Diablo III: Storm of Light (22 page)

Tyrael led the descent into the gloom.

El’druin glowed brightly against the dark as they picked their way through the remains of Il’qual’Amoul. These bones were ancient, bleached white where the mud hadn’t stained them a darker brown, the remnants of those long gone from these woods.

But what they found in the room beneath the cliff was fresh.

The steps ended at an archway cut into the rock. The air was dry and stale belowground, but the smell of rot was heavy. Shanar invoked a spell that sparked the glow from her staff and illuminated the stone floor of the chamber beyond as Tyrael sheathed El’druin; they would face no threat here.

The bodies of the missing people of Bramwell were stacked like cordwood against the far wall. Limbs twisted every which way, entangled around one another; pale, lifeless faces stared blankly as the Horadrim filed slowly into the silent chamber. Commander Nahr gave a low cry and came forward, kneeling in prayer. One of the closest bodies was a young man still clad in the armor of the city guard. Nahr reached out to touch the corpse’s hand. “Lorath’s good friend Robert,” he said. “They grew up together in Westmarch. Robert came to Bramwell with his father last year to help fortify the wall patrols and left a young wife behind. He had planned to return this month.”

Tyrael watched the commander stand up and turn away. He wanted to do something but could not; these people were long past saving.

He looked around. The space was perhaps one hundred feet across and appeared to be naturally formed. It was also mostly empty. Tyrael’s heart sank. He felt for the chalice, nestled against his breast. The numb feeling spread through his limbs, encased him in its ironlike grip. His body ached to stare into Chalad’ar’s swirling depths again, as he had the night before when the others slept. The chalice gave him a kind of peace he could not find among the living. He craved the expansion of his mind, needed the euphoria that washed over him as he slipped between the strands of light . . .

“The breaking of the mountain will bring other things our way,” Mikulov said, cutting through Tyrael’s trance. The monk’s voice was low enough for the others not to hear. “We may not have much time before we are discovered.”

Tyrael nodded. This was no time to drift off in some kind of fog. But they had found nothing but death here: no nephalem ruins, no further clues. “The texts were wrong,” he said.

“There is one place we haven’t looked,” the monk said. He nodded to the gruesome pile of bodies.

No
. The smell of death was overpowering; the unnaturally dry air belowground and the sealed state of the cavern had preserved them to some extent, but Tyrael could see the slime on their skin, the puffy flesh, and the rot that had begun in earnest in those below the first layer.

As he stood there, a draft touched his face. The bodies were piled high enough to conceal another passageway.

Overcome with grief, Nahr nevertheless set his jaw and threw himself in with the others as they moved the bodies one at a time, gently at first, then faster, gripping slippery, cold limbs and swinging them to the side as quickly as they could, their resolve hardening their stomachs and minds to what must be done.

As they reached the worst of the decaying corpses, more cold air wafted out, and another opening was uncovered. It was low enough so that Tyrael would have to duck to enter it, but it appeared to be man-made.

“More light,” Tyrael said, as the last corpse was set aside, and Shanar brought her staff closer, illuminating the arched doorway. They entered a second room carved from the rock. Mages had done this, by the look of the work, perhaps Vizjerei, Tyrael thought, or older.

The walls were covered with carvings: a giant made of the mountains themselves, a beast with many heads, a gigantic dragon coiled among the stars, a man exploding into rays of pure light and energy. Below the largest of them was a flat slab of rock like an altar, and upon it sat tattered remains of cloth, jewels, and scrolls.

This was no repository, Tyrael thought. And it was old, far older than the Zakarum Church. Thomas and Cullen began to examine the objects on the slab, talking excitedly as they placed items gently in their rucksacks. The scrolls had been remarkably preserved in the dry, cool air, but they were delicate.

Cullen now held aloft a small, strangely shaped dagger with a flat, broad blade. The dagger had a jeweled hilt and a squared-off end rather than a point. “I’ve never seen such a weapon,” he said. He turned. “Mikulov, have you ever encountered in your travels—”

But the monk was not there.

Mikulov watched the circle of hooded men from his position in the trees.

He had left the underground cavern when the wind had carried a message from Ytar to him, alerting him to danger. The bone demon had only been the beginning. The balance in the elements had been upset by its presence, and that would surely bring more fiends, drawn like moths to a flame. The others needed time to explore what was underneath the ruins, and he would give it to them.

He expected trouble. But even the monk was surprised by what he found.

In a smaller clearing below the cliff, the men were chanting softly. They wore cloaks adorned with runes and carried long staves that they leaned on for support. Their hoods covered their faces completely.

Spikes protruded from their bodies in a gruesome display of religious fervor, and behind them lurked monstrous berserkers, their greenish skin and rippling muscles seeming to glow in the shadows cast by the trees and the clouds that loomed overhead.

A berserker threw its masked head back and roared at the sky,
then took a spike and hammered it through a cloaked man’s neck.

There was very little blood. The robed figure barely seemed to react at first. But the chanting grew louder as the figure began to convulse, shuddering, a red light emanating from beneath his feet. The robes tore as his body swelled and rippled, wounds opening like hungry mouths, his flesh transforming, entrails protruding from a wet hole in his abdomen, bones red with blood sticking out from muscle and sinew.

A dark vessel. An awakening. This was what the cultists had been trying to accomplish back in Tristram. The demon hovered several feet off the ground, ropes of intestines hanging over the shattered remains of its legs, a sickly blood-red glow washing the clearing like the fires of Hell.

Another berserker hammered home a spike in a second victim, then a third. The men began to transform as the chanting reached a fever pitch. Mikulov considered an attack, but these were powerful demons, and it would be risky to confront them alone. And there was movement from below the clearing; it was impossible to tell how many other creatures might be approaching.

Better to warn the others and get out now, before it was too late.

Thunder crashed overhead, and rain began to fall in earnest as the monk quickly made his way back up the slope. The ground, covered in leaves and needles, grew slippery and treacherous, but Mikulov did not falter. He could hear the gods in the drops of rain pattering all around him, feel them in the growing buzz of energy in the air, the smell of the wet bark and the leaves on the ground. They were warning him. All things eventually returned to their maker, but the death wielders that were coming were not a natural part of this world. They were a violation of order and light, and that made the gods angry.

The image from his vision of several nights before returned to him—Tyrael transforming into a figure in dark robes with no face. What did it mean? He knew he must meditate on this, but now he would return to the cliff and gather the others quickly, and they would decide together whether to stand here and fight or make their retreat to wait for a better time.

That was when something huge and black moved in the forest at the edge of his sight.

The Horadrim and Nahr emerged from the cavern opening and into the dull gray light of the breaking storm, weapons ready. The sky had turned dark, clouds were close over their heads, and the rain lashed at their faces and drenched their clothes in moments.

Tyrael was at the front, the others close behind. He blinked into the rain, trying to clear his eyes as he looked around the clearing for danger. What had come over him inside the cavern? He couldn’t lose sight of the importance of human life; protecting Sanctuary and its inhabitants needed to remain a priority, along with the Heavens. The Horadrim were the key to everything. It was up to him to make sure that they escaped this place alive and accomplished their mission.

Do not fail in this
, he told himself.
Deckard and Leah perished to save Sanctuary, in service to the light. Do not forsake them or forget your purpose
.

A figure emerged through the gloom. Tyrael drew El’druin before he recognized the monk’s lithe form.

“The creatures that have taken the people of Bramwell are here,” Mikulov said. “I have seen one moving through the trees and heard others. But they move quickly and are not easily tracked.”

“Phantoms,” Nahr whispered. His face was pale. His own
sword was a beautifully forged weapon with the marks of the Zakarum faith engraved along its long, razor-sharp blade. “I will taste their blood before the end of this!”

Mikulov pointed to where the forest dropped off. “There are others. Dark vessels and berserkers and more down among the trees.”

As if in answer, a tremendous crash shook the ground as a huge berserker tore through the tree line and entered the clearing. This one was larger than any Tyrael had ever seen.

Another emerged behind it, then another, each as large as the first. The lead berserker roared and smashed its maul into the ground with vicious force, a teeth-jarring impact that drew other creatures into the dim light and lashing rain. Dark vessels hovered behind them, entrails snaking below their severed torsos.

Several spiderlike beasts as large as a man slipped on long, hairy legs through the ground cover, their fangs clicking, multifaceted eyes reflecting the glow from El’druin as they paused, their front legs up and feeling the air. On the other side of the clearing, grotesquely fat horrors waddled forward, seemingly made out of human skin sewn together, wrists ending in bloody, oozing stumps. Hellions slunk into the light around them, weaving between their legs and snarling at the Horadrim, who had tightened ranks near the temple’s entrance.

Tyrael watched the gathering creatures with growing horror. It made no sense. Beasts such as these did not often travel together. And they seemed to be acting with some coordination, almost as if they had been herded to this spot.

How had they found this place, and what was their purpose?

He didn’t have any more time to ponder the question. The lead berserker charged forward, snarling, maul raised and ready to crush Gynvir’s skull. The barbarian sidestepped neatly and swung her battle axe with one hand, burying it in the beast’s shoulder. The berserker howled and yanked free, black blood
spurting across Gynvir’s chest as she pivoted to swing again, meeting the beast’s maul with her axe, sparks showering through the rain.

“Keep your distance!” Jacob shouted. The fat undead had waddled forward, surprisingly fast for their bulk. Zayl muttered into the wind, and a nest of bones rose up from where they had been scattered across the steps. A gesture turned them into hurtling spears that impaled two of the monstrous creatures in multiple places. They started shuddering uncontrollably, then burst apart, spreading a shower of corpse worms that wriggled toward Jacob’s boots. He stomped at them, slicing and hacking at their sightless heads with his sword as green slime joined the rainwater in a slick, oozing sheet of muck.