by Kenyon, Nate
And then the fool had disappeared. Balzael had known immediately where he had gone, of course, but it had taken some time to find his exact location. Now he must take more drastic measures, but there was still a chance that Imperius would see the wisdom in eliminating the threat.
Balzael sighed, his impatience growing with every passing moment. Finally, the massive doors swung open, and the archangel of Valor swept in with fiery purpose, striding across the gleaming stone to where Balzael waited.
“He has been found,” Imperius said. It was not a question. He knew that if Balzael had summoned him to meet, it was for one reason only.
Balzael nodded. “In a place called Tristram of Khanduras on Sanctuary. He has gathered a band of humans for a purpose that remains unclear.”
“Humans . . .” Imperius paused. “How many?”
“Fewer than a dozen.”
“Kill them, if you must. But take Tyrael alive, and bring him to me. I do not want him harmed.”
“Are you certain? Is this not the time to acknowledge Tyrael’s crimes, to take drastic action before he does something that cannot be undone?”
Imperius turned toward him, and Balzael resisted the urge to shrink back. He considered himself a fierce warrior, battle-hardened and afraid of nothing. But few among the angels could stand tall in the face of the archangel of Valor’s wrath.
“Do not question me,” Imperius said, his voice taking on an edge that Balzael knew too well. “I want him tried here in the Ring of Judgment, in front of those he used to call his brothers and sisters. He must stand as a symbol of the weakness of mortals in the realm of the Heavens. It will make the case against Sanctuary that much stronger.”
“I do not mean to question you,” Balzael said carefully. “But if the Council still refuses to act, even after all this—”
Imperius reached out and slammed Balzael against the wall. The archangel’s grip was incredibly strong, and Balzael felt himself pinned and helpless. “The Council still rules the Heavens,” Imperius thundered. “It is not your place to argue about our methods or our findings. You will obey my orders!”
Balzael nodded, unable to speak. Finally, Imperius let him go. “I have summoned our best Sicarai here, and I will instruct him on what must be done,” Balzael said after a moment.
“Good.” Imperius abruptly turned and headed for the doors. “Do not fail in this, Balzael,” he said, pausing as he reached the exit. He did not turn to look back again before he pushed the doors open and disappeared.
I shall not fail, Balzael thought. Rage burned bright within him. But it is not your orders I shall obey.
Balzael preferred a more secluded space for his next meeting, one he used quite frequently. A meeting such as this required absolute privacy. What he had to say was of the utmost importance, and the true task he was about to assign must not be known to anyone else.
He walked the crushed stone paths of the Pools of Wisdom, trying to calm himself after the confrontation with Imperius. The pools had long been abandoned, dried up and silent, and the cold air muffled all sound. He did not hear the Sicarai warrior approaching. One moment he was alone, and the next he was not. Balzael kept his surprise to himself; he was far too disciplined for that, and if the destroyer noticed anything amiss, he did not react.
The Sicarai said nothing at all, only stood at attention, perfectly still. This was a magnificent fighting machine, Balzael had to admit, and one who was fiercely loyal to him and him alone. Balzael had made sure of that. The Sicarai vibrated with a red-tinted resonance that hung like a bloody mist around the shoulders of his golden armor. His chestplate was emblazoned with the sign of the Luminarei on the breast, a sunburst pattern that suggested endless wings in flight. Sicarai were known for their lack of mercy or forgiveness, a single-minded purpose, and Balzael had chosen the very best for this mission, an angel who had killed many demons and was feared as a relentless hunter, trained as an assassin, radiating power, large even for his kind, and possessing a weapon that could destroy anything in its path.
Except, perhaps, for El’druin.
That remains to be seen.
“Our quarry has been spotted by scouts,” Balzael said without preamble. He watched the Sicarai carefully for any reaction, but the angel remained still. “I suspected Tyrael was hiding on Sanctuary. He is assembling a team of humans for a purpose I cannot yet foresee. Whatever his plans, he must not be allowed to follow them through. Do you understand me?”
For the first time, the Sicarai spoke. His voice was deep, powerful, cold in its measured response. “Yes, my lord.”
Balzael nodded. “The scouts are tracking Tyrael and his group, and you will join them,” he said. “Tyrael cannot be brought back to the Heavens to be tried for treason. We must act now. Kill him, and butcher those traveling with him.”
Balzael noticed something change in the Sicarai, an eagerness perhaps. The destroyer’s red aura quivered, like an animal trembling before being released for the hunt. A low, nearly inaudible sound had begun to emanate from him, a deep hum. Almost a snarl. The angel’s double-bladed weapon glowed at his side with its own fierce inner light.
“Go,” Balzael said. “Do not say a word about this to anyone. Be careful not to be seen. And do not stop until you succeed. Tyrael and all those with him must fall to your sword!”
The Sicarai gave him the Luminarei salute and was gone, moving so quickly and with such stealth that Balzael barely caught a fleeting glimpse of the warrior’s crackling energy before it dissipated and he was left alone once again.
Tyrael cannot be brought back to the Heavens to be tried for treason . . . Kill him, and butcher those traveling with him.
Personally, Balzael preferred the deed to be done with extreme prejudice. It would make their designs for Sanctuary that much easier to implement. The soulstone must have more time to influence the Council, and Tyrael was the only thing standing in the way of it. He had chosen to side with humans. Such meddling could ruin the Guardian’s plans. Although the Black Soulstone had been tainted with the essence of evil, it remained very powerful and could be used for a larger purpose.
To wipe the nephalem—and all of Sanctuary—from existence forever.
PART TWO
The Road to Westmarch
Chapter Eleven
A Birth at the Arch
It had been a number of human days since Tyrael had stood before the Fount at the Pools of Wisdom. The experience of peering into the chalice had begun to fade enough for him to feel some measure of comfort. He had seen the threads of time and emotion, had sensed their connections and perceived a possible future result. But Chalad’ar did not predict what was to come; it simply provided a way of understanding what could occur based on the here and now.
What he had seen did not have to become truth. Death would come for him, as it came for all mortals, but it need not come soon. And the Black Soulstone’s slowly creeping tendrils—its corruption of the Heavens—could still be avoided if he could somehow get it away from its perch.
But time was running short.
He had received word through Auriel’s messenger that the Council had refused to act on his advice. Tyrael’s role as Wisdom had been minimized, their confidence in him clearly shaken. For eons, the goal of the archangels had been to defeat the Burning Hells and strive for ultimate peace. But lately, Tyrael had sensed a lust for blood beyond anything he had felt before. He was certain that they were conspiring against him and that if he remained in the High Heavens, his days of freedom were numbered.
But one day, he awoke to an unusual resonance from the Arch echoing through the soaring spaces of the Silver City, and all that was put aside for the moment.
He knew what the Lightsong meant: a new angel would be born.
Several angels had been born at the Arch since his choice to become mortal, but he could only watch and not take part in the birthing ceremonies, knowing that he was an outsider. Tyrael dressed hurriedly, his fingers fumbling at his robes. He
hated mortal clothing, the time it took, the feel of the fabric against his skin. It reminded him of what he had given up, not what he had become.
Outside, he joined the growing stream of angels moving toward the Silver Spire. If they realized who he was, they did not show it; no one reacted to his mortal status, all attention riveted to the spire, as if in a trance. And what if they did? he thought. He was still a member of the Council, even if they no longer listened to him. Had he fallen so far, so fast, that the last of his pride had dried up and blown away upon the wind?
Chastised by his own thoughts, Tyrael stood tall among them. The day was a brilliant, shining blue, the air crisp and fresh, and the song made the very stones hum beneath his feet as he walked, growing in intensity as the spire grew close. The angels resonated in harmony with the Lightsong, but the sound did not emerge from their immortal throats; instead, it came in a thrumming energy as they vibrated to a perfect pitch. In the courtyard, he could see a throng of angels gathering under the soaring structure. Although he had seen the spire countless times, it remained magnificent, and as with everything else, his newly mortal soul viewed it with fresh appreciation. Its height was nearly impossible to comprehend, rising like twin blades, crystalline facets glittering. Circular ringed platforms thickened the base, while other, smaller towers and spires rose up around it, and near the top was a structure like angels’ wings, where the Crystal Arch was housed.
The spine of Anu.
Anu was the very first being, the One, from which all others had been created, made of light and dark, good and evil. The One had cast out evil, but that evil had formed the beast-dragon Tathamet, the first Prime Evil, and the two beings had become locked in conflict for eons before their final battle resulted in a massive explosion, spreading their essences far and wide and creating the universe itself. The scar from that event had become Pandemonium, while Tathamet’s seven heads had birthed the seven Great Evils of the Burning Hells, his body forming the foundation for their realms. Anu’s spine had come to rest to form the Crystal Arch, and all of the High Heavens had sprung to life around it.
This was ancient history to Tyrael, and over the many centuries, the knowledge had become such a central part of him that he rarely thought of it. But as he made his way ever closer to the massive spire, the legend felt fresh once again in his mind, the wonder of the universe’s creation breathtaking to consider. All order, light, and peace had come to reside here in the High Heavens, while chaos, darkness, and evil had found a place in the Hells. The two sides continued to battle each other through the Eternal Conflict, neither one able to gain the upper hand. And somewhere in between, full of the potential of each side and capable of acts of both astonishing kindness and shattering violence, lay Sanctuary and the human race.
He was fascinated by this struggle between good and evil within every human soul. The same struggle of Anu and Tathamet, multiplied again and again on a smaller scale. Good and evil, light and dark, life and death. Where did humans go after passing? Where would he go now? He knew that humankind had many theories, but the truth was elusive.
For some reason, Tyrael thought of the chalice still nestled near his breast. He felt compelled to use it again, and yet he dared not. He was afraid of what he might see.
The angels who had already gathered under the spire nearly filled the vast courtyard, but as a member of the Council, Tyrael was justified in claiming a spot at the Arch itself.
The angels noticed him now, as he made his way through. He held his head high, daring them to challenge him. None did. It took him time to ascend. Bands of light rippled through intricate patterns and grooves in the crystal like water and then flared in spectacular bursts from the spire as he neared the top, pulsing in time with the song, so bright they hurt his eyes. He resisted holding a hand up to shield them and climbed the steps to the platform.
Those in attendance at the summit of the Arch were Imperius’s angels; the new angel born today would be assigned to the Halls of Valor, and it was customary for that realm’s brothers and sisters to pay tribute.
The birth of a new angel could occur only when light and sound were in perfect harmony, resonating at a synchronized pitch that led to a tremendous surge of power. The spine of Anu birthed these angels as finite aspects of itself. It was said that only when an angel died could another be born.
Huge diamond crystals rose up on all sides, shimmering as they produced wave after wave of brilliant light that met in the center now, hovering above the angels. The movement was building in intensity, pulsing ever faster, and the resonance had reached a pitch that was nearly deafening to Tyrael’s mortal ears. The spectators’ vibration increased along with it. The Lightsong was no longer soothing to him, and his senses were being assaulted. Everything Tyrael saw and heard had changed since that fateful day in the Angiris Council chamber when he had shed his wings. He felt as if he had lived two lives—the first as an immortal, another after becoming a mortal—and they were entirely separate from each other.
How could he possibly stay here among the angels for one more day?
Suddenly, he felt like an abomination, a mutation of all that was good and holy. He turned to go, but the throng pushed forward as the song grew. Feeling as if his ears might burst, he gritted his teeth and turned back. The light pulses were joining at one brilliant spot above him, where fine, threadlike filaments crackled and snapped across one another. The strands began to weave themselves together, forming an intricate mat that rolled into an orb, and within it, he could see a wriggling shape made of a light so bright he could not look directly at it.
But something was wrong.
He began to notice a discordant tone in the air. One of the threads of light had turned gray, so thin it looked like a hairline crack across the surface of the birth orb. But it was there; he could not deny it.
Tendrils of light continued to snap upward from Anu’s spine and wrap around the shape within, adding to it, and the resonant song kept building. But that one note, so faint it was barely audible, was just slightly off pitch. It made Tyrael wince and look around at the quivering angels, their wings extended in ecstasy. Did no one else feel it?
Perhaps the tone was coming from him. Perhaps his presence here as a mortal was causing the change. But when he put a hand on his own chest, he felt no vibration, no resonance at all, and the core of him was empty and silent.
The thing inside the orb was growing quickly. He could see the outline of furled wings, the radiance of the angel swelling moment by moment. At the height of the Lightsong, the orb suddenly burst apart, sending the strands of light crackling over the crowd, and the new angel unwrapped its wings as the light and sound reached a crescendo, hovering above the other angels in a magnificent display of power.
The other angels’ Lightsong pulsed gently, a sign of acceptance and welcome. It was a female. The moment should have been transcendent, joyful, breathtaking. But there was a subtle change that cast shadows where none should be, as if the gray filament wrapped like a snake around the birth orb had incorporated itself into her essence, and although the Lightsong should have matched the new angel in perfect harmony, her resonance was the slightly different pitch that grated at Tyrael’s ears and seemed at odds with the others.
The angels still did not seem to detect it. They were buzzing with excitement. He had hoped to be inspired by the birth, reconnected with the Heavens in some way, but he could not join in the song, his physical senses bruised, his mortal eyes and ears burning. Again, he felt like a stranger here among the immortal.
The Lightsong filled him with dread.
It is the stone, Tyrael thought. Its foul tendrils have reached the Arch and corrupted the birth.
The idea chilled him in a way nothing else could. The stone’s influence was spreading even faster than he had thought possible.
Tyrael turned again and stumbled away, his entire body aching, his mind reeling with terrible possibilities. He was alone in this, one against an army of angels. The
entire fate of the Heavens fell on his broad shoulders. If he failed . . .
But he could not. There was no other option, not now. He must find the solution to the soulstone’s black sickness before it was too late.
The angels parted before him. He went blindly, with stinging eyes, until a voice stopped him short.
“You dare come here today?”
Tyrael blinked, trying to see through the haze of pain. Balzael stood before him. The other angels had grown silent. The space they had cleared had been for the Luminarei lieutenant, not for him.
“Behold, my brothers and sisters, Wisdom comes as a mortal to stand before the Arch, but his eyes burn and his ears bleed! Is he not an insult before Anu and all that is holy?”
Tyrael’s throat ached. “I am still your brother.”
“You are an immortal who chose to leave his own kind and stand with the human race!” Balzael addressed the crowd. “The mighty Tyrael, who served as Justice and fought against our enemies on the battlefield, will no longer take his place among the archangels. And now he comes here, on a day of celebration, to dirty the Arch with his filth!” Balzael pointed at him. “Your moment of reckoning is fast approaching.”
Anger rose up in Tyrael, harsh and unbidden, threatening to send him blindly forward with the intent to claw at Balzael with his bare hands. But there were too many others here, and he knew that if he did so, the Luminarei guards would take him, and his last chance to save the Heavens would be gone.
He bit down hard on his rage. “Are you here to arrest me, Balzael? Because if you try, it will not go well for you.”
Balzael chuckled. “You will be judged, but it will not be by me. The Council meets tomorrow without you. They will decide your fate.”