Diablo III: Storm of Light (15 page)

The Prime Evil’s assault on the Heavens had changed the trophies the way it had changed everything else. Balzael had lost
many Luminarei brothers and sisters, and his faith in the sanctity of these halls had been shaken to its core.

He was determined never to allow such a thing again.

No matter what the cost.

He was glad that Imperius agreed with him, at least to a point. After the near destruction of the Crystal Arch, Imperius had issued a directive to Balzael to step up the training of a small group of angelic destroyers called Sicarai to ensure that no such assault could ever happen again. One of the first efforts Balzael had undertaken was sending the Sicarai on secret missions to clean up packs of rogue demons wherever they could be found: the outskirts of the Hells, the Pandemonium Fortress, even Sanctuary itself. Although these demons were now largely leaderless and acted without much organization or impact, Imperius still viewed them as dangerous.

Any appearance on Sanctuary by angels had to be managed very carefully indeed, for many reasons. The rest of the Angiris Council had no knowledge of these secret cleanup missions and would not have approved them. But the world of men provided a good training ground for the Sicarai. The angelic destroyers struck deadly fast and moved on, and there was little concern for any humans who might get in the way; if there were mortal witnesses, the warriors simply eliminated them.

The Guardian had other uses for the roving packs of demons, of course. But that was their secret.

And then Tyrael had jeopardized everything.

Balzael had watched Tyrael carefully these past few weeks, just as he had promised to do, had seen him wander through the Courts of Justice, peer into the Chalice of Wisdom at the empty Fount, and eat and sleep and piss and do all the things mortals did. The experience had done nothing but lower his regard for the former archangel and the path he had chosen. Balzael had done his best to convince Imperius that Tyrael should be imprisoned
in the Fist and judged for his crimes. Mortals did not belong in the Heavens; Tyrael was proof of that. Humans were abominations and should be destroyed. But Imperius had resisted acting against the Council, in spite of all the evidence.

And then the fool had disappeared. Balzael had known immediately where he had gone, of course, but it had taken some time to find his exact location. Now he must take more drastic measures, but there was still a chance that Imperius would see the wisdom in eliminating the threat.

Balzael sighed, his impatience growing with every passing moment. Finally, the massive doors swung open, and the archangel of Valor swept in with fiery purpose, striding across the gleaming stone to where Balzael waited.

“He has been found,” Imperius said. It was not a question. He knew that if Balzael had summoned him to meet, it was for one reason only.

Balzael nodded. “In a place called Tristram of Khanduras on Sanctuary. He has gathered a band of humans for a purpose that remains unclear.”

“Humans . . .” Imperius paused. “How many?”

“Fewer than a dozen.”

“Kill them, if you must. But take Tyrael alive, and bring him to me. I do not want him harmed.”

“Are you certain? Is this not the time to acknowledge Tyrael’s crimes, to take drastic action before he does something that cannot be undone?”

Imperius turned toward him, and Balzael resisted the urge to shrink back. He considered himself a fierce warrior, battle-hardened and afraid of nothing. But few among the angels could stand tall in the face of the archangel of Valor’s wrath.

“Do not question me,” Imperius said, his voice taking on an edge that Balzael knew too well. “I want him tried here in the Ring of Judgment, in front of those he used to call his brothers
and sisters. He must stand as a symbol of the weakness of mortals in the realm of the Heavens. It will make the case against Sanctuary that much stronger.”

“I do not mean to question you,” Balzael said carefully. “But if the Council still refuses to act, even after all this—”

Imperius reached out and slammed Balzael against the wall. The archangel’s grip was incredibly strong, and Balzael felt himself pinned and helpless. “The Council still rules the Heavens,” Imperius thundered. “It is not your place to argue about our methods or our findings. You will obey my orders!”

Balzael nodded, unable to speak. Finally, Imperius let him go. “I have summoned our best Sicarai here, and I will instruct him on what must be done,” Balzael said after a moment.

“Good.” Imperius abruptly turned and headed for the doors. “Do not fail in this, Balzael,” he said, pausing as he reached the exit. He did not turn to look back again before he pushed the doors open and disappeared.

I shall not fail
, Balzael thought. Rage burned bright within him.
But it is not your orders I shall obey
.

Balzael preferred a more secluded space for his next meeting, one he used quite frequently. A meeting such as this required absolute privacy. What he had to say was of the utmost importance, and the true task he was about to assign must not be known to anyone else.

He walked the crushed stone paths of the Pools of Wisdom, trying to calm himself after the confrontation with Imperius. The pools had long been abandoned, dried up and silent, and the cold air muffled all sound. He did not hear the Sicarai warrior approaching. One moment he was alone, and the next he was not. Balzael kept his surprise to himself; he was far too disciplined for that, and if the destroyer noticed anything amiss, he did not react.

The Sicarai said nothing at all, only stood at attention, perfectly still. This was a magnificent fighting machine, Balzael had to admit, and one who was fiercely loyal to him and him alone. Balzael had made sure of that. The Sicarai vibrated with a red-tinted resonance that hung like a bloody mist around the shoulders of his golden armor. His chestplate was emblazoned with the sign of the Luminarei on the breast, a sunburst pattern that suggested endless wings in flight. Sicarai were known for their lack of mercy or forgiveness, a single-minded purpose, and Balzael had chosen the very best for this mission, an angel who had killed many demons and was feared as a relentless hunter, trained as an assassin, radiating power, large even for his kind, and possessing a weapon that could destroy anything in its path.

Except, perhaps, for El’druin.

That remains to be seen
.

“Our quarry has been spotted by scouts,” Balzael said without preamble. He watched the Sicarai carefully for any reaction, but the angel remained still. “I suspected Tyrael was hiding on Sanctuary. He is assembling a team of humans for a purpose I cannot yet foresee. Whatever his plans, he must not be allowed to follow them through. Do you understand me?”

For the first time, the Sicarai spoke. His voice was deep, powerful, cold in its measured response. “Yes, my lord.”

Balzael nodded. “The scouts are tracking Tyrael and his group, and you will join them,” he said. “Tyrael cannot be brought back to the Heavens to be tried for treason. We must act now. Kill him, and butcher those traveling with him.”

Balzael noticed something change in the Sicarai, an eagerness perhaps. The destroyer’s red aura quivered, like an animal trembling before being released for the hunt. A low, nearly inaudible sound had begun to emanate from him, a deep hum. Almost a snarl. The angel’s double-bladed weapon glowed at his side with its own fierce inner light.

“Go,” Balzael said. “Do not say a word about this to anyone. Be careful not to be seen. And do not stop until you succeed. Tyrael and all those with him must fall to your sword!”

The Sicarai gave him the Luminarei salute and was gone, moving so quickly and with such stealth that Balzael barely caught a fleeting glimpse of the warrior’s crackling energy before it dissipated and he was left alone once again.

Tyrael cannot be brought back to the Heavens to be tried for treason . . . Kill him, and butcher those traveling with him
.

Personally, Balzael preferred the deed to be done with extreme prejudice. It would make their designs for Sanctuary that much easier to implement. The soulstone must have more time to influence the Council, and Tyrael was the only thing standing in the way of it. He had chosen to side with humans. Such meddling could ruin the Guardian’s plans. Although the Black Soulstone had been tainted with the essence of evil, it remained very powerful and could be used for a larger purpose.

To wipe the nephalem—and all of Sanctuary—from existence forever.

It had been a number of human days since Tyrael had stood before the Fount at the Pools of Wisdom. The experience of peering into the chalice had begun to fade enough for him to feel some measure of comfort. He had seen the threads of time and emotion, had sensed their connections and perceived a possible future result. But Chalad’ar did not predict what was to come; it simply provided a way of understanding what could occur based on the here and now
.

What he had seen did not have to become truth. Death would come for him, as it came for all mortals, but it need not come soon. And the Black Soulstone’s slowly creeping tendrils—its corruption of the Heavens—could still be avoided if he could somehow get it away from its perch
.

But time was running short
.

He had received word through Auriel’s messenger that the Council had refused to act on his advice. Tyrael’s role as Wisdom had been minimized, their confidence in him clearly shaken. For eons, the goal of the archangels had been to defeat the Burning Hells and strive for ultimate peace. But lately, Tyrael had sensed a lust for blood beyond anything he had felt before. He was certain that they were conspiring against him and that if he remained in the High Heavens, his days of freedom were numbered
.

But one day, he awoke to an unusual resonance from the Arch echoing through the soaring spaces of the Silver City, and all that was put aside for the moment
.

He knew what the Lightsong meant: a new angel would be born
.

Several angels had been born at the Arch since his choice to become mortal, but he could only watch and not take part in the birthing ceremonies, knowing that he was an outsider. Tyrael dressed hurriedly, his fingers fumbling at his robes. He hated mortal clothing, the time it took, the feel of the fabric against his skin. It reminded him of what he had given up, not what he had become
.

Outside, he joined the growing stream of angels moving toward the Silver Spire. If they realized who he was, they did not show it; no one reacted to his mortal status, all attention riveted to the spire, as if in a trance
. And what if they did?
he thought. He was still a member of the Council, even if they no longer listened to him. Had he fallen so far, so fast, that the last of his pride had dried up and blown away upon the wind?

Chastised by his own thoughts, Tyrael stood tall among them. The day was a brilliant, shining blue, the air crisp and fresh, and the song made the very stones hum beneath his feet as he walked, growing in intensity as the spire grew close. The angels resonated in harmony with the Lightsong, but the sound did not emerge from their immortal throats; instead, it came in a thrumming energy as they vibrated to a perfect pitch. In the courtyard, he could see a throng of angels gathering under the soaring structure. Although he had seen the spire countless times, it remained magnificent, and as with everything else, his newly mortal soul viewed it with fresh appreciation. Its height was nearly impossible to comprehend, rising like twin blades, crystalline facets glittering. Circular ringed platforms thickened the base, while other, smaller towers and spires rose up around it, and near the top was a structure like angels’ wings, where the Crystal Arch was housed
.