Diablo III: Storm of Light (43 page)

Chalad’ar consumed him.

With the slavering beasts howling and rattling their chains in the depths of the Fist, their bloodlust breaking free, Balzael held his blade against Cullen’s throat and forced Tyrael to look into the chalice.

He tumbled down a bottomless hole, falling through strands of emotion that caught and spun him back and forth, threads of sorrow, loss, and despair. He sensed what the mortals he had once loved felt at the moment of their deaths; he became them for that moment, losing himself within the shock, anger, pain, fear, and ultimately, acceptance of their own ends. They were gone, and there was nothing left and no one to mourn them.

Death is inevitable
. All mortals would die, and then they would rot away, their bones turning to dust and returning to the elements that birthed them. But the legacy of what they left behind endured. In a war where worlds hung in the balance, every possible advantage must be explored, every strategic option utilized. If they died in service to the greater good, was that the right choice? How did you weigh the loss of one soul against the epic struggle of good against evil, light against darkness?

If one were to make that choice for them, was that also justified? Or was it murder? Could a mass execution be a just act if it ended a larger war that had raged for millennia?

A strange feeling crept over him, a reaction to the void beyond, and in spite of himself, he began to wonder if Imperius had been right all along.
Above all else, light must triumph over darkness
. Tyrael drifted through endless strands of light. Clarity came to him. There were really two questions for which he needed answers. The first was what to do with the Black Soulstone, and the second had to do with the fate of Sanctuary.

The stone remained in the Heavens, spreading hatred and pain. It must be removed. Sanctuary, for all its promise, was a blight on the world of angels, and perhaps the safest and best choice was to remove the threat entirely, to burn it out before it had a chance to spread enough to consume them.

Tyrael did not know how long he was under. Someone was slapping his face, lightly at first, then harder. He blinked, his surroundings swimming into focus; Balzael stood before him, backhanding him with his armored glove. When he saw Tyrael open his eyes, he stepped back. “Better,” he said. “Not quite time to give up. You have work to do yet.”

They were no longer in the Fist. Tyrael was shackled to the Column of Tears, where the statues of the guilty and the damned reached eternally for their salvation.

“A stunning turn of events, is it not?” Balzael said. He nodded at the Sicarai, who stood rigidly at attention at Balzael’s side. “As the archangel of Justice, you sat on your throne in this very room and cast your judgment down upon the heads of countless prisoners. Today we will hold a very short trial and act as judge, jury, and executioner. I want to show you just how easily we control you now.”

“You control nothing,” Tyrael said. But his voice was rough, too weak to command an answer.

Balzael moved aside to reveal Cullen standing behind him, arms lashed, mouth gagged. Cullen blinked, eyes wide and staring vacantly at nothing.

“We have sent word to Imperius that I have cornered those who have dared to invade our halls,” Balzael said. “He will arrive just in time to watch you cut down your friend, and he will see me end the threat, once and for all. Or so he will believe. Your actions will show the weakness of your mortal heart as you turn upon a defenseless human to save your own skin. Imperius may hold no love for humanity, but he is, above all else, about honor on the battlefield, and this, combined with your betrayal of the Council, will make him see that I had no choice but to execute you on the spot for your sins.”

“You are consumed with bloodlust,” Tyrael said. “The stone has gotten to you, too, Balzael. You are making mistakes.”

“Far from it.” Balzael forced Cullen to his knees. “This spectacle I am staging will draw attention away from the rest of your little team and allow them to escape with the stone. They already have it in their possession. By the time Imperius and the others realize there are more of you in the Heavens, it will be too late to stop them.”

“Perhaps, except I will not play your part.”

“And why not? I can sense you are beginning to come around to our point of view. Is that not right? Chalad’ar speaks the truth. Sanctuary was never meant to exist. Inarius was a fool. It is a boil on the face of the forces of light, a doorway for the Burning Hells and all darkness to enter our world, and it must be eliminated forever.”

In spite of himself, Tyrael could not deny the logic. Sanctuary had no divine right to its own survival. It was created as a hiding place for rogue angels and demons, and the birth of the human race had been an accident. The sacrifice of the nephalem Uldyssian had changed his mind so many years ago, had made him
see the potential in mankind for selflessness and honor and justice. But what if he had been wrong all along, and their potential for darkness outweighed everything else? What if his mortal dreams of the extinction of Sanctuary had not been nightmares at all but a sign of what must be done for the good of the Heavens? What if that was his calling as Wisdom, a truth he had been avoiding for too long?

Above all else, light must triumph over darkness
.

“Join us again, Tyrael,” Balzael said. “It does not have to end this way. We can go together to Sanctuary with the stone. Imperius and the rest of the Council have become impotent over time. This will force them to make a decision. The stone is too dangerous to remain in Sanctuary. I believe the Heavens will choose to destroy the world of men and end the threat—and if they do not,
we
can. And we must. It is not too late for you to become a guardian of the light.”

“Is that what you call them, guardians? Those things you command?”

“
We
are the guardians, you fool! And soon enough, once we have the stone, we will reveal ourselves as the true saviors of the High Heavens.”

“And what will you do with the stone?”

“That is our secret,” Balzael said. “But it will be cathartic, I promise you.”

Tyrael looked down. His arms were suddenly free of their chains, and El’druin had appeared in his hand. He looked at Cullen. The man stood silent and still, tears dried on his face, only his eyes still questioning.

The darkness was growing. Tyrael could feel it spreading throughout the Heavens, and soon it would begin to act on Sanctuary, consuming all light. Humankind would eventually fall to that darkness, allowing the corruption to overtake them. They were half-demon, after all.

Chalad’ar had shown him the true path. The chalice called to him, oblivion beckoning . . .

“Where are the others, the Horadrim? They have abandoned you, of course, as their race will. They are only interested in their own survival. Selfishness will lead to greed and finally to bloodlust. It always does.” Balzael gestured toward Cullen. “Cut him down,” he said. “Show us you are committed to serving the light!”

Tyrael shook his head. He felt the emptiness in his own heart. His fingers tightened on the grip of his sword until they ached. Everything he had done, every choice he had made from the moment he shed his wings, had been wrong. Angels and men could never peacefully coexist, and the darkness would never be vanquished fully until drastic measures were taken to ensure victory.

As he raised El’druin, he heard Balzael urging him on, and the whispers of the voice in his head grew louder every moment. He could not think, could not see or feel; the cacophony within his mind reached a fever pitch. His dreams came back to him, dreams of fire and blood, Sanctuary crumbling underneath him, the screams of men, women, and children filling his ears.

Forgive me
.

Cullen watched his destiny unfold through the eyes of a dead man.

He had awakened from one nightmare into another. His last memory before losing consciousness had been of Thomas, his friend, reaching out as if begging him for help before the Sicarai’s sword cut him in two. He saw Thomas split open, saw the man’s eyes go wide and then glaze over as the life left him forever.

I could not help him
, Cullen thought. He had tried and failed. And now his best friend was dead.

And then a sudden flare of pain and oblivion.

He did not know how long he was unconscious. He saw monsters that must have been from nightmares, grotesque creatures with dozens of hungry, puckered mouths, chained to the walls of some dark place. He saw Tyrael bound before him, blood on his face. He heard voices but could not understand what they were saying.

When he finally regained consciousness, the Sicarai was dragging him to his feet, Cullen’s arms lashed behind him. His head throbbed terribly. He looked around, taking in the huge column of statues rising toward the ceiling, the rows of empty seats facing him. They were in the Ring of Judgment, and Balzael would decide his fate, but what Balzael did not understand was that it didn’t matter. He was already dead; all that was left was the wet work.

He saw Balzael awaken Tyrael with vicious, backhanded slaps. He heard their discussion, but his mind refused to process the words. He watched Tyrael struggle with himself and draw his sword as his bonds fell away.

And then, finally, it hit him: Balzael wanted Tyrael to act as his executioner.

Surely he would not. And yet the archangel was stepping forward, putting his blade against Cullen’s neck.
Wait
. This could not be; something was wrong; Tyrael would not betray him. And yet the blade, hot on his neck, bit down. He felt blood trickle down his skin. It awakened something in him once again, something he had thought was dead but was only sleeping.

“Wait,” he tried to say out loud, but Tyrael’s eyes had gone blank and dark.

You are still bound
, Cullen thought,
even though the chains have fallen away
.

And then the Heavens exploded around him.

A great blue thunderbolt struck the Sicarai in the back, knocking
him to the ground. He howled in surprise and pain, leaping up and turning to the door, where Shanar was throwing more fire and Gynvir charged ahead with her axe. Next to her was Jacob, already running forward, his angelic weapon burning, and behind them came the necromancer.

Chaos descended upon the Courts of Justice.

Cullen’s heart beat faster as he watched Balzael draw his own weapon. He looked back as Tyrael raised El’druin. Cullen tried to move away but could not, and the others were still too far away to stop him as the blade whistled down.

But the sword did not cut his flesh. It sliced through the bonds that held his arms, freeing him. Tyrael removed the gag from his mouth.

The archangel’s eyes were clear. “I am sorry for this,” he said. “I have been a fool.” He charged forward into the fray, leaving Cullen kneeling there, stunned, unsure of what had just happened but shocked to find himself suddenly alive again—and hungry for revenge.

The appearance of the Horadrim had shaken Tyrael free.

He had not expected them to come back for him. He had been clear enough in their training. The mission came first, and removing the stone was paramount. Those left behind would be sacrifices to the cause. It was how they all must act in order to have any chance at success.

And yet they
had
come back, risking their own lives, risking the mission, in order to try to save their friends.

To save him.

The bonds of Chalad’ar fell away from him all at once. He had been wrong, horribly wrong. He had let the corruption and darkness into his own heart, but what it all meant must wait—now he needed to act, before it was too late.

Incredibly, the Horadrim were holding their own against their opponents. Jacob was circling Balzael, his Hallowed Destroyer blazing with light, Zayl on the other side with his dagger out. But Balzael would not strike and kept his sword between them so they had no opening.

Farther away, Shanar’s staff was glowing with blue fire, and Gynvir was dancing lightly on her feet around the Sicarai, waiting for an opening. The barbarian was fighting as she never had before, infused with a magical energy that gave her strength. Furious, the destroyer could not break through Gynvir’s defenses; somehow she parried his blows with her axe with tremendous explosions of power or avoided them entirely, while Shanar kept hitting him with bolts of energy that knocked him off balance. The two women worked seamlessly together, confusing the Sicarai as he turned from one to the other.