Diablo III: Storm of Light (30 page)

In contrast to the natural caverns, the new space they had entered was definitely built by humans, Tyrael thought, holding up a torch for a better view. It was a large chamber. The floor beyond where they stood was constructed of stones of different sizes, the walls built with blocks stacked in symmetrical lines with inset panels and alcoves. Directly beyond was another series of columns on either side of a set of wide steps that descended into the darkness.

The lost city of the nephalem? It seemed possible they had found it at last. But if so, it was nothing like what he had expected. When the shimmering ceased, the statues appeared to return to their natural state. Some kind of magic had secured the entrance, Tyrael thought, and Cullen had broken through it, allowing them to enter.

Tyrael walked through the silent chamber. Did the fact that he, a mortal angel, was able to set foot here mean that the protective spell was no longer in effect?

He crossed the floor to the edge of the steps. The space below opened up like another room of some kind, but it was deserted and dusty, much like the rest of the caverns. Two shorter columns
topped with stone bowls stood on either side of the steps. Tyrael touched the torch to one, and it burst into blue flame. He lit the other, and the chamber was filled with a strange, otherworldly glow. There was magic here, he thought, to keep fuel in place for so long.

They took the steps down and explored the lower level, lighting more bowls of flame. Hallways led off from the chamber into silent rooms and larger spaces. There were areas with intricate patterns in the floors and walls, more alcoves and platforms, structures that appeared to have some purpose lost over time. Strange, arched windows led nowhere; columns of stone supported ceilings that soared overhead.

The halls and chambers went on and on. But everything was empty and coated in dust. There was no apparent salvation here, no greater magic that would aid their quest. The lost city was not what they had hoped to find.
A place of great power once, perhaps, long abandoned by those who created it. A city without a purpose
. The conviction that had carried Tyrael for so long began to fade. All this time, even with his own personal doubts, he had put his faith in finding this place, in the sense that they would have some protection from the legions of angels that would descend upon them from the Heavens should their thievery be discovered. Now he thought only of the long odds of their mission’s success. The Horadrim had grown stronger, and their small team had begun to show signs of working together, but they were not close to ready. He still had much to do in order to prepare them for the things they would experience in the Silver City. And what good was all that if they had nowhere to hide once they returned to Sanctuary?

It was a fool’s errand, a suicide mission with no hope for any of them.

Tyrael turned back to the Horadrim gathered before him. They were exhausted and waiting on his lead. Somehow, he
knew, he must find the strength to inspire them. He must not show his own disappointment or weakness.

Peer into the chalice, and all will once again become clear
.

The voice in his head was thunderous. Tyrael reached toward the pocket in his robes. Chalad’ar was there, calling to him. The urge to leave the others and give in to the call consumed him like a burning thirst. What were they to him? Death would come to them sooner or later, as it did to all mortals. Their lives were nothing in the larger scheme of things and would be forgotten soon enough, just as those who lived and died here in these catacombs had been lost to the dust of time.

The trance was broken by Mikulov, with Lorath just behind him. The monk came forward with the young man as the others spoke quietly among themselves. Mikulov gestured to Lorath, who stood with hands clasped in front of him. The look in his eyes was difficult to read. “Young Lorath pointed something out to me,” the monk said. “I suggested he speak with you.”

Lorath shrugged, and spoke hesitantly. “The statue at the entrance to this place watched you pass through the wall. It did not watch any of the others.”

“And what else?” Mikulov said. “Speak plainly; this is important.”

“When you entered, the two female statues also tracked your movements. I thought perhaps it’s because you are . . . different.”

“Mortal, he means. Not angel or demon,” Mikulov said. “But not human, either. Perhaps this place does not know what to make of you.” The monk stepped closer. “It means that magic remains in the lost city. It means that the protective spell is still in place, and the guardians are assessing what to do with you. At least for now, they have decided you are not a threat.”

The whispers in Tyrael’s mind subsided. He thought of Imperius in the Heavens, their confrontation in the Council room, the shedding of his wings, and all that came after: his brother’s
anger and Auriel’s disappointment and sadness. He thought of the angel’s birth at the Arch, the tainted gray strands of her Lightsong wrapping themselves around her wings while he stood by helplessly and watched. The Black Soulstone sat on its perch even now, turning all that came within its growing shadow to darkness and destruction, and no one in the Heavens could stop it.

He was a mortal. His life had forever changed, and his body’s aches and pains would only grow worse as he slid toward inevitable death. He would leave this world sooner or later, and he would do it apart from the Heavens and the angels he had known since his own birth at the Arch, millennia ago. He would do it without the comfort of knowing he was human, either. Those who would die before him were not brothers but strangers.

But that did not mean he should refuse his duty and turn a blind eye to the darkness and the corruption that he saw. Imperius had made his decision; he had judged the human race to be lesser beings incapable of triumphing over their own base instincts. He saw humans as weak and dangerous, and therefore he believed they should be destroyed. And he would not stop until the Angiris Council—the entire Heavens—agreed that it must be done.

To refuse to stand against this was a far worse crime than going against the wishes of the Council.

“The Ivgorod monks have a saying,” Mikulov said. “ ‘Without a beginning, there is no end.’ We must start somewhere, and this place”—he motioned to the empty halls beyond—“is as good as any. I sense you remain conflicted, and perhaps there is a good reason for it. But the object you carry is not the answer. You have brought us this far. We cannot turn back now.”

Tyrael opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He realized he had no idea what to say. The two stood a few feet apart, regarding each other. The monk seemed to pose a question with his steady, patient gaze.

Which will you choose?

“This place is a dump,” Shanar said finally, breaking the silence. “They should dismiss the chambermaid.”

Her attempt at humor barely drew a soft chuckle from Jacob, and more silence came from the rest of the Horadrim. Thomas had found a seat on a low wall, head in his hands. Gynvir was pacing a good distance away from the necromancer, who still held one of the torches. Even Humbart was uncharacteristically silent.

“It was abandoned long ago,” Cullen said. The scholar’s plump face was wan, his shoulders slumped in defeat, the new energy that had animated him seeming to bleed away with the gloom. “There is nothing left for us, it seems. What now?”

“It has been a long journey,” Tyrael said. He gathered his breath, finding focus for what he needed to say. “But this was never our ultimate destination.” He stepped past Lorath and the monk into the center of their small circle and gestured at Cullen. “Remind us of what we know of these catacombs.”

Cullen blinked rapidly, swallowed. “There isn’t much in the ancient texts,” he began slowly, looking around at the others as he warmed to the task. “Legends say the lost city of the nephalem was primarily a place of peace and shelter, shielding them through very powerful spells or energy of some kind. It was constructed by one named Daedessa the Builder. Korsikk’s journal seems to confirm that Rakkis had found much the same stories through his own research and believed these stories to be true. It is why Rakkis chose to be buried here. He was seeking the power and protection he thought the catacombs provided.”

Tyrael nodded. “I can tell you that the angels never knew of this place through all the years it has existed, and it appears that the Burning Hells never discovered it, either. Does that tell you something?”

“I suspect the power that shields this place is tied to the creation
of Sanctuary itself,” Cullen said, “and the interaction between the physical and ethereal planes. But the destruction of the Worldstone did not seem to weaken it. It may even be that this place exists within its own realm and that we have crossed over a bridge between worlds.”

“And do you think that by entering here, we have altered it in some way, opened this bridge to others?” asked Tyrael.

Slowly, Cullen shook his head. “The power is tied to the nephalem. One of them can open the door, but it will close again.” He looked around at the Horadrim. “One of
us
,” he said. “I did this, with the key—it tapped into something within me, a push and pull that I felt in my bones.”

“At some point in the past, you have all done something to tap into the power within you,” Tyrael said. “You are all nephalem. It is your birthright, your essence, given to you by the blood that runs through your veins. The very shape of these chambers can channel this energy, providing a focal point as you learn to control it, resonating at the proper pitch to increase these abilities, just as the Crystal Arch’s song does for the Heavens. But we must find the tomb. Rakkis would have chosen the center, where the power was the strongest. The tomb will provide a base of operations and the place in which to bury the stone forever, once we have retrieved it.”

“
If
we retrieve it,” Shanar muttered. “Jury’s still out on that.”

The wizard’s seemingly offhand remark struck perilously close to the truth.

Lorath spoke up. The young man was nervous, his gaze flitting from face to face. “I do not know you well,” he said. “But I do know of the Horadrim. It is said that my family is descended from knights who fought alongside the great Horadric mages Tal Rasha and Jered Cain during the battles against the Prime Evils. As a young man, my own uncle, Adleric, was part of the forces of Westmarch that fought against King Leoric’s army when the
king went mad. Adleric even once met Deckard Cain in Tristram, and he has seen demons with his own eyes.”

Lorath paused, as if gathering himself. “I believe in your quest,” he said. “I want to become a part of history, fight alongside you, and learn the ways of the Horadrim.”

“That’s a great story, kid, and a touching thing to say,” Shanar said. “But being part of a battle against the Burning Hells without any real training—or against the Luminarei from the Heavens, for that matter—isn’t an honorable pursuit. It’s a death sentence.”

“I’m not a boy,” Lorath said. “I’m a lieutenant in the knights under the commander—my father, now that Commander Barnard is dead. And I have been told I have a knack for magic. Perhaps—”

“We owe the young man a great deal already,” Thomas cut in. “We could use his help in working with the knights.”

Tyrael was uncertain whether it was wise to take on what might be another liability at such a crucial time. Lorath had no idea what he would face, and they had no way of knowing what he would do when pushed. But several others were nodding at Thomas’s words and seemed ready to accept the young man, at least for now.

They had much work to do if they had the barest chance of success, and they could use the knights’ support. It was time now to begin the planning and the training in earnest. They would have to prepare themselves for what lay ahead. The High Heavens would offer many nearly impossible challenges for mortal beings, both physical and psychological. They would be tested to their limits. In order to escape with their lives, they would need to learn how to precisely control their nephalem abilities and to resist the wonders and horrors they would encounter.

Most chilling of all, Tyrael’s plan depended on Shanar learning
how to use her unique abilities in a way that had never been attempted before—and failure would mean their certain doom. And he did not yet know if he could trust her.

Tyrael felt the tug of the chalice once again, but he would not acknowledge it in front of the Horadrim. “Very well,” he said. “Young Lorath shall be considered an apprentice in the order and will work with the Knights of Westmarch to forge an alliance.” He paused, holding each of their gazes in turn. What he saw there helped his strength and conviction return. “We will find the tomb of Rakkis. It is here, somewhere below our feet. I am sure of it.”

As it turned out, the search did not take much longer.

At first, the archangel lit blue flames in stone bowls and torches as they went, adding to the strange light that pervaded these ruins, but eventually, they found that the flames were already glowing in the new spaces they entered.