Diablo III: Storm of Light (17 page)

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 creatures.

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.”