Diablo III: Storm of Light (18 page)

Bramwell was built into the base of the mountainside overlooking the Gulf of Westmarch. It was made up of two- and three-story stone buildings with thatched roofs, modest in size and worn by the wind and rain that often swept through these lands. An inlet that ran into the Sweetwater River allowed the city to maintain a shipping channel and had kept it alive during hard years. A booming whaling industry had long since fallen off, and the inhabitants now survived mostly on farming and trade through Westmarch and Kingsport, shipping their expertly forged weapons and armor to those cities and all the way to Caldeum.

As the group crested a hill and the sun broke through the mid-morning sky, the city sat nestled before them in the arms of the mountains. It had been years since Jacob had been here, and although he remembered the beautiful setting—the sparkling water of the gulf and the hard line of the breakwater, the steep hills and the squares of farmland outside the walls—the city itself had changed. The buildings looked restored, and the walls had been fortified, built up at least ten feet higher than before.

He remembered the campgrounds outside the city, where merchants had gathered, hoping to do business, but they were abandoned and empty now. Bramwell’s heavy iron gates were closed tight, which seemed strange for a city built on trade.

The gates were also heavily guarded. As they made their way down the final hill, four men in knight armor stepped out from stone guard huts built on either side of the road.

“State your business,” the largest of them said, a man with a ruddy complexion and a thick beard. He wore a helmet and carried a heavy sword and shield, and he stood in the middle of the road before the gates as if daring them to enter.

“I am a merchant from Caldeum,” Tyrael said. “We need to speak with Borad the blacksmith.”

The knights shifted, glancing at one another, and the largest man relaxed slightly. “Remove your weapons,” he said. “No one enters the gates of Bramwell armed.”

Jacob looked at Tyrael. Handing over El’druin to these thieves? A chill ran through him at the thought of it. But Tyrael shook his head.

“The road is a treacherous one,” he said. “We carry too much gold from the palace guard to surrender our swords.” He met the man’s gaze with his own. “Take it up with Borad if you must.”

“You don’t look much like traders—” another guard said. But the leader put up a hand as if he had made a final decision, silencing him.

“Very well,” he said. “Follow me.”

The guards led them through the streets as people turned to stare. Something had spooked the citizens, Jacob thought; that much was clear. He knew his traveling party looked nothing like merchants, of course, but the impression he received from these people was more than suspicion of a group of strangers.

It was fear.

As strange as this was, Jacob welcomed the distraction. The embarrassment he had felt after his behavior at the Slaughtered Calf remained at the back of his mind, ever present when he had a moment’s peace. He had become a blubbering, drunken fool in front of Tyrael and the others, including Shanar, and his refusal to accept the duties the archangel had asked of him—his petty arguments and self-pity—made him cringe. He had always prided himself on his commitment to justice and the protection of innocents. He had dedicated his life to it. Now was the time to embrace that commitment, not shrink from such a duty.

How had he wandered so far off his path? The loss of El’druin had become a crutch for his own doubts and weaknesses, and Shanar’s disappearance from his life had only reinforced those doubts. But she was back now, whatever the reason, and he had to show her—show all of them—that he could be trusted. There was too much at stake to fail.

One thing was certain: the creature he had seen outside the inn had scared him sober, its touch like an ice pick to his soul. Even now, he could feel it deep inside his breast. Something told him he was very lucky to be alive and that most others would not have survived such an encounter. Why he was spared, he did not know. But it had communicated to him a message that he had kept playing through his head for reasons he could not quite understand. A warning, of sorts.

We are coming for you, sooner or later, as we came for your mother and father and your kin before them. We always do
.

As the small group progressed through the city streets, the number of people following them grew, so that by the time they reached the upper limits, there was a grim parade tailing behind them. The guards led them to a fairly modest home near the city walls that overlooked the valley and the gulf. A building twice the size sat behind it, surrounded by a patch of dead grass and a
path worn down to the dirt. Thick black smoke poured from double chimneys, and the
whoosh
of bellows came from inside.

The people finally began to disperse after the guards put their hands on the hilts of their swords and ordered them back. The lead guard knocked hard on the door and waited.

The harsh clang of metal on metal ceased for a moment. The guard knocked twice more, but the hammering started up again. He glanced at his companions, then slipped the catch and entered. The others followed.

It was blazing-hot inside. Prickles of moisture sprang up on Jacob’s brow and the small of his back, the heat burning his lungs. The air wavered, making objects seem to ripple and change. Wire brushes, jigs, and fullers lay on tables or hung on hooks next to grinding stones. A fire roared in a hearth at the far end, where a huge man wearing a thick leather apron and glistening with sweat hammered at a white-hot edge of metal on an anvil, his arms bare to the shoulders.

The guards waited for him to finish. He worked quickly and with impressive skill, honing the edge of metal to a thin blade, before he looked up and finally acknowledged them. After setting the sword in a bucket of water, he wiped the sweat from his brow with a cloth and walked toward the lead guard.

As the man approached, Jacob heard a brief intake of breath from the necromancer; Jacob thought Zayl might have recognized him, although it was difficult to say.

A quick explanation followed, but before the guard could finish, the huge man waved him away. “I’m Borad Nahr,” he said, gripping Tyrael’s hand and holding it for an extra beat as he kept Tyrael’s gaze. Whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him. “Been expecting you. Garand, take the men back down the hill and watch the woods.”

The guard hesitated just a moment and then nodded, backing out of the room and closing the door. The blacksmith wiped his
brow again and removed his apron, taking his time before hanging it on a hook. He kept his back to them. The others waited. “You bring word from Westmarch?” Nahr said, only half-turning toward them, in a voice filled with a mix of anticipation and dread. Most of his face was in shadow.

“We come from the road to Tristram,” Tyrael said. “Your guards are vigilant. We stumbled upon four of them in the woods on our journey. But now you send them away before speaking plainly. Are you expecting some sort of trouble?”

“They are loyal,” Borad Nahr said. “But one can never be too careful, not today.” He finally turned fully to face them, his eyes shining in the firelight. “Now, give me the word from my son, and make it quick.”

His son?
“You’re no blacksmith,” Jacob said.

The huge man’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked Jacob up and down, then moved on to the others, lingering on Zayl. Whatever Nahr saw seemed to set him more at ease, for his shoulders relaxed slightly. “My father was the best in the land,” he said, “and he taught me well before I joined in service to the king. My skills in battle were needed then, as they are now, more than ever.” He motioned to the fire and his tools. “This I do when I need to think. It calms my mind. But you’re not here to talk about smithing, and I’ve misjudged your purpose. Perhaps I shouldn’t have let you in so easily.”

“We mean you no harm,” Tyrael said. “If you would indulge us for a few minutes, perhaps we could explain—”

“If you were assassins, you would have made your attempt already,” Nahr said, holding up his hand. “And you’re not in league with Norlun; that much is clear. He would never entertain the likes of you. Anything else can wait until there’s food in your bellies. You look like you’d eat a rat to survive.”

As if in answer, Jacob’s stomach rumbled. He looked around at the others. There had been little to eat over the past few days
except for dried meats and stale bread that they had brought in their rucksacks. It was nearly noon. A good meal would be more than welcome.

Tyrael nodded his thanks.

“Come on, then,” Nahr said. “Let’s find something warm.”

He took them into the modest home, where another fire burned on the hearth and stew thickened in a pot that hung above the flames. It smelled delicious. “My men often eat with me,” Nahr said, “but today you’ll take their place. It’s early for venison, but I’ll wager you could use it.”

He spooned large quantities into wooden bowls and set them down on a table in a small room overlooking the building from which they had come. The group set at the food ravenously, and Nahr watched them from a seat in a well-worn chair near the window.

“Thought you were carrying a message from Lorath,” he said, as the bowls rapidly grew empty. He lit a cigar and puffed at it, his gaze going distant. “Why it took eight of you to deliver it was what worried me. I was afraid . . .” He shook his head, his eyes focusing again on his guests. “But you have nothing to deliver, and it’s clear you’re not merchants from Caldeum or any other place.”

He stood up and turned to the window, his broad shoulders set, the cigar’s crumbling ash falling unheeded onto the wide, worn floor planks. “You might ask why I invited you to a meal, after you played us all for fools with that Caldeum story,” he said. “I recognized one of you from long ago. That, and the dreams . . .” He shrugged. “I saw you coming, you might say.”

“You’re the former commander of the Knights of Westmarch,” Zayl said. “I remember you. You were under General Torion, if I recall.”

The large man turned back. “Yes. Commander Nahr, at your service. One of his closest advisers, years ago. I work closely with him still, along with the duke of Bramwell. And you helped us rid the city of a plague of demons back then.” He nodded. “The knights don’t make it a rule to trust one of your type. But Lady Salene grew fond of you, didn’t she? How is she now? Does the house of Nesardo still stand with the king?”

A shadow crossed Zayl’s face. “She is gone,” he said. “Taken by black-winged things—beasts of some other realm. I tried to save her, but I was too late. She delivered a message to me, that I was to seek a man of your description in Bramwell and that you hold information vital to the safety of these lands. But I did not know it would be you.”

The commander sagged, then sat heavily in his chair. “It grows worse every day,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “There is evil at work in Bramwell; we have seen it. Seen
them
, the black-winged devils of which you speak. They steal our citizens away in the night. The duke has fallen ill with some sort of plague, although no healers can help him. And in the midst of it all, Norlun would dare try to use this to his advantage . . . It makes me wonder.” He realized his cigar had burned down to a stub and put it out, then looked at Tyrael. “Tell me what you want,” he said. “Perhaps we can help each other.”