Diablo III: Storm of Light (42 page)

Unfamiliar feelings raced through the necromancer, battling for control. Humbart was right; he had forgotten his training and let the overwhelming presence of the Heavens affect him. And yet he could not seem to let go of the rage he felt, an all-consuming fire that burned out of control—

A noise came from somewhere just ahead where the hall opened into a larger space. Zayl flattened himself against the wall below a series of snarling, glassy-eyed fallen heads, creeping ahead more slowly toward the angle in the hall where the noise had come from, aware that he was exposed. The thought of hand-to-hand combat made his heart race and his blood sing. He sensed that an archangel was just around the corner, perhaps Imperius himself.
I will see if archangels bleed
.

“Careful, lad,” Humbart said. “Careful . . .”

But Zayl was beyond hearing. He leaped forward, his dagger ready and glowing with a fierce light—

And ran straight into Jacob of Staalbreak.

Mikulov swam back through deep waters, the screams of the dying monks of Floating Sky echoing in his mind. He had been
watching them from above like a sun god, and as the assassins crept closer to his location, monkeys clambering up towering ladders of light and sound, he unleashed a wave of devastating power that tore away the monastery walls like matchsticks and blew bodies apart, limb from limb.

The Patriarchs were gathered inside the worship room, sitting cross-legged in a circle and chanting prayers to the gods. The wave of power caught and lifted them up into the wind, pulling the flesh from their bones, distributing them into the elements as they became one with all things.

As Mikulov watched the place where he had grown up vanish into the ether, he felt himself torn apart, the layers that had formed him yanked away, one by one, until he was left with nothing but a beating heart, and then even that was silenced as the angels descended on his world, swords of pure light slashing and burning the ground to a bare, smoking husk.

Mikulov’s head pounded. He sat up. Scorch marks ran across the carved columns around him, and a thin crack had opened in the polished stone floor. Pieces of armor, the only remains of Luminarei guards, lay scattered across the corridor. For a moment, awe over what he had done swept through him as he eyed the devastation, and then sorrow overwhelmed him.
I have done damage to the Heavens themselves
.

It seemed impossible. He had killed angels. What did it mean?

They would have murdered him and the rest of his friends if he had not acted first. But the knowledge did not soothe him. An Ivgorod monk was not supposed to feel pride, shame, or fear; there was no sense of accomplishment, no selfishness in pursuit of the greater good and the service of the thousand and one gods.

But he had changed, and perhaps his identity had changed, too. He was no longer only a monk from Ivgorod. Deckard Cain himself would have warned him always to act in service to those
who were not able to help themselves. Sanctuary’s fate lay in his hands.

Mikulov heard the thunder of approaching wings. He stood amid the crater he had created, rising out of the crouch he had held with a single breath, and he raised his arms. Around the corner came a flood of angels, hundreds of them or more, deadening the Heavens’ resonance, which still played gently from nowhere and everywhere at once.

“I’m here!” he screamed, words torn from his throat. “Come for me, if you dare!”

And then he turned and ran faster than he had ever run before, leading the angelic horde away from the Courts of Justice and the Angiris Council room.

Zayl had Jacob by the hair, dagger poised to strike. His eyes were violent and unfocused, and for a moment, Jacob actually thought he might slit his throat.

Gynvir leaped forward, unslung her axe, and swung at the necromancer, who parried her blow with the blade, a seemingly instinctual move. The energy of the clash released a shower of sparks and a burst of violet color. Gynvir came at him again. The next swing took the bone dagger from his hands, and it went clattering across the floor.

“Wait!” Humbart shouted as she raised the axe to remove Zayl’s head from his shoulders. “Don’t be foolish, woman! It was an accident, can’t you see? Zayl mistook you for the enemy!”

The barbarian growled deep in her throat, the sound turning into a strangled cry. She seemed to struggle with herself, muscles quivering, before she dropped the axe head to her side and turned away.

“I am sorry,” Zayl said. He raised his hands. “For a moment, I saw . . . the black-winged phantoms and Salene’s mutilated body. I let this place affect me and lost control.”

“That remains to be seen,” Jacob said. He rubbed his throat. “Where are the others?”

The expression on the necromancer’s face changed. “Tyrael and Cullen have been taken by the Sicarai into the Courts of Justice. Thomas . . . Thomas is dead.”

No
. Jacob shook his head, unable to believe it. “How?”

“The Sicarai struck him down. Cullen fought bravely, but it was too late. Tyrael was ambushed from behind.”

“You
lie
,” Gynvir said. “It’s some sort of trick—”

“Damn you, woman,” Humbart said. “He’s telling the truth.”

The barbarian took a step toward Zayl and the skull, but Jacob stopped her. He tried to calm the quiver in his voice. “There’s little time left before they discover we’re here. Thomas would have wanted us to keep fighting.” He put out a hand to Zayl. “Give me the satchel.”

Zayl shook his head, his eyes going glassy again for a moment before regaining their focus. “No,” he said. “You cannot carry it.”

“I can, and I will,” Jacob said. He was surprised by the firmness in his own voice. This was how he would find peace and justice within himself, one way or another. “Now, give it to me, necromancer.”

Zayl removed the satchel from where it was belted around his waist, fumbling clumsily until Jacob helped him with the buckle. “Jacob,” Shanar said, “the satchel’s magic has been damaged. It’ll kill you.”

He ignored her and took the enchanted satchel in his own hands as Zayl retrieved his dagger from the floor. It was almost as if Jacob could feel it beat like a heart. He drew his sword, felt the energy thrumming within the blade, and turned toward the entrance to the Council chamber. “Let’s go,” he said, and stepped inside.

They all stopped abruptly, overcome by the beauty of it. Light streamed down from the tall, narrow windows that lined the
chamber and the domed ceiling that soared far above them. The circular walls were carved with incredibly detailed patterns that evoked the movement of water or energy. The floor appeared to be made of glass or crystal. It was inscribed with golden lines in a pattern that led to the center, where five circles lay around a star, and a stone altar rose up to support the object they had come to see.

Carvings of wings stood below the thrones of the archangels. Jacob had expected to see a guard stationed inside, but the room was empty. He sheathed his weapon. In spite of the beauty, there was darkness here. The Black Soulstone stood upon its perch, swollen and glowing gently with a deep, blood-red light.

It knows we are here
, Jacob thought.
I don’t know how, but it does
.

The stone was nearly the size of a man’s torso, much larger than they had been led to believe. He approached it cautiously, circling the altar it sat upon. He thought he saw it pulse in the rays of light from above. It was a hideous thing, an abomination of the natural world, built and fed by hatred, misery, and pain. And a man had created it. A member of the Horadrim, no less. The thought filled Jacob with dread. And yet there was something hypnotic about the stone, something that drew him inexorably forward.

That is its secret
, he thought.
Hatred is seductive and easy to embrace
.

“Don’t touch it,” Shanar said.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his flesh crawling at the thought. Then another thought. “How can we possibly carry that?”

“The satchel will expand to contain it,” Zayl said. “I believe the stone swells in response to the emotions of mortals, but I have accounted for it. That is, if the satchel has not been damaged too badly by the Sicarai.”

Jacob’s heart beat faster, seemingly in time with the pulse of the stone. He noticed gray lines tracing the golden design in
the floor beneath his feet, running toward the walls. They were coming from the stone. He thought of the gray streaks tainting the trees in the Gardens of Hope. It was like a web encasing the Heavens, holding the angels captive. The creeping sense of disgust ran through him again, and he had to stop himself from jittering in place as if he had stepped into a vat full of spiders. He wanted to get away from this room, the faster the better.

But first, they had to collect the stone.

Jacob opened the satchel, but it was far too small to fit anything much larger than Humbart. He began to speak, but his words trailed away as it flapped in his hands and expanded like a hungry mouth. He let the satchel go, and it flew through the air and fastened itself against the black, glossy surface like a snake unhinging its jaw to swallow its prey whole, surrounding the stone inch by inch,
consuming
it.

Jacob glanced at his friends in astonishment. Gynvir made the sign of her forebears, backing away, while Zayl remained in place, swaying slightly. Shanar muttered something under her breath.

He looked back at the satchel, fascinated and revolted in turn, as it finished its work. A sucking, slippery noise filled the room. The soulstone was being reduced in size as it was taken inside, the bloody glow dying away. Finally, it was done, and the satchel sat silently on top of the altar. The stone inside was small enough that he could carry it.

“It will not be heavy,” the necromancer said. His words came slowly, as if with great effort. “But I do not know what level of protection the spell will offer. You may touch the surface and find it overwhelms you. We will need to move fast and get to the portal before the effects are irreversible.”

Jacob picked up the satchel, tested it, and found it solid. Zayl was right; he could carry it without much effort. A slight burning
sensation made his hand begin to tingle. “I think I can make it. But we have a stop to make first.”

“There’s no time for detours,” Shanar said.

“He wouldn’t leave any of us behind willingly,” Jacob said. Until just now, when he spoke the words aloud, he wasn’t sure if he believed that himself, but he knew it was true.
Tyrael would not leave us, no matter what he has told us about this mission. Justice is about more than duty
. “We won’t, either, not until I breathe my last.”