Diablo III: Storm of Light (14 page)

“Tyrael was successful then,” Cullen said. “Why not now?”

Shanar just shook her head. “It was different then.
He
was different. You said yourself it was a long time ago.”

The others were silent for a moment. All that most of Sanctuary knew about the Heavens and the eternal struggle between light and dark were stories, in the end. Stories of great feats by long-dead men. But Cullen had fought against the minions of evil and had seen the fall of the Dark One at the Black Tower. He had shared that fight with Deckard Cain, had grown to love him like a father before he had gone away, and Deckard had personally witnessed Tyrael’s shining wings unfurling in the shadows of the Pandemonium Fortress. Deckard had written about Tyrael’s unwavering commitment to humankind after Uldyssian’s sacrifice. He had written about so many things, and Cullen had never known him to embellish the truth.

Mikulov had been mostly silent, but now he uncoiled from the corner where he had been crouching perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. The others all looked worn from their recent ordeal, but he appeared as calm and centered as ever.

“By all accounts, Tyrael has acted to protect Sanctuary when all others would not,” he said. “Deckard Cain, a man I respected more than any other in these lands, gave his life in service to the Heavens. The gods have spoken to me, and they have made it clear that Tyrael’s calling is a worthy one. I will help him, to my last breath. Who will stand with me?”

Cullen nodded. Gynvir looked to Shanar, who shrugged. A
wan smile crossed her lips. “If I said you have all lost your minds, would it make any difference?”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. The Horadrim looked at one another. Gynvir drew her battle axe from where it was strapped to her muscled back.

Thomas opened the door carefully to find Zayl standing there in the flickering light of the lantern hung in the hall, his oddly hypnotic features seeming to shift in the shadows that played across them.

“There are creatures outside,” he said. “We are being hunted. We must go at once.”

They took a step back, but none of them invited him inside. “We must go,” Zayl repeated. “Gather the others, quickly and quietly—”

“I told you to stay away, necromancer,” Gynvir said, her hands moving on the handle of her axe. “I don’t trust you or that damned thing you carry at your belt. The dead should remain at rest.”

“Hey,” Humbart said. “Watch who you’re calling damned, woman!”

Shanar put a hand on the barbarian’s arm, quieting her. Gynvir’s voice was rough with anger, and Zayl wondered if she had some personal experience with another necromancer that had colored her view of him. But there was no time for such things now. He had to get them to understand.

“Dark forces are at work here,” he said, looking at Thomas and Cullen. “You must listen to me. We risk the safety of the entire town—”

“There’s no sense flapping your gums if they won’t listen,” the voice of the skull interrupted. Even from the pouch, it was loud enough to make everyone pause. “Save yourself, lad!”

“What is the meaning of this?” Tyrael stood in the hallway, looking from face to face.

“The dark gathers quickly,” Zayl said. “There are creatures outside that are very dangerous, and I believe they are after someone in our group . . . perhaps all of us.”

“I have felt it, too,” Mikulov said from inside the room. “The gods are restless tonight. Something has disturbed them.”

“Where’s Jacob?” Shanar asked. “Wasn’t he with you?”

“He left me in the tavern some time ago,” Tyrael said. “He said he was returning to these chambers to sleep.”

Shanar looked at Gynvir, who said nothing, her face seeming to darken further. The wizard brushed past them and into the hall, ducking into the other room, coming back out again a moment later, shaking her head.

“Not in there, either,” she said. The ashen color of her face belied her nonchalant manner. “I can’t say I’m surprised. He’s been known to wander off in his own little world—”

Her words were cut off by a bloodcurdling scream from somewhere outside.

Shanar was the first down the hall, calling Jacob’s name and moving so quickly she was gone before anyone had the chance to say a word. The necromancer followed, with Tyrael and the others fast behind him, rushing down the narrow stairs to the bottom floor.

The tavern was nearly empty now, most of the revelers gone to bed to sleep things off. Bron sat slumped at a table, snoring loudly; the bartender was gone and had left empty mugs and spilled mead everywhere.

Tyrael followed Zayl and the wizard through the back door. He was immediately hit by the cold; there was no wind, but the icy chill had deepened since he had last come inside, tightening his skin and causing him to pull his robes closer.

All torches and lanterns had been extinguished, and even the
moon and the stars were no longer visible. Shanar muttered the words to a spell that sparked a blue glow from her staff, but even that feeble light was drawn away quickly and cast only the faintest shadows at her feet.

Tyrael gritted his teeth against the burning chill and drew El’druin from its sheath. The blade shone forth, knocking the darkness back. He stepped forward and sensed the others gathering behind him. Zayl had drawn his weapon, the necromancer’s serpentine blade glowing with its own eerie light. A blade bound to the dragon Trag’Oul, the Ancient One, Guardian of Sanctuary, and a creature of the stars, or so the priests of Rathma believed.

Moving slowly, Tyrael peered through the deep shadows that seemed to pool and shift. He followed the narrow path around the corner of the inn to the front, where the wooden sign hung below a dark lantern and the cobblestone road ran off into emptiness.

A dull thud made him look up again; the sign had begun to swing back and forth on its chains, tapping against the post, although there was no wind.

“There!” Cullen pointed to their left, and Tyrael swung El’druin in that direction, his heart racing in his chest, fire coursing through his veins.
Show yourself
. A faint shape, little more than a deeper black against the shadows, flitted just beyond the edges of his sight and was gone. Tyrael waved the sword in a fiery arc, looking for anything he might strike against. But the road before them was empty.

Sounds came like bones cracking in the silence, long, slow, and unsettlingly eerie, the last few clicks drawn out as they faded away. The others whirled around to catch another fleeting glimpse of black. More of them.

Gynvir had unslung her axe, but whatever stalked them was gone again in an instant.

Tyrael turned back. He raised his sword, letting the light shine
forth. Where the movement had come from, a few steps from the front door of the Slaughtered Calf, a motionless figure lay in the middle of the road.

The group came together around the body, forming a tighter circle as if to protect one another from the dark. It was a man who had been drinking at the bar, eyes wide and frozen in a deathly stare, his skin and hair bleached pure white, one hand extended in a claw, as if reaching for something. Zayl crouched over the dead man, removing a vial of thick liquid from his pouch. He passed this uncapped over the man’s pale forehead, dripping the liquid in the pattern of a rune, which glowed softly and then faded. The bar patron’s mouth appeared sunken, as if his teeth had been removed, and he looked twenty years older.

After a moment, the necromancer looked up. “There is nothing I can do for him,” he said. “His spirit is gone, and for some reason, I cannot summon it.”

“He must have come to investigate,” Cullen said. “And something . . . took him.”

“It drew him out for a reason,” Thomas said. He looked around at the dark that pressed in against them.

The group was silent, with weapons ready, as the normal sounds of the night returned and lanterns began to glow once again, flames flickering back to life, bringing warmth and light. A few people emerged from nearby buildings. Not wanting to be seen, Tyrael led the others away from the lifeless body, and around the far corner of the inn, sitting propped against the wall, they found Jacob.

“I saw one,” he said. He smelled of mead, but his eyes were clear. Each word seemed to take every ounce of energy he could muster. “Some kind of wraithlike thing with strange wings . . . it moved like an insect and was black as pitch. It hovered over me for a moment, and I felt it draw something from me . . . and I was so cold. I couldn’t move. And then I heard you . . . and it was gone.”

“I fear the healer gave us away,” Thomas said. “This creature is some kind of scout for the others; I am sure of it. If I am right, there will be more here soon.”

“I can invoke a spell to conceal us, for a time,” Zayl said. “We will not be seen or heard, at least long enough to make our escape.”

A shout came from the entrance to the inn, along with running feet. Someone had discovered the dead man, and it would surely not be long before one of Tyrael’s party would be blamed for his murder. They were tired, and the road stretched before them. But New Tristram was no longer safe, and Tyrael could not afford to jeopardize the mission before it had even begun.

“It is time for each of you to make your decision,” he said. “I have told you what we must do and why and the dangers that come along with such an attempt. You have seen this firsthand tonight—and it is only the beginning. We have much work to do to prepare, but we must do it as a team, if we have any chance to succeed. If you have doubts, now is the time to speak. All of you have the free will to leave.”

He looked at each of them in turn, and they all nodded. For a moment, Tyrael felt the shame of using them in this way; none of them had the ability to truly understand what they were up against, not yet. Gynvir had helped get Jacob to his feet, and he stood unsteadily now. But he returned Tyrael’s gaze unflinchingly.

“We’re bound to this,” Jacob said. “Whether we like it or not.” He pulled the top of his robe aside to reveal a mark in the hollow just below his collarbone. It was dark red, like the pucker of an old wound, in the shape of a crescent. “The creature touched me here,” he said. “I feel it, even now. These things will return, unless we find a way to stop them first.”

“Very well,” Tyrael said. “We leave for Bramwell now, before the dawn.”

Balzael was restless.

The Luminarei lieutenant paced back and forth before a wall of mounted trophies. The Halls of Valor were full of macabre items on display: the heads of fallen beasts with horns and slobbering mouths frozen in an endless snarl; regurgitators with bulging, sightless eyes; dark berserkers and hellions and many other demons, all of them slain in battle. They had been intentionally preserved just as they had died—in anguish, contorted, frenzied, looking as if they were about to immediately spring free and return to a semblance of life.

This outer room was for the lesser demons, of course. The archangel of Valor kept the biggest trophies in his inner quarters. Until recently, Balzael had always thought of the heads as reminders of victories in battle, meant to inspire new generations of angels to fight with courage and righteousness. Now, however, the trophies glowering over him felt like a viable threat, one that could seize control at any moment.