Diablo III: Storm of Light (32 page)

The archangel of Wisdom stood on an endless plain of stone, dusty and cracked. His arms were pinned by a wrap of thorns that pierced his flesh and drew blood, which trickled hotly down his sides. He was naked, his mortal flesh shriveled and sagging, white and a marbled blue
.

The angels surrounded him and the altar, upon which lay the child
.

It was a boy; that much was apparent, although his age was difficult to say. Spikes had been driven through his wrists and ankles, nailing him to the black stone, bled white like an alabaster statue. He was human and familiar, although Tyrael could not fathom why he was here
.

The archangel looked around, trying to see through the forest of angels that stood still and silent and cold, an execution squad doubling as witnesses to mark the boy’s passing. Beyond them, Tyrael could see the remains of the Pools of Wisdom, crumbling to dust. This was Heaven, and yet it was not; it was a once-familiar world seen through the eyes of a stranger
.

A prodding forced him forward. He stumbled, nearly falling to his knees. He turned back for a moment, just long enough to catch a glimpse of Imperius directly behind him. The archangel of Valor was drenched in blood. Imperius gestured with his weapon. They wanted him to look at the boy, see what had been done to him
.

Dark tendrils emerged from the cracked ground beneath the altar. They slithered up the side of the black rock, hugging its glittering facets, setting off pulses of bloody, glowing light. The tendrils wrapped themselves around the boy, and as they slid into place, he opened his eyes
.

There was something familiar about him. Tyrael moved closer, shuffling against his thorny bonds, aware of his nakedness and the angels watching. He looked upon the face of Jacob. His eyes were wide with pain, his mouth open as if to scream, as a squirming black strand wriggled down his throat. Jacob arched upward in agony as Tyrael’s bonds fell away, disappearing into the stone. Tyrael looked down; he held a hammer and a spike in his bloody hands, and he raised the spike and placed it against Jacob’s chest
.

When he glanced up again, Jacob’s face had changed, and the archangel found himself peering into eyes identical to his own
.

Tyrael sat upright on his straw mattress, sweat coating his skin. Faint gray light filtered into the room through the window as morning broke across the city of Westmarch. The dream clung to him like cobwebs, the ache in his skull compounded by images of Jacob as a child sprawled across the black altar and his own face upon the slab.

Death comes for you all, and it comes upon dark wings
.

In the silence of the early dawn, Tyrael was afraid of his own mind’s betrayal. Afraid he was not strong enough to lead these people through the blinding light. This week, they would continue their preparations, culminating with an exploratory journey beyond the borders of Sanctuary. Tyrael had described some of the dangers they might face, but he had to give them a taste of it in person. It was the only way, and time was running short.

They had come too far to turn back now.

He glanced at the others in the room. Cullen and Thomas slept peacefully, but the monk’s bed was empty, as it had been
every morning since they had taken the rooms at the Snapping Dog. Mikulov did not seem to have much need of sleep, but he would always return perfectly calm and rested, seemingly refreshed, from wherever he had gone.

Tyrael set his shoulders and put his darker thoughts and burdens away. He dressed quietly, then woke the others as dawn broke fully and strands of bright light burst through the clouds, painting the city in sharp blacks and whites.

Mikulov stood upon the ramparts of the city walls as the sun came up, drenching Westmarch with light. With dawn came renewal, energy, fresh life. The breath of the gods was contained in the breeze that caressed his skin, their warmth cradled in the sun’s rays. No visions had come to him this morning, and he wondered about the meaning of such silence but did not question it. The gods would provide for him, when the time was right.

The monk climbed directly over the wall, flexing his muscles from slight handhold to handhold as he moved quickly down the nearly smooth stone. The city guards did not see him, nor did anyone on the streets. He was careful this way not to raise the alarm.

He had spoken to Tyrael about his concern over Jacob, Shanar, and Gynvir. The archangel had appeared to take it in, but the monk had the sense that something else was distracting him, and it wasn’t the impending invasion of the High Heavens. Tyrael’s plan for stealing the Black Soulstone was surprising, but although the odds of success were incredibly long, Mikulov could find little in it that he would improve.

Tyrael had outlined the plan to the rest of the group several days before, drawing diagrams in the dust as they gathered once again among the catacombs. The timing was crucial. They would
have to understand the realms of the Heavens and how they related to one another in order to make it through. Each realm would bring its own set of dangers, and if they wanted to survive, they would need to realize that beauty often led to ugliness and horror. Angels were not their friends, and they did not offer protection; in this case, they were as dangerous as the denizens of the Burning Hells, perhaps more so, because they would strike from behind a curtain of blinding light and majesty.

Mikulov moved quickly through the streets as the city awakened, passing citizens of Westmarch going to their places of business, unaware of the drama unfolding in their midst. What worried him now was Tyrael’s state of mind. The archangel was conflicted, and it had something to do with the object he carried. The monk had a sense that it was an object of great power, but it brought a darkness that chilled his blood. That, along with the tension between Jacob and the two women and Gynvir’s continued distrust of the necromancer, was the greatest risk they faced.

Mikulov sensed that there was something else about Tyrael’s plan that haunted him, but if the archangel was hiding a deeper truth, he would not say. The monk knew one thing for certain: together they had a chance. But without focus and trust in one another and a leader who believed in their success, the quest to steal the Black Soulstone would be very short, indeed.

Tyrael took them through the bog and back to the tomb, past echoing halls covered with strange and unknowable carvings of gigantic faces and pits filled with bones, as if the nephalem of old had simply dropped dead where they stood and rotted until their flesh was gone. The floors were made of beautiful blocks of stone, sometimes set in patterns with some purpose lost to time. In other places, the floors had crumbled away, leaving a jagged hole that revealed levels below.

Jacob walked close to Shanar. Her scent was light and clean, and he felt a strange surge of passion for her, strong enough to make him blush. Every sense was suddenly heightened. She was sending more mixed signals lately, warm one moment and cool the next, and his head swam with emotions. He was well aware of Gynvir’s jealousy, although whether it was because of her own feelings for him or simply because she was left out, he did not know.

“Tonight we will conduct our first true test,” Tyrael said, after they had once again reached the tomb. “But before that, an order of business. You will face extreme emotional and spiritual stress during our mission and truly long odds. Some of us—perhaps all—will lose our lives.” He looked around at all of them. “I am giving you one more chance to leave now, before it is too late. After this, there is no turning back.”

Jacob glanced at the others. Nobody moved, although he sensed uneasiness in Shanar, and Thomas had turned pale, his forehead slick with sweat.

The moment stretched as Tyrael continued to study them. “Very well,” he said finally. “We have made strides together, strengthened ourselves for the great challenge ahead. You have gained confidence through our prior skirmishes and our successes. But hear this: the Heavens are like nothing you have ever experienced before. Tonight I will give two of you a taste of what will come.”

Tyrael directed them into smaller groups. Thomas, Cullen, Gynvir, and Mikulov would remain in the chamber, refining the plan to reach the soulstone, familiarizing themselves with exact pathways and obstacles, and learning to navigate through the halls of the Heavens as quickly and efficiently as possible. Cullen had a detailed drawing of the Heavens’ realms, and Tyrael had pointed out a few minor mistakes. They would use Cullen’s knowledge and brains, Thomas’s skills in battle tactics, and Mikulov’s and Gynvir’s strengths in combat and stealth to settle every possible detail and lead the rest of them through.

Working alone and in the quiet of another abandoned chamber nearby, Zayl would focus on the transportation of the stone itself, beginning his construction of the satchel that would contain the great power held within it, at least for a short period of time. The realm of the dead would help channel some of its corruptive forces, and he would use all of his gifts as a necromancer to keep the others safe.

“Jacob and Shanar,” Tyrael said. “Come with me. You will be the first to experience the Wastelands.”