pursuit of peace and balance, when death would come to all?
The people of Sanctuary were screaming .
Tyrael came to his senses covered in sweat. He found he had not moved from his position before the Fount, and he was clutching Chalad’ar inboth hands as if it had fused to his flesh, his fingers turning white with strain .
His head pounded, the ache reaching through his neck and shoulders and down his spine. A dizzying wave crashed over him as the feelings he had experienced hit him again and again. His mortal flesh had never felt like such a prison, such a burden to overcome .
He had sensed things at the end, terrible things. He had sensed the coming deaths of countless souls, all of them burning in agony. He had sensed the darkness rising up among them, extinguishing all light. But that darkness had not come from the Hells .
As in his dreams, it had come from the angels .
Tyrael tucked the chalice into his robes. A feeling of utter hopelessness descended upon him as he turned his back on the Fount and walked the path out of Wisdom’s realm. Using the chalice had bled energy from him to such an extent that he felt like a hollow shell; mortals were never meant to experience such a thing, and the effects of its use could not be predicted, he knew. Tyrael could become lost, floating forever in the void between this world and the next, unable to find his way back through the strands as his physical form wasted away. The prospect of his own death cast a pall over everything, and he was strangely drawn to it in a way he could not quite understand. There was peace in endless sleep, an acceptance in giving up and letting go .
The thought was hypnotic .
You must not listen.
The archangel of Wisdom made his way back to more familiar surroundings, feeling lost and alone .
As he went, he did not notice the figure slipping from the shadows to follow him .
Chapter Nine
Discovery
As the others gathered in their rooms at the Slaughtered Calf, the necromancer slipped quietly into the night through the back entrance to survey their surroundings. Zayl was not a social person—he preferred the company of the dead, if he were to be honest—and he knew that there was plenty of distrust of him among the group. It was easier to be alone.
But that wasn’t the only reason for his vigilance. He remained unsettled after the appearance of the demons at the graveyard.
Zayl did not rattle easily, but he had continued to feel a disruption in the Balance. It was not Tyrael’s presence that was causing it; something else was at work.
A very dangerous force was behind the recent attack; he was sure of it. And it reminded him of something he would rather forget.
“If you mean to loiter out in the cold, you could have at least wrapped me in a blanket,” Humbart said. He sat in the palm of Zayl’s left hand, his empty sockets staring out into the darkness. They had found a quiet space between the inn and the neighboring building where they would not be disturbed. Zayl crouched in the dust, his back to the wall.
“You’re far beyond feeling a chill,” Zayl said. He flexed his gloved right hand, feeling the bones move beneath the leather. It ached in cold like this, with the flesh long gone. The glove was padded to conceal the fact that the hand was nothing but skeletal remains connected by a few strands of mummified sinew. There was an unfortunate incident with a group of damned souls at the lost city of Ureh several years before, but he had managed to reattach what was left using a particularly powerful spell. It would never be the same, but it was functional, and that was enough.
“Be on guard, Humbart,” Zayl said quietly. “Bring me back if anything should go wrong.”
“Aye,” Humbart said. “Just be quick about it. You know how it gives me the shakes, watching you do this. It’s dangerous. There was the time in Salene’s quarters when you lost control of your limbs to that damned black-hearted necromancer and nearly
The people of Sanctuary were screaming .
Tyrael came to his senses covered in sweat. He found he had not moved from his position before the Fount, and he was clutching Chalad’ar inboth hands as if it had fused to his flesh, his fingers turning white with strain .
His head pounded, the ache reaching through his neck and shoulders and down his spine. A dizzying wave crashed over him as the feelings he had experienced hit him again and again. His mortal flesh had never felt like such a prison, such a burden to overcome .
He had sensed things at the end, terrible things. He had sensed the coming deaths of countless souls, all of them burning in agony. He had sensed the darkness rising up among them, extinguishing all light. But that darkness had not come from the Hells .
As in his dreams, it had come from the angels .
Tyrael tucked the chalice into his robes. A feeling of utter hopelessness descended upon him as he turned his back on the Fount and walked the path out of Wisdom’s realm. Using the chalice had bled energy from him to such an extent that he felt like a hollow shell; mortals were never meant to experience such a thing, and the effects of its use could not be predicted, he knew. Tyrael could become lost, floating forever in the void between this world and the next, unable to find his way back through the strands as his physical form wasted away. The prospect of his own death cast a pall over everything, and he was strangely drawn to it in a way he could not quite understand. There was peace in endless sleep, an acceptance in giving up and letting go .
The thought was hypnotic .
You must not listen.
The archangel of Wisdom made his way back to more familiar surroundings, feeling lost and alone .
As he went, he did not notice the figure slipping from the shadows to follow him .
Chapter Nine
Discovery
As the others gathered in their rooms at the Slaughtered Calf, the necromancer slipped quietly into the night through the back entrance to survey their surroundings. Zayl was not a social person—he preferred the company of the dead, if he were to be honest—and he knew that there was plenty of distrust of him among the group. It was easier to be alone.
But that wasn’t the only reason for his vigilance. He remained unsettled after the appearance of the demons at the graveyard.
Zayl did not rattle easily, but he had continued to feel a disruption in the Balance. It was not Tyrael’s presence that was causing it; something else was at work.
A very dangerous force was behind the recent attack; he was sure of it. And it reminded him of something he would rather forget.
“If you mean to loiter out in the cold, you could have at least wrapped me in a blanket,” Humbart said. He sat in the palm of Zayl’s left hand, his empty sockets staring out into the darkness. They had found a quiet space between the inn and the neighboring building where they would not be disturbed. Zayl crouched in the dust, his back to the wall.
“You’re far beyond feeling a chill,” Zayl said. He flexed his gloved right hand, feeling the bones move beneath the leather. It ached in cold like this, with the flesh long gone. The glove was padded to conceal the fact that the hand was nothing but skeletal remains connected by a few strands of mummified sinew. There was an unfortunate incident with a group of damned souls at the lost city of Ureh several years before, but he had managed to reattach what was left using a particularly powerful spell. It would never be the same, but it was functional, and that was enough.
“Be on guard, Humbart,” Zayl said quietly. “Bring me back if anything should go wrong.”
“Aye,” Humbart said. “Just be quick about it. You know how it gives me the shakes, watching you do this. It’s dangerous. There was the time in Salene’s quarters when you lost control of your limbs to that damned black-hearted necromancer and nearly
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