by Kenyon, Nate
“Sir, I have troubling news,” Lorath said. “Commander Barnard has succumbed in battle.”
The other knights shuffled their feet, murmuring. Torion shot them a sharp glance. “He died nobly, then,” the general said. “We will give him a hero’s burial. Were there other losses?”
“Eleven knights in all.”
Torion sighed, rubbing his face and looking suddenly older. “Have you gotten word to your father?”
“I sent several messengers for him. At least one will get through.”
“Good. We need him here, now more than ever, to assume his former post.” He turned back to the Horadrim. “The Church of the Holy Order is back in the hands of the people,” he said. “I’m not sure how you gained entrance to the cathedral—some dark spell, no doubt—but without your help, there would have been more bloodshed on both sides.” He indicated Zayl with a gesture. “The necromancer has helped save the city of Westmarch more than once. For that, we are in your debt.”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?” Lorath said. Torion nodded. “The Horadrim seek artifacts important to their order that may be hidden below these chambers. Considering the circumstances, perhaps we could allow them some time to search for them?”
Torion looked doubtful. “Whatever might be here belongs to the people,” he said. “My gratitude does not extend to allowing strange spellcasters to wander around a holy landmark without a guide, archangel or not.”
“I will stay with them, sir,” Lorath said. He glanced at Tyrael. “If they will have me.”
Tyrael nodded. “We are not your enemy, General,” he said. “If young Lorath remaining with us would settle your mind, we are in favor of it.”
“Very well,” Torion said. “We will make sure the grounds are secure and stand guard outside. Norlun does not command as much respect among the people of Westmarch as he thinks, but it would be good to remain vigilant. You have the night to uncover your secrets.”
As the rest of the templar were herded into cells or marched away upstairs by the knights, the Horadrim went deeper beneath the cathedral.
Along with Lorath Nahr, the group reached the end of the larger chamber and passed through the arch that led to the second room. Cullen stood motionless before an opening in the wall, deep in thought. When Thomas touched his shoulder, the smaller man jerked and blinked at them. “I’ve found our hidden entrance,” he said simply. “Such as it is.”
The others peered into the opening. Steps led into the inky blackness below, the ceiling and walls made of rough stone. The smell of dusty, abandoned spaces wafted up, the air cold on their skin.
Tyrael sent Jacob and Mikulov back to the larger room to gather more torches. The Horadrim took the steps in single file, Tyrael in the lead, Lorath at the rear.
The torch in Tyrael’s hand flickered, although the air was still. The stairs descended on a gentle curve, going on for some time. Eventually, Tyrael began to sense a pattern in things; a thin crack in the wall on his right appeared again a few moments later at the same angle and depth, and a small section of a step that had crumbled was repeated in exactly the same place several dozen steps later.
He paused, bringing the torchlight closer. Footprints were clearly marked in the dust in front of him, but he was certain there hadn’t been footprints at the top of the steps when they had begun, and there was no place along the way where men could enter the staircase. So how had they appeared now?
He felt a touch on his arm. “We are going in circles,” Cullen said. “Those prints are our own. You see?” He placed his sandal on one of the prints, a perfect match. “You are mortal but not human, and the entrance is shielded. Perhaps I should lead.”
Tyrael handed him the torch, and Cullen continued down around the next curve. Almost immediately, the staircase straightened and the steep grade flattened out as the walls widened. A few moments later, the steps ended at the mouth of another tunnel.
They might have gone on forever, Tyrael thought, if not for Cullen. It only served to emphasize that Tyrael was not one of them. He dropped back to Lorath’s place at the rear as the Horadrim continued ahead, walking along a silent and empty path that deadened their footsteps and through an underground cavern that appeared to be naturally formed. The torchlight illuminated the walls as they closed in before the cavern expanded again and the ceiling soared above their heads. Although the path forward was well worn, there was no sign that any humans had been here for centuries or more. Once or twice, they heard something like water trickling somewhere out of sight, but they never saw evidence of it, and still the cavern continued on endlessly into darkness.
They spoke softly at first, and then their voices faded away naturally into silence as they went on. The magnitude of the cavern demanded quiet respect, as if their words were an offense to the gods gathered there. A weight seemed to fill the air around them, the swirl of dust beneath their feet bringing with it the smell of history.
It was not, Cullen thought, at all what he had expected. There was no evidence that the firstborn nephalem had ever been here; the cavern had been carved from violent, rushing waters centuries ago, judging from the shape of the walls and floor. But it felt oddly familiar to him all the same, as if he had been here many years ago as a small child. There was an entire world underneath the ground, one that had remained in a suspended state waiting for their return. His return, Cullen thought. What had happened with the key and the power that had run through him had changed him in some fundamental way, as if he had previously lived an entire life and only now had become aware of it.
At one point, they came to a natural bridge of stone that spanned a chasm far too deep for their torches to reveal the bottom, and the echo of their footsteps here bounced back to them as if they were being followed by invisible figures. The necromancer and his skull muttered softly to each other; Zayl asked for Cullen’s torch and took the lead, with Cullen and Thomas remaining immediately behind and Mikulov following. The bridge was narrow, and they had to cross it in single file, the floor on either side dropping away into nothing, pebbles rattling down into the depths at their passage like small animals scrambling to get away.
As the last one cleared the bridge, a deep, threatening groan echoed through the chamber, shaking the floor beneath them. The stone bridge separated with a cracking sound, and a fissure appeared halfway across before the stone settled again and became still. The gap was nearly four feet across.
Shanar stepped to the beginning of the bridge, holding out her torch for a better look. “No way to go but forward,” she muttered, as the group stared through the flickering light. “I hope there’s another way out of here, or we’re going to become part of the lost city ourselves.”
“We could try to make it over,” Cullen said. But when Shanar stepped out onto the bridge, the stone groaned again and seemed to shift, and she leaped back to safe ground. There was no choice but to keep going.
They walked for long enough that time seemed to blend and then stop altogether. It could have been one hour or ten, and Cullen felt himself fall back into the dreamlike state that had come over him as he had slipped the key into the lock. The spirits of the dead had come to rest within him, and the necromancer must have felt something, too, for he glanced back sharply at Cullen several times, and the skull kept muttering things that were too low for anyone to hear.
Sometime after they crossed the bridge, the path began to descend, slowly at first and then more steeply. Later they came to a place where the cavern opened up again and the tunnel branched; to the right, a path climbed gently upward before disappearing into the inky black. But to their left was a shallow alcove containing something that made Cullen catch his breath.
A statue of a man had been carved from the rock, as if it had just stepped out of the wall fully formed. The statue was incredibly lifelike, more than twice the size of Tyrael himself. The man’s flowing robes seemed to move in the flickering torchlight, his long hair cascading over his shoulders. His strong jaw and
clear forehead would have been handsome were it not for the hard angle of his eyes, which were cast upward as if glaring at an imminent threat.
“By the Light,” Lorath breathed softly. “I have never seen—I would not have thought that such a thing could exist here.”
Inscribed in the rock wall next to the statue’s arm was a circle with a slit across the center.
The necromancer held a torch as Cullen touched the circle with his fingers. This was for him, he realized, for all of them, a symbol of their heritage and their destiny, a circle that had begun near the dawn of time in Sanctuary, which they completed now with their presence here.
He took the ornate key out of his rucksack and slipped it home.
A thrum of power raced through him, similar to the one before, but this time, he was ready for it. Almost instantly, Cullen felt his own body respond, a call and answer to something ancient and unknown.
A sound like the deep and mournful call of an ocean beast echoed through the cavern. The statue rotated its head, staring at the newcomers. Its gaze fixed upon Tyrael, stone eyes remaining locked on the archangel’s face.
The circle began to shimmer and dissolve, and the shimmering continued outward until the entire section of the wall was as transparent as a pane of glass. On the other side of the wall stood two massive columns and two more statues, these of women with beckoning arms outstretched. Cullen stepped forward through the shimmering wall as if passing through water, feeling only a momentary shiver before he was beyond it and alone.
He looked back. Thomas passed through the wall, and then one at a time, the rest of the Horadrim came like ghosts through the veil between what seemed to be the living world and the dead.
Eventually, they all gathered beyond it, and as the last one passed through, the wall became whole again. The space was open now, the circle complete.
Cullen turned back to see what lay before them.
In contrast to the natural caverns, the new space they had entered was definitely built by humans, Tyrael thought, holding up a torch for a better view. It was a large chamber. The floor beyond where they stood was constructed of stones of different sizes, the walls built with blocks stacked in symmetrical lines with inset panels and alcoves. Directly beyond was another series of columns on either side of a set of wide steps that descended into the darkness.
The lost city of the nephalem? It seemed possible they had found it at last. But if so, it was nothing like what he had expected. When the shimmering ceased, the statues appeared to return to their natural state. Some kind of magic had secured the entrance, Tyrael thought, and Cullen had broken through it, allowing them to enter.
Tyrael walked through the silent chamber. Did the fact that he, a mortal angel, was able to set foot here mean that the protective spell was no longer in effect?
He crossed the floor to the edge of the steps. The space below opened up like another room of some kind, but it was deserted and dusty, much like the rest of the caverns. Two shorter columns topped with stone bowls stood on either side of the steps. Tyrael touched the torch to one, and it burst into blue flame. He lit the other, and the chamber was filled with a strange, otherworldly glow. There was magic here, he thought, to keep fuel in place for so long.
They took the steps down and explored the lower level, lighting more bowls of flame. Hallways led off from the chamber into silent rooms and larger spaces. There were areas with intricate patterns in the floors and walls, more alcoves and platforms, structures that appeared to have some purpose lost over time. Strange, arched windows led nowhere; columns of stone supported ceilings that soared overhead.
The halls and chambers went on and on. But everything was empty and coated in dust. There was no apparent salvation here, no greater magic that would aid their quest. The lost city was not what they had hoped to find. A place of great power once, perhaps, long abandoned by those who created it. A city without a purpose. The conviction that had carried Tyrael for so long began to fade. All this time, even with his own personal doubts, he had put his faith in finding this place, in the sense that they would have some protection from the legions of angels that would descend upon them from the Heavens should their thievery be discovered. Now he thought only of the long odds of their mission’s success. The Horadrim had grown stronger, and their small team had begun to show signs of working together, but they were not close to ready. He still had much to do in order to prepare them for the things they would experience in the Silver City. And what good was all that if they had nowhere to hide once they returned to Sanctuary?
It was a fool’s errand, a suicide mission with no hope for any of them.
Tyrael turned back to the Horadrim gathered before him. They were exhausted and waiting on his lead. Somehow, he knew, he must find the strength to inspire them. He must not show his own disappointment or weakness.
Peer into the chalice, and all will once again become clear.
The voice in his head was thunderous. Tyrael reached toward the pocket in his robes. Chalad’ar was there, calling to him. The urge to leave the others and give in to the call consumed him like a burning thirst. What were they to him? Death would come to them sooner or later, as it did to all mortals. Their lives were nothing in the larger scheme of things and would be forgotten soon enough, just as those who lived and died here in these catacombs had been lost to the dust of time.
The trance was broken by Mikulov, with Lorath just behind him. The monk came forward with the young man as the others spoke quietly among themselves. Mikulov gestured to Lorath, who stood with hands clasped in front of him. The look in his eyes was difficult to read. “Young Lorath pointed something out to me,” the monk said. “I suggested he speak with you.”
Lorath shrugged, and spoke hesitantly. “The statue at the entrance to this place watched you pass through the wall. It did not watch any of the others.”
“And what else?” Mikulov said. “Speak plainly; this is important.”
“When you entered, the two female statues also tracked your movements. I thought perhaps it’s because you are . . . different.”
“Mortal, he means. Not angel or demon,” Mikulov said. “But not human, either. Perhaps this place does not know what to make of you.” The monk stepped closer. “It means that magic remains in the lost city. It means that the protective spell is still in place, and the guardians are assessing what to do with you. At least for now, they have decided you are not a threat.”
The whispers in Tyrael’s mind subsided. He thought of Imperius in the Heavens, their confrontation in the Council room, the shedding of his wings, and all that came after: his brother’s anger and Auriel’s disappointment and sadness. He thought of the angel’s birth at the Arch, the tainted gray strands of her Lightsong wrapping themselves around her wings while he stood by helplessly and watched. The Black Soulstone sat on its perch even now, turning all that came within its growing shadow to darkness and destruction, and no one in the Heavens could stop it.
He was a mortal. His life had forever changed, and his body’s aches and pains would only grow worse as he slid toward inevitable death. He would leave this world sooner or later, and he would do it apart from the Heavens and the angels he had known since his own birth at the Arch, millennia ago. He would do it without the comfort of knowing he was human, either. Those who would die before him were not brothers but strangers.
But that did not mean he should refuse his duty and turn a blind eye to the darkness and the corruption that he saw. Imperius had made his decision; he had judged the human race to be lesser beings incapable of triumphing over their own base instincts. He saw humans as weak and dangerous, and therefore he believed they should be destroyed. And he would not stop until the Angiris Council—the entire Heavens—agreed that it must be done.
To refuse to stand against this was a far worse crime than going against the wishes of the Council.
“The Ivgorod monks have a saying,” Mikulov said. “ ‘Without a beginning, there is no end.’ We mu
st start somewhere, and this place”—he motioned to the empty halls beyond—“is as good as any. I sense you remain conflicted, and perhaps there is a good reason for it. But the object you carry is not the answer. You have brought us this far. We cannot turn back now.”
Tyrael opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He realized he had no idea what to say. The two stood a few feet apart, regarding each other. The monk seemed to pose a question with his steady, patient gaze.
Which will you choose?
“This place is a dump,” Shanar said finally, breaking the silence. “They should dismiss the chambermaid.”
Her attempt at humor barely drew a soft chuckle from Jacob, and more silence came from the rest of the Horadrim. Thomas had found a seat on a low wall, head in his hands. Gynvir was pacing a good distance away from the necromancer, who still held one of the torches. Even Humbart was uncharacteristically silent.
“It was abandoned long ago,” Cullen said. The scholar’s plump face was wan, his shoulders slumped in defeat, the new energy that had animated him seeming to bleed away with the gloom. “There is nothing left for us, it seems. What now?”
“It has been a long journey,” Tyrael said. He gathered his breath, finding focus for what he needed to say. “But this was never our ultimate destination.” He stepped past Lorath and the monk into the center of their small circle and gestured at Cullen. “Remind us of what we know of these catacombs.”
Cullen blinked rapidly, swallowed. “There isn’t much in the ancient texts,” he began slowly, looking around at the others as he warmed to the task. “Legends say the lost city of the nephalem was primarily a place of peace and shelter, shielding them through very powerful spells or energy of some kind. It was constructed by one named Daedessa the Builder. Korsikk’s journal seems to confirm that Rakkis had found much the same stories through his own research and believed these stories to be true. It is why Rakkis chose to be buried here. He was seeking the power and protection he thought the catacombs provided.”