by Kenyon, Nate
“I have chosen to assume mortal form,” Tyrael said. “There is much to explain. I knew your former leader, Horadrim, a man of great honor. His sacrifice for our cause shall not be forgotten.”
“We traveled many miles to construct a monument here, only to find one already stands, far more impressive than anything we might have done,” Thomas said. He turned back to the pyramid of white stone. The Horadric symbol at its apex appeared to glow in the moonlight. “This is your doing?”
Tyrael nodded. “As long as Sanctuary exists, it cannot be destroyed. It will stand in testament to Deckard’s courage—a shining light in the darkness.” He studied the faces turned toward him, waiting. They remained suspicious of one another and of him, and what he was about to tell them would likely make things far worse.
There was so much work to do and little time left.
“Let us build a fire to warm ourselves and keep away the dark,” he said. “And then I will tell you everything.”
They built a ring of stones and carried limbs from the dead trees that dotted the hillside. Thomas used a flint on the blackened, diseased wood, but the spark would not catch until Shanar’s magic set it ablaze. The flames that rose up risked calling attention to the gathering, but they were all glad to feel the heat, as the night had grown icy-cold and ever darker around them.
The group sat in clusters: Mikulov and the Horadrim together; Shanar, Jacob, and Gynvir giving Zayl plenty of space. The barbarian had not reslung her battle axe since the necromancer’s appearance.
Tyrael told them the story of the creation of Sanctuary millennia ago by the angel Inarius, who had left the High Heavens after tiring of the Eternal Conflict and who wanted a place hidden from both sides, where like-minded angels and demons could exist in harmony. Against all odds, Inarius fell in love with the demon Lilith, daughter of Mephisto. Their unholy union resulted in the firstborn nephalem—Rathma, Bul-Kathos, Esu, and others—an entirely new kind of powerful being that populated the world and began to multiply, in spite of attempts to destroy them. Over the centuries, their offspring would eventually evolve into humans, and although with each generation their abilities were diminished by the presence of the Worldstone, enough of their powers remained to give rise to the magic that existed now.
“With the Worldstone’s destruction twenty years ago,” Tyrael continued, “these nephalem abilities have begun to strengthen once again in those humans who are able to harness the secrets of the ancients. You need to understand this history, for it has a bearing on why we are here today.”
“The nephalem were courageous and pure,” Cullen said. “We have studied them in the texts.”
Tyrael nodded. Then he told them of the creation of the Black Soulstone by the Horadric mage Zoltun Kulle, an original member of the Horadrim and a man of great potential. Kulle’s fate was a constant reminder of the dangers they all faced. Power could corrupt, and the temptation toward darkness was strong, and Kulle’s relentless lust for immortality was his downfall. Although Kulle was eventually destroyed, his Black Soulstone, an object of immense and unknown power, was used centuries later in the transformation of the girl Leah into the Prime Evil and the assault on the gates of Heaven. The Crystal Arch had only been saved through the heroic actions of a true nephalem, a mortal blessed with abilities that came from this ancient birthright, one who could rise above even the strongest angel or demon.
The telling of this took a long time, and the flames began to draw low before Gynvir rose to stock them with new wood and Shanar breathed life into the fire. “This nephalem hero now stalks the lands somewhere east of Westmarch,” Tyrael said. “Searching for the witch Adria, who remains missing. I have come to Sanctuary and assembled you here because we must act on another urgent matter of crucial importance, and there is little time left. The Black Soulstone is once again endangering all we hold dear, but it cannot be safely destroyed. There is only one solution: it must be hidden away. I have chosen you—as I did centuries ago in assembling the Horadrim to hunt down and capture the Prime Evils—to assist me in this vital mission.”
It was the scholar who finally spoke again. The man reminded Tyrael of Deckard Cain; although the two were physically very different, they shared a natural curiosity and a quick mind.
“A letter from Leah was delivered by a courier to our temple in Gea Kul some time ago,” Cullen said. “She wrote about finding a stranger with a broken sword in Tristram. She described Deckard’s death at the cultists’ hands and the discovery of the soulstone. And she wrote about finding her mother still alive and asked for our help in deciphering the stone’s true nature.”
“So you know that I speak the truth in this.”
“Adria was convinced that it held the key to destroying the seven Evils from the Hells. I scoured our library for anything I could find on the stone and sent my notes to Caldeum, but they were returned to me. The messenger told me that Leah could not be found. Now you tell us that she . . .”
Cullen stopped for a moment, carefully removing his spectacles. He slipped a cloth from his satchel and wiped his moist eyes, then returned the spectacles to the bridge of his nose. “All those years wondering about her mother,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “She deserved a better fate.”
“She fought against the possession of her soul,” Tyrael said. “The fall of the gates was not her doing. The Prime Evil had already overtaken her. I believe her suffering was brief.”
Cullen nodded, glancing at his two companions, Thomas and the monk. “Where is the stone now?” he asked.
“It sits in the Heavens, protected by the Luminarei, the Defenders of the Arch.”
“A holy guard? Why not leave it in place?”
“The stone is too dangerous. Already it has begun to corrupt the Heavens, and I fear that soon it will be too late to act. But the Angiris Council will never voluntarily choose to hand it over to humans for safekeeping.”
“Then what are you suggesting we do?”
Tyrael met the scholar’s gaze. “We must invade the Heavens and steal it.”
The group erupted into shocked disbelief. “Invade the Heavens?” Cullen said. “From my studies, humans have never set foot there, at least before this battle you describe with the Prime Evil. Mortals cannot comprehend the beauty, the overwhelming scope of them. The dangers inherent in such an attempt . . .”
You are correct, Tyrael thought. Even I might lose my life in this pursuit. The thought came unbidden and surprised him with its strength. His hand crept toward an inner pocket of his robes as if of its own accord, then dropped. Death comes to call on all mortals, sooner or later.
“Apologies for bringing a little skepticism to the party,” Shanar said. She had risen from her seat, a flush reddening her pretty face. “I followed the Song of the Arch because I didn’t have much of a choice; it was the will of the Heavens, you know? The last time this happened, I was trapped in a cave with a sword for company for who knows how long, until this one”—she gestured at Jacob—“finally got around to showing up. Now we come all the way to this forsaken place, and you tell us we’re needed for a suicide mission?”
The wizard’s words hung in the air while the others remained silent. Tyrael could see them exchange glances and quickly look away, as if nobody wanted to speak next. Their faces reflected distrust, uncertainty, even fear.
“I have chosen you all for a reason,” Tyrael said. “Each and every one of you will play an important role in saving this world and the one beyond it. Zayl, you fought a powerful demon not long ago and prevailed. Mikulov, Thomas, and Cullen, you stood with Deckard Cain on the battlefield of Gea Kul against a dark sorcerer in league with Belial and defeated an army of the undead. Shanar, Jacob, and Gynvir, you stared into the face of the rage plague and did not blink.” His voice rose. “You will confront terrible dangers and what will appear to be impossible odds. But you have undiscovered wells of strength, awarded by your very birth; you have the blood of angels and demons running in your veins,
a mix of light and dark, which makes you able to wield more power than you can possibly understand.”
“Our strengths,” Jacob repeated slowly, as if trying to come to an understanding. He had remained mostly silent until now. “We all fight with some degree of skill, but what you’re talking about requires much more than that. It’ll take an army.”
Tyrael withdrew his sword from its sheath, holding the shining edge to the light of the fire. “When I was lost to the Worldstone, you wielded El’druin as the avatar of Justice,” he said. “That was no accident, Jacob. You have much you can teach the others here.”
“The power I wielded as an instrument of Justice was given to me through the sword,” Jacob said. “El’druin has returned to its master. I no longer possess it.”
“What’s happening now?” The voice was muffled, slightly irked, as if it came from a man who had been sitting in a cramped position too long. “Can’t see a damned thing in here!”
Tyrael saw Zayl’s hand pat the bulging pouch on his belt. “A moment, Humbart,” the necromancer said quietly. Then he looked at Tyrael. “We have come, as we have been called,” he said. “And I, at least, am willing to accept much of what you say. But do you have a plan to accomplish this thievery?”
Tyrael hesitated. He had spent a long time poring through Deckard Cain’s ancient texts in the library he had left behind, searching for answers. He had to find the perfect location to hide the stone, somewhere that would be safe from those who would seek its power.
Finally, he believed he had found it, buried in obscure references within copies of the Books of Kalan from Cain’s collection. “An ancient stronghold lies hidden somewhere in the lands to the west, a city of great power built by nephalem—empty now but shielded from angel and demon. I have come to believe that this is the only safe place to hide the stone.”
“And exactly how are we supposed to find this place?” Shanar said, her skepticism still showing in her face.
“Deckard Cain believed that Rakkis and his sons had discovered it many years ago and that it lies somewhere close to Bramwell or Westmarch. Cain had found a passage in a Zakarum holy text about the key to its location, some sort of map. In Cain’s own hand, he had written about the possibility of other documents kept by Rakkis that might reveal far more about the long-abandoned city. But they had been hidden away somewhere.”
“There are several lesser-known texts that refer to such a place,” Cullen said. “A scholar named Hael wrote about it two hundred years ago, but he determined that it was most likely symbolic rather than an actual location.”
“I was told in a vision we should find the blacksmith in Bramwell, a man named Borad, and he would have the key that we seek,” Zayl said. “I can only assume it refers to these documents and this stronghold—”
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” the muffled voice from Zayl’s pouch said. “But if you don’t pay attention, this quest of yours is going to be the shortest one in recent memory. Someone—something—approaches in a mighty big hurry, and I don’t think it’s friendly! Can you feel it, Zayl? Hello, mate! You fallen asleep up there?”
The others stared at the pouch. The necromancer shook his head. He was looking over the flickering fire, eyes on the distant, blackened shapes of stunted trees that loomed in the darkness. “Humbart is right,” he said quietly. “Something is watching us. There is . . . an unnatural presence nearby. Stay still and listen.”
The group fell silent. Small sounds of movement came from all sides: shuffling, stealthy steps, snuffling, pebbles rolling in the night. From beyond that came the sound of something larger shambling up the hill toward them.
Shanar stood in one quick move and threw her arms toward the black sky. Fire erupted from her fingers, arching through the air over their heads, bursting above them in streaks of pinks, purples, and blues.
Light illuminated the tombstones in stark relief and exposed a pack of doglike beasts descending upon the group. They came from everywhere at once, seemingly out of nowhere, creeping with their horned, eyeless faces low to the ground, their haunches quivering, and following them over the hill marched a dozen huge creatures with muscled shoulders and bared teeth, dragging spiked mauls behind them.
Chapter Six
Escape to New Tristram
“Demonspawn,” Gynvir said, gritting her teeth and spitting out the word. “Where did they come from?”
“Remnants of evil still walk these lands,” Tyrael said. “They hunt in packs and must have been drawn by the fire.”
“No kidding,” muttered Shanar. “I don’t think it’s a welcoming party.”
The group put the dying flames at their backs, closing ranks in a circle with their weapons out. Jacob slid his short sword from its sheath and looked around at the others. A stand here might work for a while if they trusted one another with their lives, but that was clearly not the case. One weak fighter could let a hellion through to wreak havoc. There was a gap between Gynvir and Zayl large enough for a beast to get through with a leap, but the barbarian refused to move any closer and kept glancing at the smaller man as if waiting for him to pounce on her. Jacob motioned to Shanar to get between them. She gave him a quick look but complied.
The dark berserkers kept advancing. He had faced these before, in the Dreadlands. They were slow but would not go down easily—the size of two men, their bare chests rippling, iron marks clamped across their hideous, twisted features, exposing a line of sharp teeth and bloody gums. One of them raised its gigantic maul in both fists and smashed it with a vicious overhead swing into the rocky soil. The impact caused the ground to shake and sent the hellions into a slavering frenzy, their snarls rising up as the closest crept forward.
And me with nothing but this small sword. Jacob stole a glance at Tyrael, who held El’druin. He remembered the feel of the magnificent weapon in his own hands, and a ghostlike thrill ran through him. With the Sword of Justice, he had stood with the light and fulfilled every promise he had made to his long-dead father, a man of right and wrong, principled and fair, who had administered the laws of Staalbreak with a steady hand before the rage plague turned him into a monster. That was the man Jacob chose to remember, not the one who had executed Jacob’s mother and nearly brought the town to its knees.
Not the one who had tried to kill his son, not the one Jacob had murdered with his own hand.
“Look for their masters,” Zayl said in a low voice that carried through the group. “Berserkers do not act alone. There are cultists close by, pulling their strings.”
And then the beasts were upon them, and there was little time left to think.
The first hellion’s leap carried it within striking distance of El’druin. Tyrael swung the sword, and the blade sang through the air, slicing the creature neatly in half. Two bloody, writhing pieces tumbled to the ground, teeth still snapping, innards spilling to wet the dust. Another came, and Tyrael struck a second mighty blow, cleaving the creature’s head from its shoulders.
Cullen let out a low cry, the small man stumbling backward, a hellion’s snarling maw impaled upon his sword. Thomas had sliced another’s belly open, exposing rib bones and gristle as it fell. But the two men, occupied by their attackers, had left their spot vulnerable.
Where is the monk? Jacob could not find him anywhere. Had he already slipped away into the night, leaving them behind to fight?
Then he saw him, like a flash of holy light.
Mikulov worked beyond the fire among the creatures that slunk everywhere. He moved with blinding speed, leaping across the backs of the hellions and punching downward with a blade that seemed to be an extension of his hand, severing their spines before pivoting and stabbing again at another. His actions were effortless, his power breathtaking.
“Look out!” Shanar’s warning made Jacob turn just in time. One of the largest of the dog beasts had advanced, creeping low and closing on his feet. He thrust his sword downward as the thing lunged at him, driving the blade into the back of its neck
, just past its bony skull. It howled and shook itself so hard Jacob lost his grip on the handle, and the creature went stumbling off sideways, with the sword sticking up like a quivering quill, before it collapsed to the dirt.
Aching to once again feel the power of El’druin in his hands, he glanced at Shanar, who was muttering words he could not make out over the din. A burst of purple arcane energy shot from her fingers like a bolt of lightning, striking the two hellions closest to her with a sizzling crack and opening up a temporary hole in their ranks. She threw another bolt that streaked through the air and hit a berserker in the chest.
The creature howled with rage and stumbled, going to its knees. It dropped its maul and clawed at the smoking crater deep in its flesh.
Jacob yanked his sword free from the dead hellion. Someone would have to create a path to escape. He looked over toward Deckard Cain’s gravestone, gleaming white like a beacon. Only the wounded berserker stood between them and the stone, and beyond that was an open path back the way they had come.
A bit of his old swagger returned, and with it came the desire to impress Shanar.
“Don’t!” Shanar had seemed to guess his intent, but he took no heed and leaped into the gap she had cleared. In three quick steps, he was at the wounded berserker’s side. He swung his sword with all his strength at the thing’s head. But the beast surprised him, raising its arm to ward off the blow, and the sword’s edge did nothing more than gouge a shallow line in its thick blue skin.
A sinking feeling settled in Jacob’s stomach as he swung the sword again and caught nothing but air. The berserker struggled to its feet, roaring with rage. He glanced to his left and saw another heading toward him, maul raised, snarl on its bloody lips.
He was trapped, cut off from the others, with two monstrous creatures moving in for the kill.