as if she might topple over at any moment. Her skin was gray, her breathing labored. The Black Soulstone radiated a hot, oozing sickness that they could all feel deep in their bones. But the same protective spell that concealed the nephalem city from angels and demons would keep it contained within the catacombs. They would bury the Black Soulstone here, deep below the surface, in these farthest reaches of the warren of chambers where Rakkis himself had been laid to rest. There it would remain for all eternity.

  Finishing the mission was the only way to pay tribute to those who had sacrificed their own lives to save this world, and Jacob would make certain it was done, if he had to carry it that far himself.

  “You’re really going to be fine?”

  Shanar was next to him, her hands around his shoulders, her beautiful face inches from his own. She touched the closed wound on his chest, and for the first time, he realized that it ended at exactly the same spot where the phantom had marred him, obliterating the strange crescent-shaped scar and replacing it with another. He felt something else within him, almost as if he carried some other being inside his body. It was an odd sensation but not entirely unpleasant. Whatever Zayl had done to him, he was alive, and that was more than he might have hoped for when the sword had first found its mark.

  Jacob considered Shanar’s question. Was he fine? He nodded, aware of the difference within him, the newfound confidence that the battle with the Sicarai had wrought. His strength had never come from El’druin or any other weapon; it had come from inside him.

  Perhaps she felt the change, too. For once, she dropped the lighthearted banter and simply kissed him softly. “Thank the heavens,” she whispered. “But you owe me one, pal. I almost died of fright watching you bleed out all over the floor.”

  Jacob smiled, but his heart remained heavy. “You should check on Gynvir. She’s been wounded, and who knows what the stone has done to her. We’ll need to leave here soon, or we’ll all be in danger.”

  She studied him a moment longer, then nodded. “A take-charge kind of man. I could get used to that.” She turned to go, then turned back. “He might still make it,” she said. “Don’t give up on him yet.”

  Jacob shook his head. There would be a time for him to mourn, but now was not it. Tyrael had wanted him to become a leader of the Horadrim, and he was going to do it. There were others he must attend to, important things to accomplish, and the phantoms were still out there somewhere in the dark. Sanctuary was far from safe.

  Cullen sat on a stone wall, the monk at his side. Cullen had not spoken since their return, and now he stared into space. He had lost his glasses, and he looked softer, more vulnerable, and yet there was a new energy about him, one that might make others keep their distance.

  Jacob turned to the necromancer. Zayl was a shell of his former self. He stood, still clutching his blackened stump, while Humbart muttered something too low for Jacob to hear.

  “You saved my life,” Jacob said. “I don’t know what I can ever do to repay you for your sacrifice.”

  Zayl nodded once, his eyes regaining a bit of their former strange glint. “You would have done the same, if you were in my place—”

  Jacob felt someone at his shoulder a split second before he was pushed aside. “You,” Gynvir said, pointing at Zayl. She was breathing hard. Her arm was still bleeding, although the drips had finally slowed enough to make Jacob think she would live.

  Jacob thought she might attack the necromancer, but instead, she stuck out her hand. “I might not like the magic you wield, but I will admit when I was wrong,” she said. “You are welcome to fight beside me anytime, necromancer.”

  Zayl held up the blackened stump of his right arm with a slight smile. “I don’t think I’ll be shaking anyone’s hand anytime soon. But thank you.”

  “Right,” Gynvir muttered. “Sorry.”

  The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps made them all turn. Lorath Nahr came into the room, followed by several knights and the Horadrim from Gea Kul they had left behind. Lorath was overjoyed to see them, but his face fell when Jacob explained what had happened, and the mood of the party quickly turned from one of celebration to one of somber respect for the fallen.

  Everything changed in an instant when Tyrael stepped through the portal.

  The former archangel surveyed his remaining team members as they swarmed around him, overjoyed at his return. A group of strangers just a few weeks before, they were now a small army of warriors who trusted one another with their lives. They had faced nearly insurmountable challenges and survived, and the Black Soulstone was safely within the catacombs.

  But their victory had not been without a terrible sacrifice.

  As the celebration settled down, Tyrael put a hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “We have lost a good man,”
he said. “Thomas will not be forgotten.”

  “Never,” Cullen said. A single tear traced its way down his face. “He was like a brother to me.”

  “Your actions in the Ring of Judgment saved our lives,” Tyrael said. He looked out at the others gathered before him. “Without all of your efforts, the Sicarai would have slaughtered us, and the stone would have remained in the Heavens. All of Sanctuary has you to thank for its survival. A short time ago, I asked you to carry a great burden, to assume a responsibility that was not of your own making. In doing this, I had hoped that you would embrace your calling and fulfill your destinies, although the odds were long. I can say now that you have gone beyond the call of duty, and everything we have fought for has been realized. The stone has been returned to Sanctuary, where it will remain under our guard. All of you are heroes.”

  A small cheer went up from the crowd. Tyrael held up his hand. “We are not done yet,” he said. “Although Balzael has been defeated and the archangels have pledged to leave us in peace, threats to Sanctuary remain. The phantoms still haunt the people, and rogue demons must be stamped out. Those who fought at my side in the Heavens must rest and take time away from the stone to lessen its effect before they begin to fight these battles. The others shall remain here. We must place the stone in the tomb of Rakkis and seal it away, and the tomb must never be reopened. Those who remain will become the guardians of this place, and the secret of the stone will lie with them and them alone.”

  Tyrael thought of the text he had been working on, nearly finished: the completion of Leah and Deckard Cain’s work and a summary of what he had learned as a mortal—a record of what had led him to this moment. He would give it to the Horadrim for safekeeping. He still had much to learn about his new life, and his future was unclear, but he knew that he would live it in Sanctuary, serving the light in whatever way he could.

  This was his home now.

  Epilogue

  The Guardian

  The thing that had once been Norlun crouched among the deep shadows of the stinking cell. The guards who ran the secret prison underneath the Church of the Holy Order had left some time ago and removed all the torches except for one that burned near the base of the steps that led above. That did not matter; even through these unfamiliar human eyes, he did not need much light to see.

  By the time the guards returned in the morning, their world would be entirely different.

  The templar sect he had been manipulating for his own purposes in Westmarch was in shambles, the men either dead or imprisoned with him. It was no great loss to the Guardian. Norlun was a weak man at the core and his templar were a means to an end, a distraction and cover for a much more important effort on a much grander scale.

  The Guardian had watched through Norlun’s eyes for some time, waiting for their plans to come to fruition. It had been an easy thing for him to take over the man’s body and soul, and waiting was something he was familiar with over the many millennia of his existence.

  But now things had changed. It was time for a new approach.

  The Guardian looked at the pile of bodies in the corner of the cell. There had been six men in here with him when the knights locked them away, and space had been quite tight. He studied their haunted features, drained of color, expressions of terror permanently frozen on their faces.

  Death is the void, and mortals fear it.

  Fear was something he could use.

  Balzael had failed, and the Angiris Council had refused to act. That was also no great loss, however. The Guardian was not concerned with whether Balzael survived long enough to join him in the purging of Sanctuary—he had all the assistance he needed already on the ground.

  His Death Angels.

  Even the loss of the new angel, one he would have enjoyed recruiting to his side, was not a major blow to his plans. And now, thanks to those fools who called themselves Horadrim, the last piece of the puzzle was within his reach.

  The Guardian stood up and spread his arms wide. Norlun’s physical body began to change, his arms and legs lengthening, spine cracking as it stretched and bent, tendons and ligaments popping as they adjusted to the strain. His flesh melted, running from his bones like soft butter. If anyone in the cell had been left to see it, they might have dug rivers into their own flesh trying to escape the horror.

  “Hey,” someone called from another cell. “What’s happening in there? Sounds like bones breaking! You safe, Lord Norlun?”

  The Guardian did not answer. He reached out with unnaturally long arms, blowing the cell door off its hinges. The heavy iron clanged off the wall and came to rest in a cloud of choking dust. The man in the other cell shouted, calling out for help, as the Guardian stepped forth into the flickering light, his form absorbing the torch’s energy, drawing it out, and extinguishing the flame.

  The world was plunged into darkness.

  The Guardian would begin with the human souls who were imprisoned down here before moving into the catacombs, and then he would rain terror and destruction down upon the heads of the people of Sanctuary.

  The time had finally come for him to reveal his true self.

  The Black Soulstone was waiting.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Playing in a sandbox other than your own is a daunting task, and I am forever grateful for the amazing and talented team of people at Blizzard Entertainment, who brainstorm with me, answer all my questions about the world of Diablo, and exhibit endless patience as I try to get things right. Micky, Matt, Jerry, Joshua, Sean, Brian (I’m going to forget someone, so I’ll stop there)—thank you for your enthusiasm and support. I’d also like to thank my editor at Simon & Schuster, Ed Schlesinger, for his wise counsel, keen eye, and fantastic editing skills. This book would not have been possible without him. I’d like to thank my children—Emily, Harrison, Abbey, and Ellie Rose—for always putting up with me when I’m writing (and grumpy). Finally, to my wife Kristie, the love of my life, my moon—thank you for your unwavering support and enthusiasm.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Nate Kenyon is the author of the thriller Day One from St. Martin’s Press. He is the author of seven other novels and dozens of short stories in the horror, thriller, and sci-fi genres. His first novel, Bloodstone, was a Bram Stoker Award finalist and won the P&E Horror Novel of the Year. The Reach, also a Stoker Award finalist, received a starred review from Publishers Weekly and was optioned for film. He is also the author of The Bone Factory, Sparrow Rock, Prime, StarCraft: Ghost: Spectres (2011), and Diablo III: The Order (2012). He is a member of the Horror Writers Association and International Thriller Writers.

  FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: authors.simonandschuster.com/Nate-Kenyon

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  First Gallery Books trade paperback edition February 2014

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  Cover art by Laurel Austin/Blizzard Entertainment

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-1-4165-5080-8

  ISBN 978-1-4767-3984-7 (ebook)

  CONTENTS

  Prologue: The High Heavens

  Part One: The Creeping Dark

  Chapter One: The Wanderer, Caldeum

  Chapter Two: Tristram, Several Weeks Later

  Chapter Three: The Necromancer

  Chapter Four: The Angiris Council, Several Weeks Earlier

  Chapter Five: A Meeting of Thieves

  Chapter Six: Escape to New Tristram

  Chapter Seven: The Slaughtered Calf

  Chapter Eight: The Chalice, Weeks Earlier

  Chapter Nine: Discovery

  Chapter Ten: The Destroyer

  Part Two: The Road to Westmarch