Diablo III: Storm of Light (24 page)

“Are you in pain?”

Jacob’s jaw was set in a hard line, and a sheen of sweat had broken out on his face, which was the color of old parchment. But his eyes were strong, and his gaze met Tyrael’s with a steady calm that the archangel hadn’t seen before.

“I’ve had worse,” Jacob said. “I’ll live.”

The healer from Bramwell, a woman named Idalki, had just finished wrapping Jacob’s hands in salve-soaked bandages made of the sap of an okris plant and spider’s silk. She had chanted something softly over the wounds, but whether it had helped or not, Tyrael couldn’t tell. Jacob’s hands had blistered badly, and the skin was sloughing off in red strips. The necromancer had offered to try a healing spell, but Gynvir wouldn’t let him near Jacob.

No human was meant to hold a Sicarai’s sword
, Tyrael thought. And yet in spite of the agony it must have caused him, Jacob had brandished it before an angelic destroyer, an act of courage that had quite possibly saved them all.

“Commander Nahr is waiting for you,” Zayl said. The necromancer stood in the doorway of the modest home, hands clasped
at his waist. Tyrael held his gaze for a moment, and Zayl nodded slightly.
It is done
.

“I felt it,” Jacob said, to no one in particular. “The sword, flowing through me . . . I felt alive again.”

Tyrael rested a hand on Jacob’s shoulder, then rose from his kneeling position. There was hope yet for him to become the leader Tyrael believed he could be, hope for their mission to succeed.

“I will be back shortly,” he said. “Try to rest.”

The fire was roaring in the workshop as Nahr worked the bellows and manipulated his tools and the object before him with skill and great speed. Sparks flew; energy coiled and released. Red and orange light flickered across the faces of Thomas and Cullen, who had gathered around a table near the door, poring over the artifacts Cullen had brought back with him from the hidden temple.

Cullen looked up when Tyrael entered, his face shining in the heat and flushed with excitement. “This is an original scroll, written in Akarat’s own hand!” he said.

“The crusaders would be very interested in this, indeed,” Tyrael said. “I have met several, and their goal is to redeem the Zakarum. An original scroll written by Akarat would be one of their most prized possessions.”

“It describes his vision that led to the founding of the Zakarum faith,” Cullen continued, “and it is much as Deckard Cain had suspected. From reading this, I am certain that the vision he received was in fact a cosmic echo of Uldyssian’s sacrifice and not a message from an angel. But there’s more.” He picked up a newer text. “Based on the writings contained in this volume, I believe these artifacts were placed in the cavern by
Korsikk for safekeeping and then lost when he was taken by the barbarians.”

“The son of Rakkis?” Tyrael took the book from Cullen’s hands as Nahr’s hammering filled the air. The book was dense with scrawled handwriting, notes scattered across the page. He’d had some experience lately compiling the lore Cain and Leah had left behind, but this was far more difficult to piece together. He didn’t know how Cullen was able to decipher it all.

Cullen nodded. “According to Korsikk’s journal, his father was obsessed with a search for an early lair of the nephalem, the supposedly hidden city, and Korsikk joined in the pursuit,” he said. “Korsikk discovered the location we found in the mountains, which he believed was originally used as a shielded outpost—a place for the nephalem to hide when they were in danger. Korsikk had a Vizjerei sorcerer trap the bone demon to guard it, intending to return. He thought these outposts existed all over Sanctuary. But he believed the nephalem’s city and base of operations was constructed by an ancient nephalem called Daedessa and located to the west. It was near there where Westmarch was built, and where they put Rakkis upon his death.”

“The lost tomb of Rakkis.”

“That’s right.” Cullen nodded, glancing at Thomas. His excitement was palpable. “We believe the city may be some distance away from the outer walls of Westmarch, but a tunnel leading to it lies directly below Westmarch itself. The entrance to the tunnel is quite possibly under the Church of the Holy Order. There are hand-drawn maps here. But it will be protected by a magic infused many centuries ago, and only a true nephalem will have the key to opening the door.”

“If you travel to Westmarch, you’ll be entering a hornet’s nest,” Nahr said. He had been listening as they spoke, the heat from the fire making him glisten. “The templar control the
Church of the Holy Order, but the knights won’t stand idle much longer. The king will demand a cleansing. The people of that city have no idea what danger they’re in.”

“We leave tomorrow,” Tyrael said. “Commander Nahr, you could be an asset to us.”

Nahr shook his head. “I cannot leave,” he said. “My duty lies here in Bramwell until General Torion calls for me to lead the Knights of Westmarch once again. But I can send word with you, so that the knights know you can be trusted.” He turned back to his table for a moment, wiped his hands, and returned with something wrapped in heavy cloth. Nahr moved slowly, as if whatever he had been working on had taken a terrible toll on him.

“It is done, as you asked,” he said. “A mortal with tremendous skill may be able to wield it, although it will take great strength, even with my adjustments.”

Tyrael took the bundle. It was warm. He could feel the sharp, deadly edges of the weapon under the cloth that cradled it. He unwrapped enough to see the handle of the Hallowed Destroyer, the Sicarai’s sword. Nahr had bound it in wire and leather that he had branded with a seal, and he had done something to the blade that cooled its power to make it possible to wield. But the sword still thrummed with energy.

“You have done well,” Tyrael said. “We thank you, Commander, for everything.”

“Show this brand to my son in Westmarch,” Nahr said, pointing at the seal. “It is the mark of the house of Nahr, and he will know it is my work and that you have my blessing.” For a moment, a look of pain came into Nahr’s eyes. His face seemed haggard, his cheeks sunken and gray. “Many people have died,” he said. “Whatever you must do to stop this . . . it is not fast enough.”

And then Nahr turned and left the workshop, hobbling like
an old man, his broad shoulders bent as if he carried a heavy burden.

Tyrael left Cullen and Thomas arguing over the details of the journal and the artifacts they had found, and slipped into the twilight. Nahr was nowhere to be seen, and he felt a twinge of guilt for what he had asked of the man. Reshaping an angelic blade took tremendous skill and energy and could be extremely dangerous.

But if he was right, the results would be worth the sacrifice.

The darkness was deeper than before, and the cold air from the gulf made him draw his robes closer around him. The weapon Nahr had reforged was still warm in Tyrael’s grasp. He had asked the commander to make these alterations for Jacob’s sake; it would become a focal point for him, a way to harness his inner strength. But the challenges that lay ahead would take more to overcome than this. They were closer to finding the nephalem stronghold than ever, but what then? Once they reached the lost city, the true test would begin. They would have to face the Heavens themselves, eight mortals against an army of angels.

If
they got that far. None of them had spoken much about what had happened on the mountain. But Tyrael knew Imperius and the Sicarai would not stop. The destroyer would be back and would not be taken by surprise again. The real question, Tyrael thought as he made his way to a quiet spot behind the shop, was how the Sicarai and the demon horde had found them in the first place. Had they been tracked ever since they left Tristram? Were the so-called phantoms behind it? And how were they connected to the stone?

He thought about Jacob’s puckered wound from the dark-winged creature’s touch.
He has been marked . . 
.

A breeze rustled through the trees that lined the edges of
Nahr’s property. Beyond lay the deeper forest that rose into the mountains, and beyond that lay Westmarch, several days’ hard travel to the west. Anything could be hidden in that forest. With slightly trembling fingers, Tyrael laid the wrapped weapon at his feet and removed Chalad’ar from the interior pocket of his robes. He was out of view of anyone who might emerge from the shop or Nahr’s home, away from the others, and there was time later to sleep. A strange and yet familiar desire stirred within him. The chalice would offer him satisfaction and understanding, a way to relieve the burden that had been placed on his shoulders.

But when he peered into Chalad’ar’s depths, that relief did not come. Instead, a wave of despair washed over him, more powerful than any he’d experienced before. The web of light strands encased him, running through his flesh and bringing with them the truth of what they faced; he saw clearly the end of their lives, one by one, as they were overcome with terror and the ache of violence and loss. Anger turned itself inward, and he saw his own weaknesses, his own failings laid bare. He was neither angel nor man, but he had all the trappings of both—pride and recklessness, lust and sorrow, and the frailty that came with a beating heart. Love was a fatal flaw, caring for others a handicap that would lead to his own end.

He saw Deckard Cain dying on the rough floorboards of his home in Tristram, reaching out for solace and finding none; Leah consumed by the Prime Evil, her body twisting and tearing to pieces as she shrieked in agony. He saw Commander Nahr drained and lifeless on the ground; he saw Jacob roasted alive, the flesh boiling from his bones. He saw Cullen’s headless body, quivering before its collapse in a lake of blood.

The worst of it was the understanding that the void was waiting for them all in the end and that there was nothing but emptiness and oblivion after their mortal shells had fallen to dust.

Tyrael screamed without sound, his body convulsing, the agony
going on endlessly as time ceased to exist. Dimly, he was aware of another presence that watched him with clinical detachment, seeming to decide the next move to make.

Sometime later, he came to his senses with a start. He was in the woods in full dark, the trees looming like faceless giants all around him, faint moonlight filtering down through heavy branches. The frigid air prickled his skin.

Tyrael’s body ached with every breath. He clutched the chalice in both hands, his fingers cramped and his shoulders like blocks of ice. He looked around, disoriented. How long had he been gone? He remembered nothing, except that presence watching him through Chalad’ar.

Something moved in the darkness nearby.

He returned the chalice to his robes and put a hand on the hilt of his sword. The barest whisper came to him through the trees, the sound of a branch sliding past a body in motion. He turned, saw a dark shape slip past him and disappear.

Phantoms
? He waited, quieting his own breathing, motionless, but nothing else happened. The moonlight grew stronger and he could see the surrounding forest and the path that he must have broken coming up from below. Perhaps he had been wrong and had seen things that were not there, a lingering effect of the chalice. The cold eased slightly as he made his way back down. Soon he could see the back of Nahr’s workshop, the bundle that contained the Sicarai’s sword still lying where he had left it.