by Kenyon, Nate
The necromancer probed gently, hesitating for the first time that night. There was more than one of them. He sensed others hovering beyond the ring of light cast by the town. The creatures avoided his probing mind, but not because they were afraid. They wanted something else, and they were biding their time until they were ready.
These creatures held a strange power indeed. They did not appear to come from the Heavens or the Hells. He sensed that any wrong move could mean his death. Meeting his own end now would be unnatural, and his cycle of being would be disrupted, leaving him in a state of lingering agony that he would much prefer to avoid—
He sensed movement, like a wraith darting just beyond his sight. One of them had come closer. The chill deepened around him. The thing stank of the grave, a stench that permeated the air nearby and made Zayl nearly turn away.
But he would not. For he had recognized the essence of this foul, black thing, even if he had no name for it and had only felt it once before.
It was the same kind as the creatures that had taken Salene.
Shanar sat on the small bed, bare legs curled up underneath her. Cullen stole glances when he imagined himself unobserved and thought that she looked like a young woman in such a pose. He had gotten a hint of her true age when she and the barbarian Gynvir had reminisced earlier that evening about past battles that had occurred twenty years ago; she must be forty years old, and yet she looked barely free from her twenties. She was beautiful indeed, but until now, he had not thought of her as vulnerable in any way. Rather, her skills and presence were formidable in spite of her slender frame.
If he were to be honest, Cullen found her intimidating. Yet that feeling was softened by her appearance now, her straight black hair free from its ponytail, her wizard’s staff set aside, her face freshly washed with water from the basin.
Unable to sleep, Shanar and Gynvir had joined Cullen, Thomas, and Mikulov in one of the two rooms. Tyrael had gone downstairs, and Zayl had disappeared somewhere. Cullen knew enough not to question the activities of a necromancer, and apparently, the others did, too, for thus far, they had avoided the subject entirely.
“It’s suicide,” Shanar said. “There are eight of us and one talking skull against an army of angels. I’m as game for an adventure as anyone, but I’m telling you, those are some bad odds, even for a gambler.”
As they continued to discuss the task that had been set before them, the small group’s mood had grown increasingly bleak. Although Gynvir seemed more reluctant to question Tyrael’s call to duty, Shanar felt betrayed to discover that the song she had been following had been engineered to draw her to Tristram. She had even begun to wonder about the resonance that had called her to El’druin so many years ago. Had she been manipulated then, too?
Cullen had tried (somewhat weakly, he admitted, tongue-tied by her beauty) to convince her that the simple fact that they had an archangel among them was astonishing enough and should be celebrated. But Shanar wasn’t about to listen.
“He’s a rogue,” she said, looking around the group. “If we do this, we’re acting against the will of the Heavens. How do we know this is the right choice? What if he’s . . .” She made a gesture of frustration. “If he’s wrong, we’re the ones who are going to suffer for it.”
Cullen sensed there was more to her doubt than that. Wizards were headstrong and independent as a rule, but history showed they could be persuaded to put aside their own needs for a common goal. Under other circumstances, none of them would have dared challenge an archangel’s authority. But Tyrael was a mortal now, no matter how imposing he was in physical form. Cullen had never personally seen an angel before, but from what he had read in many ancient texts, they were impressive enough to bring a man to his knees. The unfurling of wings made of pure energy . . . it was impossible to imagine.
“He has done this before,” Cullen said. “Many centuries ago, in the Hunt for the Three, for the Prime Evils—Diablo, Baal, and Mephisto—Tyrael assembled the first Horadrim to assist him. It was without the knowledge of the Angiris Council, which strictly forbids angels interfering with the world of men.”
The quest given to the original Horadrim, mages of great power and wisdom, was to imprison the three leaders of the Burning Hells within soulstones fashioned from shards of the Worldstone, burying them deep in the ground: one under the Zakarum Temple of Light, one under the sands of Aranoch, and the last under the Tristram Cathedral. Thomas and Mikulov had heard the story before, and even Gynvir had some knowledge of it, although it had been more of a legend than truth. But now they all listened carefully, seeming to give it more weight.
“Tyrael was successful then,” Cullen said. “Why not now?”
Shanar just shook her head. “It was different then. He was different. You said yourself it was a long time ago.”
The others were silent for a moment. All that most of Sanctuary knew about the Heavens and the eternal struggle between light and dark were stories, in the end. Stories of great feats by long-dead men. But Cullen had fought against the minions of evil and had seen the fall of the Dark One at the Black Tower. He had shared that fight with Deckard Cain, had grown to love him like a father before he had gone away, and Deckard had personally witnessed Tyrael’s shining wings unfurling in the shadows of the Pandemonium Fortress. Deckard had written about Tyrael’s unwavering commitment to humankind after Uldyssian’s sacrifice. He had written about so many things, and Cullen had never known him to embellish the truth.
Mikulov had been mostly silent, but now he uncoiled from the corner where he had been crouching perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. The others all looked worn from their recent ordeal, but he appeared as calm and centered as ever.
“By all accounts, Tyrael has acted to protect Sanctuary when all others would not,” he said. “Deckard Cain, a man I respected more than any other in these lands, gave his life in service to the Heavens. The gods have spoken to me, and they have made it clear that Tyrael’s calling is a worthy one. I will help him, to my last breath. Who will stand with me?”
Cullen nodded. Gynvir looked to Shanar, who shrugged. A wan smile crossed her lips. “If I said you have all lost your minds, would it make any difference?”
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. The Horadrim looked at one another. Gynvir drew her battle axe from where it was strapped to her muscled back.
Thomas opened the door carefully to find Zayl standing there in the flickering light of the lantern hung in the hall, his oddly hypnotic features seeming to shift in the shadows that played across them.
“There are creatures outside,” he said. “We are being hunted. We must go at once.”
They took a step back, but none of them invited him inside. “We must go,” Zayl repeated. “Gather the others, quickly and quietly—”
“I told you to stay away, necromancer,” Gynvir said, her hands moving on the handle of her axe. “I don’t trust you or that damned thing you carry at your belt. The dead should remain at rest.”
“Hey,” Humbart said. “Watch who you’re calling damned, woman!”
Shanar put a hand on the barbarian’s arm, quieting her. Gynvir’s voice was rough with anger, and Zayl wondered if she had some personal experience with another necromancer that had colored her view of him. But there was no time for such things now. He had to get them to understand.
“Dark forces are at work here,” he said, looking at Thomas and Cullen. “You must listen to me. We risk the safety of the entire town—”
“There’s no sense flapping your gums if they won’t listen,” the voice of the skull interrupted. Even from the pouch, it was loud enough to make everyone pause. “Save yourself, lad!”
“What is the meaning of this?” Tyrael stood in the hallway, looking from face to face.
“The dark gathers quickly,” Zayl said. “There are creatures outside that are very dangerous, and I believe they are after someone in our group . . . perhaps all of us.”
“I have felt it,
too,” Mikulov said from inside the room. “The gods are restless tonight. Something has disturbed them.”
“Where’s Jacob?” Shanar asked. “Wasn’t he with you?”
“He left me in the tavern some time ago,” Tyrael said. “He said he was returning to these chambers to sleep.”
Shanar looked at Gynvir, who said nothing, her face seeming to darken further. The wizard brushed past them and into the hall, ducking into the other room, coming back out again a moment later, shaking her head.
“Not in there, either,” she said. The ashen color of her face belied her nonchalant manner. “I can’t say I’m surprised. He’s been known to wander off in his own little world—”
Her words were cut off by a bloodcurdling scream from somewhere outside.
Shanar was the first down the hall, calling Jacob’s name and moving so quickly she was gone before anyone had the chance to say a word. The necromancer followed, with Tyrael and the others fast behind him, rushing down the narrow stairs to the bottom floor.
The tavern was nearly empty now, most of the revelers gone to bed to sleep things off. Bron sat slumped at a table, snoring loudly; the bartender was gone and had left empty mugs and spilled mead everywhere.
Tyrael followed Zayl and the wizard through the back door. He was immediately hit by the cold; there was no wind, but the icy chill had deepened since he had last come inside, tightening his skin and causing him to pull his robes closer.
All torches and lanterns had been extinguished, and even the moon and the stars were no longer visible. Shanar muttered the words to a spell that sparked a blue glow from her staff, but even that feeble light was drawn away quickly and cast only the faintest shadows at her feet.
Tyrael gritted his teeth against the burning chill and drew El’druin from its sheath. The blade shone forth, knocking the darkness back. He stepped forward and sensed the others gathering behind him. Zayl had drawn his weapon, the necromancer’s serpentine blade glowing with its own eerie light. A blade bound to the dragon Trag’Oul, the Ancient One, Guardian of Sanctuary, and a creature of the stars, or so the priests of Rathma believed.
Moving slowly, Tyrael peered through the deep shadows that seemed to pool and shift. He followed the narrow path around the corner of the inn to the front, where the wooden sign hung below a dark lantern and the cobblestone road ran off into emptiness.
A dull thud made him look up again; the sign had begun to swing back and forth on its chains, tapping against the post, although there was no wind.
“There!” Cullen pointed to their left, and Tyrael swung El’druin in that direction, his heart racing in his chest, fire coursing through his veins. Show yourself. A faint shape, little more than a deeper black against the shadows, flitted just beyond the edges of his sight and was gone. Tyrael waved the sword in a fiery arc, looking for anything he might strike against. But the road before them was empty.
Sounds came like bones cracking in the silence, long, slow, and unsettlingly eerie, the last few clicks drawn out as they faded away. The others whirled around to catch another fleeting glimpse of black. More of them.
Gynvir had unslung her axe, but whatever stalked them was gone again in an instant.
Tyrael turned back. He raised his sword, letting the light shine forth. Where the movement had come from, a few steps from the front door of the Slaughtered Calf, a motionless figure lay in the middle of the road.
The group came together around the body, forming a tighter circle as if to protect one another from the dark. It was a man who had been drinking at the bar, eyes wide and frozen in a deathly stare, his skin and hair bleached pure white, one hand extended in a claw, as if reaching for something. Zayl crouched over the dead man, removing a vial of thick liquid from his pouch. He passed this uncapped over the man’s pale forehead, dripping the liquid in the pattern of a rune, which glowed softly and then faded. The bar patron’s mouth appeared sunken, as if his teeth had been removed, and he looked twenty years older.
After a moment, the necromancer looked up. “There is nothing I can do for him,” he said. “His spirit is gone, and for some reason, I cannot summon it.”
“He must have come to investigate,” Cullen said. “And something . . . took him.”
“It drew him out for a reason,” Thomas said. He looked around at the dark that pressed in against them.
The group was silent, with weapons ready, as the normal sounds of the night returned and lanterns began to glow once again, flames flickering back to life, bringing warmth and light. A few people emerged from nearby buildings. Not wanting to be seen, Tyrael led the others away from the lifeless body, and around the far corner of the inn, sitting propped against the wall, they found Jacob.
“I saw one,” he said. He smelled of mead, but his eyes were clear. Each word seemed to take every ounce of energy he could muster. “Some kind of wraithlike thing with strange wings . . . it moved like an insect and was black as pitch. It hovered over me for a moment, and I felt it draw something from me . . . and I was so cold. I couldn’t move. And then I heard you . . . and it was gone.”
“I fear the healer gave us away,” Thomas said. “This creature is some kind of scout for the others; I am sure of it. If I am right, there will be more here soon.”
“I can invoke a spell to conceal us, for a time,” Zayl said. “We will not be seen or heard, at least long enough to make our escape.”
A shout came from the entrance to the inn, along with running feet. Someone had discovered the dead man, and it would surely not be long before one of Tyrael’s party would be blamed for his murder. They were tired, and the road stretched before them. But New Tristram was no longer safe, and Tyrael could not afford to jeopardize the mission before it had even begun.
“It is time for each of you to make your decision,” he said. “I have told you what we must do and why and the dangers that come along with such an attempt. You have seen this firsthand tonight—and it is only the beginning. We have much work to do to prepare, but we must do it as a team, if we have any chance to succeed. If you have doubts, now is the time to speak. All of you have the free will to leave.”
He looked at each of them in turn, and they all nodded. For a moment, Tyrael felt the shame of using them in this way; none of them had the ability to truly understand what they were up against, not yet. Gynvir had helped get Jacob to his feet, and he stood unsteadily now. But he returned Tyrael’s gaze unflinchingly.
“We’re bound to this,” Jacob said. “Whether we like it or not.” He pulled the top of his robe aside to reveal a mark in the hollow just below his collarbone. It was dark red, like the pucker of an old wound, in the shape of a crescent. “The creature touched me here,” he said. “I feel it, even now. These things will return, unless we find a way to stop them first.”
“Very well,” Tyrael said. “We leave for Bramwell now, before the dawn.”
Chapter Ten
The Destroyer
Balzael was restless.
The Luminarei lieutenant paced back and forth before a wall of mounted trophies. The Halls of Valor were full of macabre items on display: the heads of fallen beasts with horns and slobbering mouths frozen in an endless snarl; regurgitators with bulging, sightless eyes; dark berserkers and hellions and many other demons, all of them slain in battle. They had been intentionally preserved just as they had died—in anguish, contorted, frenzied, looking as if they were about to immediately spring free and return to a semblance of life.
This outer room was for the lesser demons, of course. The archangel of Valor kept the biggest trophies in his inner quarters. Until recently, Balzael had always thought of the heads as reminders of victories in battle, meant to inspire new generations of angels to fight with courage and righteousness. Now, however, the trophies glowering over him felt like a viable threat, one that could seize control at any moment.
The Prime Evil’s assault on the Heavens had changed the trophies the way it had changed everything else. Balzael had lost many
Luminarei brothers and sisters, and his faith in the sanctity of these halls had been shaken to its core.
He was determined never to allow such a thing again.
No matter what the cost.
He was glad that Imperius agreed with him, at least to a point. After the near destruction of the Crystal Arch, Imperius had issued a directive to Balzael to step up the training of a small group of angelic destroyers called Sicarai to ensure that no such assault could ever happen again. One of the first efforts Balzael had undertaken was sending the Sicarai on secret missions to clean up packs of rogue demons wherever they could be found: the outskirts of the Hells, the Pandemonium Fortress, even Sanctuary itself. Although these demons were now largely leaderless and acted without much organization or impact, Imperius still viewed them as dangerous.
Any appearance on Sanctuary by angels had to be managed very carefully indeed, for many reasons. The rest of the Angiris Council had no knowledge of these secret cleanup missions and would not have approved them. But the world of men provided a good training ground for the Sicarai. The angelic destroyers struck deadly fast and moved on, and there was little concern for any humans who might get in the way; if there were mortal witnesses, the warriors simply eliminated them.
The Guardian had other uses for the roving packs of demons, of course. But that was their secret.
And then Tyrael had jeopardized everything.
Balzael had watched Tyrael carefully these past few weeks, just as he had promised to do, had seen him wander through the Courts of Justice, peer into the Chalice of Wisdom at the empty Fount, and eat and sleep and piss and do all the things mortals did. The experience had done nothing but lower his regard for the former archangel and the path he had chosen. Balzael had done his best to convince Imperius that Tyrael should be imprisoned in the Fist and judged for his crimes. Mortals did not belong in the Heavens; Tyrael was proof of that. Humans were abominations and should be destroyed. But Imperius had resisted acting against the Council, in spite of all the evidence.