Diablo: Moon of the Spider

by Richard A. Knaak

  At that point, the outlander hid away the object he had used to first light up the tomb. Pushing back his hood, he surveyed with satisfaction the sarcophagus.

  “I’m waiting!” snapped Aldric.

  “Patience is essential to the Balance.” One hand came up. In the palm, a tiny black crystal glittered. “As is sacrifice.”

  Suddenly, the crystal sprouted tiny legs … eight in all. To the astonishment of all save its master, it leapt from the palm, landing readily atop the symbol on the sarcophagus.

  Where the pickaxes had made not even the least penetration, the eight limbs thrust with utmost ease into various parts of the lid surrounding the center of the crimson image.

  There was a brief hiss … and the rounded top slid back.

  Lord Aldric Jitan did not question where his companion had procured the macabre key. All that mattered was that the way was open. Leaning, he eyed the contents.

  A long, robed form lay stretched within. There was something amiss about it.

  “Bring the torches up!” Aldric commanded.

  In the fire, the occupant was revealed. Although he had already expected it not to be the remains of one of the Lords Rakkis, the identity of the entombed figure still startled him.

  “It’s one of their own! A Vizjerei!”

  The Vizjerei were sorcerers whose origin also lay in the east, but they were of a more worldly nature than Aldric’s companion. They had ambitions and desires and in his life Lord Jitan had paid some of them for nefarious services. Not all were of such dubious nature, but to Aldric, the distinction between good and bad Vizjerei was negligible.

  But why waste such effort for the burial of one of their own in this of all places? Why make such a trek here in the first place?

  Skin still covered the bones of this ancient spellcaster, as did wisps of a long, gray beard and hair. The familiar, orange-colored, wide-shouldered robes called the turinnash—a style hardly changed after centuries—wrapped around the emaciated body. Golden runes supposedly designed to enhance the wearer’s power and protect him from harm lined the garment. A gold breastplate and belt gave some hint of past glory and riches, but such things were of no interest to the noble. At the mummy’s left side lay one of the rune-etched staves generally wielded by those of the order.

  And in the gnarled, gaunt hands resting atop lay the object of Lord Jitan’s quest.

  It was not as large as in his dreams, but it was no less spectacular. The size of an apple, maybe a bit more, but that was it. It resembled a pearl of lunar radiance—a perfectly round moon—that somehow made the sarcophagus seem crude and dull. An entire city—nay, all of Westmarch—could surely have been bought with it.

  Had there been no more to the artifact’s appearance, perhaps Aldric would have done just that, for then it would have been otherwise useless to him. As it was, though, even the clawed fingers of the dead Vizjerei could not obscure the eight ebony streaks perfectly crisscrossing the pearl. They were the reason for its name, the reason he had sought this treasure out.

  They were the reason it was called the Moon of the Spider.

  Lord Jitan started to reach for it, but his shadowed companion prevented his hand from rising.

  “Taking from the dead is hardly the work of one of your station, my lord,” he suggested to Aldric, his low tone hinting of something more than the proprieties of caste.

  Brow arched, Aldric snapped his fingers at the nearest manservant. “Rolf! Retrieve that for me.”

  Rolf grimaced, then bowed his head. Handing his torch to one of the others, he strode up to the sarcophagus. With a grunt, he reached two beefy hands toward his master’s prize.

  His fingers grazed those of the cloaked cadaver.

  Rolf howled. A fiery aura spread forth from the Vizjerei’s corpse to manservant and back again.

  The transformation took place in less than the blink of an eye. The very life essence was sucked from Rolf as Lord Jitan might have sucked the juice from a piece of orange. The manservant’s skin shriveled and his eyes sank into their sockets. His burly form melted into a wrinkled skeleton. He tried to the very end to pull free, but could not.

  And as his dry corpse collapsed in a grisly heap upon the floor, the mummified Vizjerei sat up.

  His skin was still dry and cracked, but there was some flesh beneath it now. The ghoulish visage shifted, yellowed teeth suddenly bared and the lids opening to reveal not eyes but a sickly yellow pus.

  A guttural sound arose from the empty throat and in that same moment, Aldric sensed powerful magical forces arising.

  Something surrounded by a pale glow flew from the direction of the noble’s spellcaster. Aldric expected it to strike where the ghoul’s heart had once been, but instead it curved upward at the last, burying itself in the decaying figure’s forehead.

  The cadaverous ghoul uttered a harsh gasp … and crumpled back into the sarcophagus, his body turning to ash at the same time.

  The gray-haired man beside Aldric quietly and calmly walked up to the dust-laden remains and easily pulled free what he had tossed at the ghoul. A dagger, but one that Lord Jitan knew had not been forged from metal. It was white, but the white of ivory … or bone. Even with the torches near, its pale illumination was still noticeable.

  “The path to your desires is now open, my lord,” its wielder remarked.

  Unwilling to wait any longer, Aldric Jitan dared seize the Moon of the Spider from what fragments remained of the Vizjerei’s fingers. No terrible spell seized him, no ghoul leapt up to suck his soul away.

  It was his. At last, it was his.

  “The first step,” remarked his gray companion. “Now we must prepare for the rest. You do recall that, do you not, my lord?”

  “I recall very well, Karybdus,” Aldric murmured, using the other’s name for the first time in days. He stroked the artifact as if it were a lover, tracing, as he had with the sarcophagus, the lines from which it drew its name.

  Karybdus began removing his travel cloak. In the same calm, studious tone he ever used, he said, “Then, we must begin now. Time is of the essence.”

  And as his cloak slipped to the floor, Karybdus’s own garments were better revealed. Utter black, save for a curious trio of bands across the upper chest and another that stretched down the midsection. One shoulder also bore a jutting, protective cover … which on close inspection an onlooker would have realized was the skull of a horned and fanged creature that could have never walked the mortal plane in life. It and the bands were all the same in color: bone-white.

  Much of what the gray-eyed spellcaster wore resembled armor of a reptilian look, with ridges and scales. Despite that, when Karybdus moved, his garments flowed as if silk and he made no sound whatsoever. His leather boots rose above the knee and melded perfectly with the rest of his armor.

  And at his waist, he carried the dagger which had so readily slain the undead Vizjerei. It still glowed, pulsating as if with a life of its own. The blade had a serpentine shape, coiling back and forth before ending in a pin-sharp point.

  Upon its hilt was the one symbol to mark Karybdus’s identity with any certainty, an almost invisible image seared into the handle. It was the tiny icon of a serpentine creature over whom hung a pair of weighing scales. Though some might have readily recognized the beast as a dragon, only the rare outsider would know why the scales were set so.

  The dragon was known as Trag’Oul: He Who Is the Fulcrum of the Balance. Trag’Oul was as near to a god as Karybdus had, as any of his kind had.

  Trag’Oul, who watched over the followers of Rathma.

  The necromancers.

  TWO

  The Inn of the Black Ram was a flat-roofed stone building in the lower end of Westmarch the city that saw its fair share of the suspicious and the unsavory. Paradoxically, that meant that the establishment also saw its fair share of the powerful and wealthy, both those who sought the dank environment to close questionable deals and those who simply desired a thrill. There was some of eac
h this particular evening, the various types seated at their booths and tables and murmuring over tankards of throat-scorching ale or half-burnt mutton.

  But, whatever their reason for choosing the Black Ram this foggy eve, all without exception found themselves turning for no reason that they understood toward its creaking door just as the great bells of the city struck the late hour.

  He was pale of skin and had a narrow face better suited for a studious clerk than a mysterious figure shrouded in dark cloak and robes. His eyes were his most arresting feature, for they were distinctly curved and of a startling gray. From out under the hood of his cloak, a few strands of flat, black hair hung over his forehead. The stranger was of slim build, but in that way that acrobats were.

  The newcomer’s high leather boots made no sound on the aged planks as he strode toward an open booth. His cloak billowed as he walked and in the flickering light of the boxy brass oil lamps above, tiny silver symbols sewn into the trim of the garment glittered, disappeared, then glittered to life again. Under the cloak, several small pouches and one larger one hung from the stranger’s belt. The large pouch held some round object in it the size of a huge grapefruit.

  He slid onto one of the benches in the empty booth with the same silent ease that had marked his entrance to the inn. The other occupants of the Black Ram eyed him a moment more, but when he did nothing but sit back in the shadows, most returned to their own dealings and drinks. A few of the more disagreeable souls pretended to do the same, but their gazes constantly shifted back to the pouch and its mysterious contents.

  And in one corner opposite from the new figure, a young woman whose graceful beauty stood out like a beacon in the neighborhood of the Black Ram watched him most intently. With her sat two men, one a giant with the clear look of a bodyguard and the other roughly her age and with enough similarity of features to be easily identified as related to the woman. He scowled in the stranger’s direction, clearly repulsed by what he saw.

  The well-endowed, blond serving woman who should have seen to the hooded figure’s needs refused to step from behind the waist-high wooden counter where the ales were poured from the barrels. The proprietor, a balding, stout man of middle years, tugged on his thick lower lip, then wiped his hands and proceeded out himself.

  Hands clutching his faded apron, he approached the booth. Under a heavy brow, he eyed his newest patron with far more respect than he generally gave to all but the most highborn. “G-greetin’s, master! Hyram, I am! Master of the Black Ram! ’Tis an unusual honor it ’tis to have one of yours here, unusual, but not unheard of. Been one or two … over the years.”

  The seated figure nodded once. His voice was smooth, calm. “Yes, I would not imagine many have come … to Westmarch.”

  “What—what can I bring you?”

  “The stew I smell will do. I would ask for water…but here I suspect it would be healthier to drink the ale.”

  Hyram grunted. “Aye.”

  “Then, that is all … unless you also have a room for the night.”

  The innkeeper swallowed. “Just one night?”

  “Yes.” Sensing Hyram’s hesitation, the figure reached a gloved hand to one of the pouches at his waist. As he brought it up, it clinked with the song of good coins.

  Much of the innkeeper’s trepidation vanished. “Aye, for one night we can help you, Master—”

  “Zayl. Just Zayl.” His gray eyes shifted away from Hyram.

  “I’ll be gettin’ your meal and drink immediately, Master Zayl,” Hyram declared, ignoring the other’s last statement. To the proprietor, anyone who had the money to pay well was deserving of a title, even one such as this.

  Left alone again, Zayl surreptitiously surveyed the room. He had never been this far from home and, despite his demeanor, was uneasy. It had not been his intention to leave the jungles of Kehjistan for the Western Kingdoms, but he had been drawn here by forces far stronger than himself.

  Would that I could be like them, he thought, blithely ignorant of the troubles converging on us all.

  His journey had taken him to the kingdom of Westmarch and the capital city of the same name. Cautious questioning of locals—cautious because one of his calling ever risked the notice of the authorities—had garnered Zayl only hearsay. Enough to keep him enticed, but not enough to explain to him why he had felt driven to come to this particular region.

  He noted the woman across the room still eyeing him whenever she thought him unaware. From the glances and murmurs that passed between her and the smaller male—a sibling, Zayl suspected—they knew him for what he was. A follower of Rathma, a devotee to the maintaining of the Balance.

  A delver into the world of the dead.

  Many shunned necromancers—not without good reason, sometimes—but those like Zayl who had given themselves over to the teachings of Rathma meant people no harm. Zayl’s kind fought against the Darkness, against the Prime Evils, for victory by the forces of Hell would forever send the Balance completely awry. The Rathmians’ methods might not always meet with the approval of the uninitiated masses, but the results were what counted. One terrible defeat could mean the end of all.

  Each necromancer was taught to follow the course of the ongoing struggle on his own, choosing his path on the basis of where his senses dictated he had to go. It had come as a great shock to Zayl when he had felt himself compelled to journey west across the Twin Seas, but he had not shirked from his duty. The Balance was in too precarious a state to turn a blind eye from what needed to be done.

  After all, the Worldstone had been destroyed …

  His dark reverie was interrupted by the return of Hyram with his meal. The stew, a greenish-brown mass with bits of old vegetables and stringy meat in it, had a tolerable odor and taste and the ale looked fresh enough. Having expected worse, Zayl nodded his approval. He was nearly hungry enough to devour the table, though he would have never visibly revealed such weakness even to himself. Rathmians learned to fast for extended periods of time in order to purge their bodies of impurities, but Zayl had gone longer than normal. Even this questionable fare would go far in restoring him to his full faculties.

  Paying the proprietor, the necromancer took off his left glove, picked up the iron spoon resting in the bowl, and began to eat. The right hand remained covered, even despite the growing warmth of the room.

  As he reached for his drink, a muffled sound emanated from the large pouch. Zayl’s gloved hand immediately slipped to the pouch, slapping it once. The sound cut off.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he looked to see if anyone had noticed. Only the woman appeared to have noticed anything unusual, but instead of being disturbed by it, she was now speaking more animatedly with the young male. He, in turn, shrugged and said something clearly derogatory about Zayl.

  The necromancer turned his attention back to his meal and his thoughts. In truth, he could actually not be certain that the Worldstone had been destroyed, but the evidence was certainly there. Mount Arreat—where legend claimed it had been hidden—had exploded, its entire top ravaged. The destruction had been heard about even here in faraway Westmarch. More to the point, the rumors among those with the sight gave starker credence to the horrific claim. It was said that one of the Prime Evils themselves—Baal, Lord of Destruction—had been the cause, and if so, the mortal plane was in for far worse to come. The Worldstone had existed since time immemorial, created, so the teachings of Rathma said, to keep the mortal world protected. Now, both the powers of Light and Darkness reached out to fully claim humanity, and in their battles against one another the two cosmic factions threatened to destroy what they desired. Somehow, all that tied into Zayl’s own urge to come to Westmarch. Somewhere in this vast kingdom, the repercussions of Baal’s heinous deed would soon be felt.

  The only trouble was, he had no idea what to do next. Arriving in Westmarch was as far as his sense of urgency had brought him. Now, Zayl felt adrift, confused.

  If you cannot find the way, wait, and the way wi
ll find you. Rathma himself had supposedly said that, and from past experience Zayl had found it to be all too true a statement. Yet, despite his extensive training, he was finally growing impatient. If the Balance—and, therefore, all else—was in jeopardy, it behooved the way to find him, and quickly.

  He smelled before he saw the man suddenly standing beside his booth. The whiskered and capped figure looked as if he had been to sea much of his life and, from the scars and missing finger, a good part of that had probably been as a privateer. The mariner leaned over the table, obscuring Zayl’s view of all else, and looked the Rathmian up and down.

  “A friend of mine, he says that you be a necromancer …”

  “He is correct,” Zayl quickly returned, hoping that would end the conversation there and then.

  Alas, such was not to be. Bending so near that his breath came at the spellcaster in smothering waves, the westerner continued, “So these marks on your cloak …” He seized a portion near Zayl’s shoulder and pulled it up between them. Seen close, the symbols almost danced. “They’re all about death, then.”

  “They are about aspects of the mortality of life and that which follows after.”

  “Death.”

  “Among other things.” The necromancer had no wish to draw more attention to himself, but he could see this conversation coming to no good end. What intention did the man have—

  “Get your grubby fingers out of my eye!” bellowed a voice all too familiar to him.

  From somewhere behind Zayl, there was a gasp and a curse. They were followed by a thud and the same voice shouting, “Damn! I can’t stop myself! Zayl! Zayl, lad!”

  The man who had been speaking with the necromancer suddenly grabbed for Zayl’s throat.

  Zayl moved faster. The heel of his left hand barreled into the villain’s jaw, throwing the latter back. At the same time, the necromancer muttered a few words under his breath.

  The scarred mariner looked around the room in absolute panic. He pointed at an empty corner and gibbered, “By the Twin Seas! What is that beast?” His gaze shifted left. “Another! Demons! There’re demons everywhere!”