Tyrael’s voice was deep and soothing, reverberating through the huge chamber, echoing off stone and causing the colors of the walls to shimmer. He was stronger than any man. Yet the archangel was wounded, Cain realized, the result of a desperate battle against the Prime Evils, no doubt.
A tip of one of the tendrils of light flicked down and touched Cain’s shoulder. Warmth spread through his body, nearly bringing him to his knees. He trembled but remained standing, an effort that took every last ounce of his will.
Cain took a deep breath. It was true. The archangels existed.
He shuffled forward, his staff clicking against the floor. “The rest of my traveling party will arrive in a moment,” he said. “We have destroyed the Compelling Orb with Khalim’s Will, and Mephisto has been contained. We seek the Dark Wanderer. Within him we will find Diablo, and defeat him, once and for all.”
“You know much, but not all.” Tyrael’s face was hooded, blackness underneath, but staring at him was like looking into the sun. Cain glanced away, blinking against the tears. “You have done well, last of the Horadrim. But there is more to do before you face Diablo. My trusted lieutenant, Izual, was corrupted ages ago and must be released from his suffering. You must face the Hellforge and use the Anvil of Annihilation to destroy Mephisto’s soulstone, once and for all, before crossing the River of Flame. And I fear there is more beyond that, much more. The prophecy has foretold a disruption in the balance of power that may destroy Sanctuary as we know it.”
“When will this happen?”
“We do not know,” Tyrael said. “Nor do we know that it will happen at all.”
“I will do what I can to help our heroes fight back against the darkness.”
Tyrael nodded. “I have no doubt that you will provide wise counsel. But someday you may be asked to do much more than that. And I fear that your own past will return to haunt you, in ways you cannot overcome.”
Fingers of dread worked their way up Cain’s spine. There was much he knew about the world of angels and demons, but much more still to learn. What did they know about the future? How much of it was his to write, and how much was set in stone?
“I . . . do not understand.”
Tyrael waved a hand, his golden armor clinking softly. “You must embrace the truth of what you have done, and who you are, and who you have been. I will do all that I can to protect you through this quest, as I have protected all Horadrim from the moment I formed the order. But someday I may not be here, and you may face the darkness alone. When that moment comes, you must be able to trust yourself.”
The fingers walking down Cain’s spine increased their pressure. The flames from the fireplace rose up with a roar, then settled, dying down again. The fortress grew darker, shadows lengthening. Tendrils seemed to uncoil like black snakes all around him; a thunderous sound like the crumbling of Sanctuary itself reverberated through the structure, causing dust to rain down and bits of stone to clatter off the floor. The voices of thousands of screaming, tortured souls drifted up from somewhere far beneath Cain’s feet as he lost his balance and fell to his side, his staff tumbling away from him.
Deep and chilling laughter grew up from nowhere until it filled his head with a raucous din that threatened to unman him. The tendrils had stretched across the entire room now, and the light of the flame had dimmed to almost nothing. Cain looked up to see Tyrael held aloft in a gigantic taloned grip, the archangel’s tendrils of light whipping helplessly back and forth as he screamed in pain and fury. Above him, impossibly high, rose the torso and massive head of a demon so foul Cain had to turn away, his stomach churning at the sight.
“Bow before me,” the demon said, its laughter shaking the foundations of the Pandemonium Fortress, its breath like the hot wind flung from the depths of Hell. “Bow before Belial, the Lord of Lies!”
Deckard Cain sat upright on the bed of straw. Somehow he had managed to fall asleep again, after the incident with the feeder. Dawn crept in through the small window, painting the room will a dull, gray light.
He was drenched with sweat, gasping for air, the walls seeming to close in on him as he tried to orient himself. The dreams were getting worse, filling every moment of sleep and twisting the truth, binding his heart with threads of lies until he couldn’t fight his way free. As they got closer to the answers they were looking for and his dreams continued to change, he could no longer remember what had really happened so many years ago. He had met Tyrael that day in the Pandemonium Fortress, and it had changed his life forever. But the Lesser Evil Belial, ruler of one part of the Burning Hells, had never appeared.
It was all wrong. Yet the dream had begun to sow the seeds of doubt in him, until he felt he could no longer trust his own memories.
If only Tyrael were here. The loss of the archangel of Justice during the destruction of the Worldstone was devastating. Meeting him in person had been a seminal moment in Cain’s life; after doubting for so long, and then living through the horrors of the invasion of Tristram, to see an archangel face to face was like looking into the sun. There were those in years past who had said that the angels were as bad as demons, and that most of them preferred that humans be destroyed. But they did not know the truth. Tyrael had been a protector of the Horadrim and all of humanity when another member of the Angiris Council would have had them destroyed. He was Justice incarnate, a creature so pure in spirit, he made all others seem like moths beating against a flame.
But now he was gone, and Sanctuary was exposed and vulnerable. Who would save them now? Who would step in, when the world was at its darkest point?
Who would stop Belial from destroying mankind?
Cain and Mikulov took Leah out of Kurast before the sun had fully entered the sky. The road stretched before them like a jagged scar cut through burned flesh. The husks of trees huddled in small groups, banding together to ward off the plague that had stripped them of life; some looked blackened, as if they had been scorched by fire.
An abandoned wagon sat by the roadside, overturned, the remains of two oxen still yoked to its frame. Leah drew closer to Cain as they passed, and she sensed a tension in him; he could not look away from the wagon, and he gave it a wide birth, skirting the edge of the road.
The oxen’s vacant, eyeless stare seemed to mock her. What makes you think you can survive this? they seemed to be saying, their rotted lips pulled away from their jaws, exposing rows of teeth in macabre grins. There is only death here. Turn around and run away, as fast as you can.
For a moment she was tempted to do it. But then she thought about returning to Kurast, and what might happen to her there without Cain and Mikulov. Those people they had met on the way into the city were nothing but empty shells, like ghosts. They were already dead; they just didn’t know it yet. And though she hadn’t actually seen anything the night before in Cyrus’s room, she had the feeling Uncle Deckard had, and it had frightened him badly.
For some reason this made her think of her mother (not your real mother, Leah’s mind insisted on pointing out; your real mother left you): Gillian making her breakfast on a sunny morning before they went to visit Jonah’s market for vegetables; then they would walk down to Caldeum’s gates to watch the action at the trade tents, and if she was lucky, Gillian would buy her a honey stick for a treat. Those were the good days, before Gillian’s sickness had taken all the happiness away. It was all too much for her to bear.
“What’s wrong?” Cain was looking down at her in concern, and Leah realized that tears were running down her face. She shook her head, watching his bearded face through a prism of colors, afraid that he would lecture her again about being responsible and strong and facing her fears, but instead he put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, smelling the dust and smoke of his tunic, and was glad to have him, so very glad, even if he was a strange old man, and even if she didn’t entirely trust him yet.