Diablo III: Storm of Light (45 page)

“Holy . . .” Shanar breathed softly. Bolts of pure energy began to rain down upon the monk’s head, thrown by the angels like lightning. He dodged and ducked and spun as the bolts exploded all around him, digging holes into the stone and raising clouds of gray dust.

Mikulov looked up and saw his companions, gesturing wildly. “Run!” he shouted, as more bolts rained down, narrowly missing him. “To the portal!”

The others turned and rushed headlong into the Pools of Wisdom, bracing themselves for the sudden rush of icy-cold air, the emptiness swallowing all sound. The portal was still open beyond the Fount, waiting for them.

But someone else was waiting, too.

“So it has come to this.” The voice, soft and yet filled with strength, held a tint of sadness as it cut through the dead air around them. “I had not wanted to believe that he would betray our trust, regardless of his intentions, but I suppose I knew the truth all along.”

Golden light washed through the Pools of Wisdom as a creature, hovering above the ground, seemed to float forward. Wings made of fire spread gloriously above a shape that was clearly female, a humming presence that knocked the breath from Jacob’s lungs and made him drop to his knees.

“I am Auriel, archangel of Hope,” she said. “And you are trespassing on sacred ground, Horadrim.”

The corridor outside the Courts of Justice was empty.

Tyrael flashed back in his mind to a time not so long ago, when he had been unable to sleep and walked these empty halls to the Angiris Council chamber. He had looked upon the Black Soulstone where it sat on its perch like some dark bird of prey . . . had felt the slow corruptive influence consuming the places he had loved and the beings he had called his brothers and sisters.

He had sacrificed much to try to save them all, risking their wrath and his place among them, his own life and the lives of others, and still he wondered if what he had done was right. But perhaps he had known, even then, that his path would lead back to this.

Balzael had been there, watching. He wondered what might have happened that day had Auriel not interrupted them. Tyrael held Chalad’ar in one hand, El’druin in the other. Pain laced his body, the wound that had barely healed in his chest burning. But he was lifted up by the thought of revenge. He had a message to deliver, and he knew where Balzael would go. The place where every important decision of the past millennia
had been made. The place where the corruption had begun to spread.

The Council chamber.

When Tyrael walked inside, Balzael was waiting for him.

The Luminarei lieutenant stood in the center of the room in front of the now-empty altar. His wings were spread out behind him, their glow illuminating the carved ceremonial wings of each archangel’s seat, the glittering crystal floor, and the golden symbols that ran through it. Above him, the tall windows and arched crystal ceiling let in glorious beams of light. Already the stone’s corruptive power was beginning to fade, and the Council chamber was returning to normal.

Except for the abomination that stood within it.

Tyrael’s heart blazed white-hot with hate, his rage overflowing. He felt Chalad’ar urging him onward, his fate in this place and at the hands of one he had once commanded and might have called a friend. The thought only served to underscore how much he had changed and the gulf between his old life and his new one as a mortal. But there were more questions he wanted answered first.

“How much did Imperius and the others know about your plans?” he said.

Balzael circled the altar. “That does not matter,” he said. “What matters is that everything you have worked for, everything your friends have struggled to achieve, is for nothing. You have played into our hands once again, coming after me and leaving them vulnerable.”

“If I kill you now,” Tyrael said, “they will be safe back in Sanctuary.”

“Kill me? I think not. I have been waiting for the chance to spill your blood. You cannot defeat an angel, not anymore.”

“I will see to it that you cannot reach them, Balzael—and if you do, you have underestimated their strength. Look at what Jacob has done to your best warrior, even while mortally wounded. These are
nephalem
, embracing their lineage and allowing the power that lies within them to burst forth like a fountain. It is over.”

Balzael chuckled again, the sound filling the chamber. “You are blind,” he said. “To so many things. The stone they carry is slowly eating them alive. Could you not feel it? Without you to guide them, do you really think they will be able to resist its influence? The darkness within the human soul is as deep and powerful as the light. And we have an army on the ground, ready to do our bidding. They have been operating quietly in small groups, snatching humans away in the night, testing their abilities, instilling doubt and fear in the populace, and readying themselves for the full assault. They have helped track you every step of the way. What you have seen in Sanctuary is a small sample of the full strength of our forces.”

The phantoms . . . “Who are you working with, Balzael?”

“You will never know the truth,” Balzael said. “But the answer might surprise you, if only you lived to see it.”

Without another word, the Luminarei lieutenant rushed forward across the space that separated them, his weapon out, wings trailing behind him in luminescent threads of crackling energy.

He moved so quickly Tyrael barely had the chance to raise El’druin to protect himself from the blow. Chalad’ar dropped to the floor and rolled away as the two swords met with a mighty clash that echoed like thunder.

Balzael’s strength was overpowering, and Tyrael had been badly weakened by the loss of blood. El’druin would hold its own against the bite of the lieutenant’s angelic blade, but it could not move Tyrael’s hand more quickly, could not parry and strike without him.

He moved away from Balzael’s furious assault, but the angel
was far faster, and only Tyrael’s defensive skills saved his life within the first few seconds. Balzael hovered around him, sword flashing, as Tyrael positioned the altar between them, managing to slow the relentless attack for a few moments. “You cannot hide behind that for long,” Balzael said, his tone mocking now. “The great Tyrael, former archangel, now . . . nothing? You have no place here, not anymore. Your choice to become a mortal has led to your end, and I will be happy to serve as your executioner.”

He flew over the stone pillar, and Tyrael ducked and spun away to the other side, keeping the dance going for as long as possible. His chest ached; his muscles trembled with fatigue. The Horadrim would be at the portal by now. He only needed to delay Balzael a few moments longer to be sure they were safe in the nephalem catacombs—

Balzael’s next move was too fast and unexpected for Tyrael to counter. With a single, mighty slash, his sword shattered the stone altar between them. Balzael flew at Tyrael with a growl of fury, his sword meeting El’druin and smashing it backward, driving the hilt into Tyrael’s face.

The impact brought stars to Tyrael’s eyes and knocked him to the floor of the Council chamber, where he lay stunned and bleeding, his fingers numb, his vision blurry.

El’druin lay somewhere beyond his reach.

But he did not search for the sword. It was no use to him anymore. He reached for something else.

Balzael slashed lightly at Tyrael’s arm, drawing blood, and stood over him in triumph. “You are defenseless and beaten,” he said. “I would ask for your surrender, but there will be no mercy.”

As Balzael raised his sword for the killing blow, Tyrael reached again, and his fumbling fingers touched what he had been searching for. He grabbed Chalad’ar and brought it to his chest.

Balzael found himself looking directly down into the chalice’s swirling depths, and he stiffened, his weapon freezing in place
as he let out a low cry. Tyrael moved the chalice closer as he struggled to his knees, keeping the opening facing Balzael, letting him fall into it as Tyrael had, letting him feel the mad rush of pure emotion, the overwhelming assault on his senses. And now Tyrael looked for his sword, calling to El’druin.
There
. It had come to rest too far away for him to reach but close enough to have in his hands in an instant if he let go of Chalad’ar.

Balzael was fighting against the chalice, his mind surely rebelling against it as he shuddered in place. When the hold was broken, Tyrael knew he would remain disoriented for a moment. He would have to act fast.

Tyrael set the chalice down and rolled, coming to his feet in one smooth motion, his lifelong training taking over as he picked up El’druin and turned to strike. But Balzael recovered more quickly than he had anticipated and was already moving himself, shouting in anger at Tyrael’s ploy, his sword whistling through the air and grazing Tyrael’s shoulder, knocking him off balance. He spun, but it was no use, as Balzael’s sword struck him broadside in the skull, and he went down, knowing that this time, it was truly over.

Sounds seemed to come from a great distance as he fought through a fog of strange colors and shapes. Tyrael closed his eyes, reeling.

A flash of brilliant light washed across his eyelids. Balzael screamed as if in triumph. But incredibly, there was no searing pain as his weapon struck Tyrael’s flesh, no fading consciousness and icy-cold fingers pulling Tyrael down toward oblivion.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw the lieutenant impaled on a flaming spike that protruded from the center of his chest.

Solarion, the Spear of Valor.

His scream had not been one of triumph but of agony.

Balzael was lifted into the air, flailing helplessly against the pressure, unable to free himself. Behind him stood Imperius, holding his spear and the angel impaled on it.

Tyrael got to his feet, then swayed as the floor underneath him seemed to buckle. His mind was buzzing like an angry hornet, the pain making his entire body want to shut down. Instead, he straightened, standing tall. If the end was to come now, he would be ready for it.

Balzael screamed again, the sound rising in pitch until it threatened to burst Tyrael’s eardrums. The crystal dome cracked ominously, sending dust and debris down on them like snowflakes drifting through the beams of light. Balzael’s wound grew bright, then brighter, the light flaring hot as the sun before fading away to nothing.

Finally, it was over.

Imperius flung the remains of his lieutenant aside and pointed Solarion at Tyrael. “I will not allow your death to come like this,” he said. “But you shall answer for your crimes against the Heavens,
brother
.”

“You call me brother still, after sending a destroyer to hunt me down like a demon?”

Imperius seemed to pause for a moment, and something like sadness crept into his voice. “How could you say this? I would not have condoned such an act.”

“We have argued for thousands of years—”

“And we have also saved each other’s lives on the battlefield countless times. I asked Balzael to return you unharmed to face your charges in the Ring. But you have gone against the Heavens and against the ruling of the Council. You have led a band of thieves into our very midst. You shall surely be imprisoned for this and stripped of your archangel status.”