Diablo III: Storm of Light (19 page)

Tyrael explained as best he could, leaving out all mention of the High Heavens and the soulstone. They were a party of spellcasters and warriors, driven together by a quest to rid Sanctuary of the black-winged creatures that the necromancer had mentioned and to bring peace once again to the land. They were also in search of the location of a place of great power, one that could contain the key to stopping the evil that stalked the people of Bramwell.

The explanation skirted the truth, but instead of becoming more skeptical at this talk of magic and demons, Nahr told them more about the sightings of such creatures. They were elusive, barely within sight for more than a moment, like phantoms in the dark. The people were terrified, he said. It began with dreams, haunting the sleep with a feeling of hopelessness and visions of terrible death and destruction, before a loved one would disappear, never to be seen again. He had stepped up the patrols of the city walls and the roads leading in and out, but even a few guards had gone missing, vanishing without a trace.

“I’ve been here in Bramwell more than five years and have never seen the people so afraid,” he said. “I came to this city on a
special mission under General Torion’s orders, to secure it as a stronghold of the knights so Bramwell would serve King Justinian should Westmarch descend into chaos. Even then, the general could see what was coming to Westmarch . . . what I fear is now upon us.”

“Is that city haunted, as this one is?” Tyrael asked.

“That may be,” Nahr said. “But General Torion is more concerned with the templar, and with good reason.”

“Templar?”

“Aye. They’re a secretive order. Many have never heard the name, but those who haven’t soon will. They began as an extension of the Zakarum Church and the knights themselves. But they took on their own customs, converting their soldiers through dastardly means. From what I know, these converts were often born-again felons, thieves, and murderers, their minds wiped clean through torture and starvation.”

“I know something of them,” Cullen said. “But there is precious little to go on. The templar now rejoice in violence and blood, claiming a holy mission to cleanse Sanctuary of evil. They may have been more honorable at some point, but from what I understand, today they bring far more evil themselves than they take away.”

“The leader of the main templar order is someone they call the grand maester. I don’t know where he resides. But the sect that has grown like a weed in Westmarch is perhaps even more extreme than the rest. It is led by a man named Norlun, a snake who would kill his own mother if it suited his purpose. They’ve quietly gained control of the cathedral in Westmarch and are using it as a base of operations for their dark deeds. General Torion believes they are preparing to assault the knights and attempt to control the palace. My own son Lorath—he has a touch of spellcaster in him, I do say—is a member of Torion’s guard there.” Nahr hesitated. “Lately, there have been more disturbing rumors
about the true origins of the templar initiates. They have gained a few recruits from the knights themselves, good men, far from beggars and thieves—most, I fear, are acquired by force and torture. I await word every day that Lorath has fallen to them.”

“I’ve heard stories of a few travelers to Westmarch disappearing without a trace,” Cullen said.

“They are stealing ordinary citizens and soldiers and forcing them into service. General Torion believes the templar are also responsible for the disappearances here. I am not so sure. But the people cannot sleep, and the duke is no longer able to command the guard. I am preparing my men here for the word to come from Westmarch, and we will go to their aid against the templar. I only hope we don’t lose half our forces while we wait.”

It made some sense that the things they had seen would be tied to such an order, Tyrael thought. If the templar were indeed recruiting by force, the dark-winged beasts could be their unholy messengers.

Did the templar have the power to conjure and control such creatures? That was far less likely. Another, more disturbing thought had occurred to him; he wondered if it was possible that Imperius had already begun his reign of terror in Sanctuary, and the creatures were some kind of force from the High Heavens, the first wave of a much more violent attack.

But even as the Council had slowly shut him out before he left the Heavens, Tyrael was almost certain he would have heard about something like this. And these creatures did not sound like members of the Luminarei or any other Heaven’s guard.

No, these were something else entirely. Tyrael thought of the birth he had witnessed, the gray tendrils that had snaked around the angel’s glowing orb and incorporated themselves into her essence. Somehow these were connected. A chill ran through him. He was afraid they were running out of time.

“I’ve had the dreams, too,” Nahr said, a far-off look in his
eyes. “They come to me nearly every night now. I dream of Lorath in templar armor, bloodied and beaten, and when he raises his sword to me, I see nothing but emptiness in him. He does not recognize his own father. I dream of the deaths of my people—of a town full of the dead. And lately, I’ve been dreaming of you.” He looked around at the others gathered before him. “A figure shrouded in darkness showed me your faces and told me I must help you. What that means, I don’t exactly know, but I’m a good judge of character, and I believe what you’ve told me. Perhaps Lorath got his gift with spells from me. So tell me more about what I can do.”

“We believe that a secret Zakarum repository lies somewhere close,” Tyrael said. “There may be clues within it to what we seek.”

He expected Nahr to look confused, even skeptical. But the large man merely nodded. “There have been rumors for many years about such a place hidden somewhere in these hills. The Zakarum and the knights have searched for it without success, for it supposedly contains an original scroll written by Akarat himself, a lost part of an early version of
The Visions of Akarat
that describes his vision that led to the founding of the Zakarum faith.” He suddenly stood and left the room, returning a minute later, delicately holding a crumbling book in his hands. “Last year, my men discovered a hidden room in the remains of a building that had fallen into disrepair and was thought to be cursed. The room contained many Zakarum texts, a few of which I kept. The people say it was used by Master Sayes years ago.”

“The Way of Dreams,” Cullen said. “Master Sayes was actually a man named Buyard Cholik—a Zakarum priest who fell under the sway of the Hells and founded a new religion that worshipped Kabraxis, a demon that was thought to be able to grant eternal life. Cholik gained great power, some say immortality,
before he was killed by a man named Lang, who wielded a holy sword called Stormfury.”

“That rings true,” Nahr replied. “I wasn’t here then, but the people still remember Sayes and his church. Some say he was a healer, others a demon himself. The church he founded burned down several years ago, but an outbuilding remains where Sayes—Cholik, as you say—supposedly lived.”

Cullen raised a hand toward the book. “May I?”

Nahr gave it to him, and Cullen took it gently, almost reverently, opening the pages with careful hands. “This is a book of the history of Rakkis’s family,” he finally said, “and their ties to the Zakarum faith. They were prophets in their own way, bringing the tenets of the faith to the west.” He looked up. “There are more of these, you say?”

“I have several,” Nahr said. “I am no scholar, but I have read some of them. I kept those that appeared to be of value. There may be others still moldering away in the ruins of that cursed place.”

“You must take me there,” Cullen said. His eyes were shining brightly like two lanterns in the dark. “Please.”

“I don’t like this.”

Shanar stood on the street corner with Gynvir, who looked terribly out of place with her broad shoulders, generous breasts, and lots of bare skin. The wizard spoke in a low voice as Jacob surveyed their surroundings, studying the people of Bramwell as they hurried from place to place, heads down and eyes searching the ground. They appeared haunted, their faces drawn and pale, clothes seemingly bleached of color.

But they were watching nevertheless.

A shape moved in a window above the street. A fat man caught staring turned away quickly and hurried around the corner. A young girl, scrawny and covered with sores, watched with huge, moon-shaped eyes from an alley, her face barely visible in the shadows.

The group had come here to the lower eastern edge of the city for supplies while the others went to the remains of Cholik’s residence, and Jacob had hoped to speak to the people to learn more about what they had seen and the dreams Nahr had described. He felt a strange kinship with them, as he had begun to dream over the past few nights of his father covered with the
bloody carvings of runes, the rage plague turning him into a violent monster, and looming, faceless creatures that reached out to Jacob with black-clawed wings and dragged him down into darkness.

But Jacob’s group had been shunned as soon as they had set foot in the streets, and as they approached the butcher’s shop, someone had pulled a shade and locked the door. The tavern was shuttered and dark, and the only trade cart was empty and hitched to an ancient, bony mule that stood with its head down, dozing in the cool air, no owner to be seen. This was a city that fed on the movement of goods, and they were in an area that the traders would have frequented. But at this moment, nothing was being sold, and no business was being conducted. The air smelled of smoke and mud and spoiled things left too long outside.

Bramwell is dead
.

“We should move on,” Jacob said. His back itched. They were exposed out here, easy targets, and although he didn’t think the people would go so far as to attack them, he wasn’t willing to put their lives on the line to prove his theory.

As if in answer, a voice drifted toward them like the call of a wendigo, echoing between buildings. A few moments later, a woman tottered around the bend, shuffling on bare, weathered feet, her hair hanging in gray strings across a face that looked utterly mad. Her sunken mouth moved constantly as she babbled and howled, skin run through with blue veins. She kept her hands out, grasping blindly, keeping close to walls or other landmarks that she could touch.

“I-fear-the-dark-pulls-close-it-brings-no-solace-no-peace,” the old woman muttered, milky eyes rolling, her voice rising so that the last words turned into a cry of anguish, a sob. “They should know what I see, what I know!”

She stopped abruptly a few feet from Shanar, Gynvir, and Jacob,
cocked her head like a dog, and sniffed. Her head swung in their direction, her blind eyes searching.

“You,” she said, pointing a long, bony finger at Jacob. “I have a message to give you. You bring the dark, the dreams, the blood and screams. You bring the black birds that sit on our shoulders and pluck out our eyes. The phantoms that snatch our children and pile them up like rotten logs against the doors to freedom! You bring . . .
him
.”

Shanar glanced at Jacob. “I don’t think she likes you,” she said.

The old woman threw her head back and gave a long, gibbering laugh that ended abruptly as another woman hurried around the corner, spying her and rushing over.

“Molly,” she said, touching the crone’s arm as she glanced quickly at Jacob, “you shouldn’t be here. Come away from them; come now . . .”

The old woman shook her head. “They must know,” she whispered. “They have seen the black beasts and have felt their touch.” She began muttering again under her breath.

“Strangers frighten her,” the younger woman said to them as she petted the old woman’s sagging flesh. She was well dressed, but dark circles ringed her eyes. “Molly was a follower of the Prophet of the Light, and it touched her mind. When he was killed, she was never the same. She gets out during the day sometimes, when I work in the shop. Not that there are many people to serve anymore.”