by Kenyon, Nate
Tyrael hid his surprise. So that was the way it would happen: a staged debate by the remaining Council, a vote to put him on trial for treason. He thought of his old comrade Inarius and his defection from the Heavens, which led to the eventual creation of Sanctuary. Inarius was branded a traitor, but he was one of the few angels who ever dared to make a stand and break from the Eternal Conflict, leaving the High Heavens forever.
Now Tyrael was being forced to do the same.
There is a solution.
It came to him all at once, and as soon as the plan took shape, he wondered how he had not thought of it before: a desperate plan, to be sure, but similar in some ways to one he had tried many centuries ago. Once again, he would have to rely on the people of Sanctuary to succeed. But this would be even more dangerous, the odds against success even higher.
The chalice had done it. Somehow, Chalad’ar had heightened his senses, given him insights that he had not previously possessed. Tyrael was certain of it. What that meant, good or bad, he could not know, and he had little time left to ponder it. He had much to prepare. So be it . . . he would not be here come morning.
He would leave the Heavens immediately, cutting ties with his brothers and sisters. He would call together a team of gifted humans (in his mind, he had already begun vetting the names of those who might be suitable) and begin their training. And they would infiltrate the Heavens, steal the stone, and hide it away where it could never be recovered.
In time, the angels would come to understand his choice. They must, or everything he worked for would be in vain.
“Come find me when you are ready, then,” he said. “If you dare.”
Tyrael swept by the Luminarei without another word as the crowd parted to let him go.
Chapter Twelve
The Guards of Bramwell
Tyrael awoke with a start. The memory of the tainted angel’s birth had crept into his dreams, and his heart pounded with renewed anger at the confrontation with Balzael at the Arch. It was the last he had seen of the Luminarei lieutenant; the archangel would not give the Council the satisfaction of coming for him in his former chambers. He had opened a portal and left the Heavens immediately afterward, bringing only his writings, the contents of his rucksack, and the clothes on his back.
The chalice had remained hidden in his robes since he had taken it from the Fount. Each time he used it, he was assaulted by another wave of pure emotion. Death floated over everything—the end of all things. There was peace in endless sleep, in giving up and letting go. The thought was hypnotic. When he was inside the chalice, the alternative possibilities were stripped away, and truth became obvious. He must protect the Heavens from the stone. The appearances of the demon pack and the creatures outside the Slaughtered Calf were not coincidences. Forces were gathering against them even now, meant to stop the new Horadrim and destroy Sanctuary, once and for all.
But when he returned to the mortal world, the emptiness the chalice left behind was nearly overwhelming. The frailties and weaknesses of each member of his new team were clear, and the task of preparing them for what would come seemed insurmountable, the odds of success next to none.
Each time had left him more drained than the last and yet hungry for more. The insights he drew from the chalice’s depths gave him a strange solace; although he saw the long odds that they were up against, he also saw that he had made the right choice—the only choice—in coming to Sanctuary.
They would steal the soulstone or die trying.
Tyrael looked around at the others, still sleeping in the early dawn light. The fire had long since gone cold, and a layer of frost whitened the ground. After many days’ travel, they were nearing Bramwell. The group had skirted the Gulf of Westmarch as the area grew into hills and had made camp in the woods, some distance off the road. Zayl’s spell of concealment had kept them hidden from any travelers they met along the way. The necromancer had proved to be a valuable asset so far, but the rest of the group kept their distance from him, as if he had a communicable disease. Even now, while the others lay close together for warmth, he slept apart from them with only the skull for company.
Cullen had cornered Tyrael yesterday as they walked and peppered him with questions, fascinated with the Heavens and Tyrael’s transformation to a mortal. Tyrael had answered them as best he could but had quickly tired of the exercise. The man’s thirst for knowledge was insatiable, and as they had walked on, Tyrael had become more aware of the aches and pains of his physical body. It was difficult for him to keep his patience. He had had little sleep or food for days now and was not used to such feelings of discomfort. But Cullen would not let him be.
Tyrael smiled wanly in the dim light. Cullen was snoring lightly, and without his round glasses and with his face smoothed in slumber, he looked years younger. In spite of the frustrations, Tyrael was growing fond of the little man. There would be a time, he knew, when Cullen’s studies would become essential to their mission.
He glanced at the spot where the monk had been the night before, but it was empty. He did not remember Mikulov closing his eyes. The monk rarely slept. Over the past several days, he had taken on a slightly haunted look, his gaze distant, as if seeing things the others did not. The monks of Ivgorod were spiritual beings, in tune with their natural surroundings and their gods in ways far beyond most humans’ understanding. He had scouted ahead as they traveled each day, slipping like a ghost through the woods and along the road to watch for danger. When he returned, the haunted look was always in his eyes, and Tyrael wondered what Mikulov knew that he wasn’t sharing with the rest of them.
Mikulov stood in the shadows of the trees, just off the road that led to Bramwell. His senses had been honed over many years of training and focus at the Floating Sky Monastery, and he picked up things others did not. Right now, he was waiting patiently for another sign of the exact location of the people up ahead.
There were two of them. They stood quietly, rarely speaking, but their shifting weight and shuffling feet gave them away. Their behavior suggested the intent to conceal themselves, and that was what concerned Mikulov. If they had come walking up the middle of the road, he would have simply directed his small party to remain in the woods until the strangers had passed. But they had not.
These two were waiting for something.
The monk’s patience could far outlast theirs. He stood lightly on the balls of his feet, perfectly balanced even after standing motionless for two hours. During that time, he had let his mind explore all that had led up to this strange journey. It was a state of both meditation and alertness, a symbiosis of mind and body well known to the monks of Ivgorod, and it allowed him to keep watch while turning his consciousness inward.
He tried to make sense of the winding threads and the vision that had been given to him last night. They would not come together.
Ever since the battle with the risen dead and the fall of the Dark One from the Black Tower ten years ago, Mikulov had sensed a shift within himself, a swelling of elemental power so breathtaking he would not have believed it was possible. Before that time, he thought he had mastered many of the secrets of becoming one with all things, but he had been a fool. He had only scratched the surface. That moment at the tower when he had released the energy he held at his core—when he had exploded like a tiny sun and laid waste to the enemy that was about to overwhelm him—had freed something inside him. He was faster, stronger, and able to influence the natural world around him like never before. For the first time in his life, he understood the balance and harmony that his master had preached when he was a boy.
But what does it mean?
He did not know. But he knew the gods had a plan for him. He had been warned about the dangers Sanctuary faced. They had shown him a vision of destruction and horrible suffering: earthquakes ripping the ground asunder, fire from the skies, humans across the land writhing in agony as the flesh was burned from their bones. He had seen the Horadrim torn limb from limb by huge black-winged c
reatures.
What had shocked him the most was that the End of Days would come from the Heavens themselves.
The vision was so powerful and disturbing that Mikulov could not bring himself to describe it to Thomas and Cullen. But the revelation did not change his purpose. He was being called for a reason. Sanctuary was in terrible danger. Mikulov knew he must discover his rightful path and act swiftly.
While the others had slept the night before, Mikulov had slipped away under cover of darkness, moving easily across the uneven ground to a bluff overlooking the gulf. Wind rippled his robes as he stood watching the black water crash against rock far below. He listened to the voices of the gods in that wind, in the smell of the surf, in the moisture that touched his skin, and in the taste of salt on his tongue. He felt the prickle of energy gathering within him. He was ready.
The dark sky above him opened up, and a staircase made entirely of light appeared. Mikulov set his foot upon the first step and found it bore his weight, and he climbed higher and higher, the water churning far below, the thick woods and steep hills falling away. Finally, the world disappeared entirely, and still he kept climbing, faster and faster, his legs a blur, wind whipping at his body, until he reached a plateau, and a massive, shining structure appeared before him: columns surrounded stone and crystal gates, intricate designs like angels’ wings carved into their surfaces and aglow with raw power.
The Diamond Gates of the High Heavens. It seemed that someone had spoken; he turned to find that the others stood beside him now, the wizard, the barbarian, Thomas and Cullen and Jacob and Tyrael, their weapons out and ready as a war cry rose like thunder from within the silver-tipped city, which reached above them like a glittering, polished landscape of crags and cliffs and pointed spires.
The gates swung open. Do not enter here, another voice said. The necromancer Zayl stood some distance apart, his bone dagger shining in his gloved hand. The Balance is broken, and there is only death behind these walls. But Tyrael stepped forward, leading them into a beautiful courtyard, the scope of the city spreading out before them like a perfectly shaped jewel. This beauty should have been heartbreaking, but a chill crept over him, and the emptiness, the sheer size, left him hollow and hopeless.
They stood close together, a tiny speck in this vast place, and the gates slammed shut behind them as a horde of angels appeared, a seemingly endless line of them in flight, surging closer and darkening the sky. The monk prepared for battle. But the angels did not attack Mikulov’s group. The horde swept over them and toward Sanctuary to carry out their slaughter of innocents, and moments after their passage, the screams of the dying rose up in a horrible wave cresting at their backs.
The screams went on and on. Mikulov ran to the gates, pounded on them with his fists, but his powers were useless here.
They were trapped while Sanctuary burned.
He turned back from the gates, looking to Tyrael for help. The archangel stood before them in silence. His form began to change, lengthening and thinning, his limbs stretching into long bones and then to empty sleeves, robes darkening as he loomed over them. Moments later, Tyrael was gone. In his place was a terrifying figure in black holding a long, wickedly curved blade in both hands. His face was an empty hole.
Mikulov cried out, but it was too late. The figure lifted the blade and swung it in a vicious, whistling arc, catching Thomas under the chin. A fountain of blood spouted toward the sky as Thomas’s head toppled from his shoulders, and his body shuddered before falling lifeless to the ground.
The sound of movement brought Mikulov instantly away from his trance. He never flinched, but a thin line of sweat ran down his gleaming skull and across the tattoo that covered his back and told the story of his life. In his meditative state, he had relived the vision yet again, and it was as powerful as ever. The slaughter had been terrible, but the worst of it had been Tyrael’s betrayal.
The archangel had led them into a trap and then cut them down like animals.
What did it mean? Mikulov did not know. Not yet. But he did not have time to ponder it further; someone was coming down the road.
The new arrivals made no real effort to conceal themselves. One of them coughed, grunted, and another muttered a curse before stopping.
The monk left his spot in the woods and slipped noiselessly through the trees, a blur of motion in the morning gloom. Two men in silver armor stood talking in low voices, swords buckled at their sides, orange sashes around their waists, their heads bare. Knights of Westmarch, by the look of them, although the color of the sashes they wore was different from what Mikulov had encountered in his journeys through these lands.
Strange. What were knights doing here?
One of them gave a low whistle. A moment later, two more figures in the same armor emerged from the woods on the opposite side of the road. The four men huddled together and one of them gave a hearty laugh before the two from the woods retreated up the road, and the new arrivals took their place, disappearing between the trees.
“Knights,” the monk said. “They came to relieve two others who had been on watch. What for, I cannot say.”
Cullen pondered this for a moment. The Knights of Westmarch had grown from the paladins brought west by Rakkis, founder of the kingdom and city of Westmarch. The knights had dedicated themselves to serving the Light and defending the innocent. They had protected Westmarch from its enemies for many years and had remained righteous even as the Zakarum Church had fallen from grace. But he couldn’t see why they would be here.
“I don’t know of a strong knight presence in Bramwell,” Cullen said. “Perhaps they are on their way to Westmarch? But why guard the road?”
“Regardless, we must be careful,” Tyrael said. “We can avoid these two easily enough, but there may be spies in other places along the way. Drawing attention too soon could ruin our plans. We are several miles from the city. When we arrive, let me do the talking, and follow my lead.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Blacksmith’s Shop
Bramwell was built into the base of the mountainside overlooking the Gulf of Westmarch. It was made up of two- and three-story stone buildings with thatched roofs, modest in size and worn by the wind and rain that often swept through these lands. An inlet that ran into the Sweetwater River allowed the city to maintain a shipping channel and had kept it alive during hard years. A booming whaling industry had long since fallen off, and the inhabitants now survived mostly on farming and trade through Westmarch and Kingsport, shipping their expertly forged weapons and armor to those cities and all the way to Caldeum.
As the group crested a hill and the sun broke through the mid-morning sky, the city sat nestled before them in the arms of the mountains. It had been years since Jacob had been here, and although he remembered the beautiful setting—the sparkling water of the gulf and the hard line of the breakwater, the steep hills and the squares of farmland outside the walls—the city itself had changed. The buildings looked restored, and the walls had been fortified, built up at least ten feet higher than before.
He remembered the campgrounds outside the city, where merchants had gathered, hoping to do business, but they were abandoned and empty now. Bramwell’s heavy iron gates were closed tight, which seemed strange for a city built on trade.
The gates were also heavily guarded. As they made their way down the final hill, four men in knight armor stepped out from stone guard huts built on either side of the road.
“State your business,” the largest of them said, a man with a ruddy complexion and a thick beard. He wore a helmet and carried a heavy sword and shield, and he stood in the middle of the road before the gates as if daring them to enter.
“I am a merchant from Caldeum,” Tyrael said. “We need to speak with Borad the blacksmith.”
The knights shifted, glancing at one another, and the largest man relaxed slightly. “Remove your weapons,” he said. “No one enters the gates of Bramwell armed.”
Jacob looked at Tyrael. H
anding over El’druin to these thieves? A chill ran through him at the thought of it. But Tyrael shook his head.
“The road is a treacherous one,” he said. “We carry too much gold from the palace guard to surrender our swords.” He met the man’s gaze with his own. “Take it up with Borad if you must.”
“You don’t look much like traders—” another guard said. But the leader put up a hand as if he had made a final decision, silencing him.
“Very well,” he said. “Follow me.”
The guards led them through the streets as people turned to stare. Something had spooked the citizens, Jacob thought; that much was clear. He knew his traveling party looked nothing like merchants, of course, but the impression he received from these people was more than suspicion of a group of strangers.
It was fear.
As strange as this was, Jacob welcomed the distraction. The embarrassment he had felt after his behavior at the Slaughtered Calf remained at the back of his mind, ever present when he had a moment’s peace. He had become a blubbering, drunken fool in front of Tyrael and the others, including Shanar, and his refusal to accept the duties the archangel had asked of him—his petty arguments and self-pity—made him cringe. He had always prided himself on his commitment to justice and the protection of innocents. He had dedicated his life to it. Now was the time to embrace that commitment, not shrink from such a duty.
How had he wandered so far off his path? The loss of El’druin had become a crutch for his own doubts and weaknesses, and Shanar’s disappearance from his life had only reinforced those doubts. But she was back now, whatever the reason, and he had to show her—show all of them—that he could be trusted. There was too much at stake to fail.
One thing was certain: the creature he had seen outside the inn had scared him sober, its touch like an ice pick to his soul. Even now, he could feel it deep inside his breast. Something told him he was very lucky to be alive and that most others would not have survived such an encounter. Why he was spared, he did not know. But it had communicated to him a message that he had kept playing through his head for reasons he could not quite understand. A warning, of sorts.