Diablo: Moon of the Spider

by Richard A. Knaak

  Sardak immediately stepped out of any possible path that the man might take in charging Zayl. Salene, on the other hand, stepped directly between the officer and his intended target. “Torion! You forget yourself, general!”

  His reaction was immediate. He released the sword and grimaced as if slapped in the face. The Rathmian had no trouble understanding why.

  Torion was deeply in love with Salene.

  “Salene,” began the soldier. “Do you know what this thing is? Do you know what depravities he commits in the graveyards and tombs of—”

  “Torion.”

  He quieted, but continued to glare daggers at the necromancer.

  The Rathmian’s hostess indicated him and said, “This is Zayl. He is here at my behest. I think you know why.”

  “That trouble with Lord Jitan? Salene, if you would just grant me the honor I’ve asked more than once—”

  “Fourteen times, by my count,” offered Sardak.

  For a brief moment, the general’s anger focused on the brother instead of Zayl. Then, “As I was saying, if you’d just grant that, this would no longer trouble you—”

  “Torion, Nesardo is my family, my legacy.” She said no more, clearly having explained her feelings often enough.

  Eyes again on the necromancer, Torion abruptly snarled, “If any evil befalls her and I can trace it to you, dog, I’ll have your head!”

  In response, Zayl only nodded.

  Before the encounter could become violent again, the noblewoman said, “Give the council my word of my support for Justinian. I believe him to be good for Westmarch. He lacks confidence mostly, Torion, and I think you can help him there.”

  “It’s good of you to say so.” He clutched tight the helmet, his face showing a different concern. “Salene, come see me if you need any help…and be wary around this grave robber.”

  “Torion—”

  Recalling himself, the general clicked his heels, bowing to her at the same time. He gave Sardak a cursory nod and utterly ignored Zayl as he departed.

  “That man has a taste for the dramatic entrance,” Salene’s brother concluded with some mirth. “I swear he timed it so as to arrive just after the stroke of the bell! I wonder if he had to wait outside for a while beforehand.”

  “Torion is a good man, Sardak.”

  “I doubt our friend here would think so. I was certain that he was going to cut out your heart, friend Zayl. Tell me, could you have put it back in afterward? I’m just curious—”

  “Sardak!”

  He made a fair imitation of the officer’s grand bow. “I think I’ve overstayed my own welcome. If you need me, sister dear, you know where to find me.”

  Salene did not look pleased. “Yes, the Hangman’s Noose. With that rabble. Be back before the time Zayl told us. If you’re not coming with the crypt, I’d at least like you near.”

  “Have I ever failed you?”

  The noblewoman kept her expression constant. “I’ll refrain from answering that.”

  With another chuckle, Sardak moved closer and kissed his sibling on the cheek. With a mocking nod to Zayl, he left the pair alone.

  “I’m so very sorry about both of them.” Salene shook her head. “If you’d rather forget tonight and leave Westmarch, I’d understand perfectly.”

  “I will be staying.”

  She brightened. “Thank you…”

  “It is not merely because of your request,” he told her bluntly. “There are matters that I myself am curious about.”

  “Of course. I should have remembered that those of your calling are not normally found this far west in the first place unless it’s on some important matter.”

  “No, we are not.” Zayl found himself wishing that such was not the case. It would have been good if he could have found another of Rathma’s servants. He would have liked to have conferred with someone else fluent in such matters in order to assure himself that he had not missed anything.

  But it was too late to concern himself about that. The hour was fast approaching and he had much more to do.

  “Can I be of any help to you at all, Zayl?”

  There was one way, but he had been loath to ask. It was the first thing that might make her begin to regret having asked a necromancer for aid. Yet, it had to be done.

  “If I may be so bold…I will need some of your blood, my lady.”

  “My blood?” For just the briefest of moments, her eyes reflected what he had feared. Then, Salene pulled herself together again. “Of course.” She stretched forth one smooth hand, turning it so the wrist was up. “Take what you need.”

  “Only a drop or two,” the Rathmian clarified, impressed by her willingness to trust him even in this. “You are kin to Riordan, however distant. Your blood will help call him. I would have perhaps asked your brother—”

  “Better that you didn’t. I’m willing, Master Zayl. Take it.”

  “There is no need to stand. I would prefer if you would sit, my lady. Please.” To emphasize his desire for her to be relaxed, the necromancer held the nearest chair for her.

  “You are a gentleman,” she replied with a smile, seating herself. “Thank you.”

  An unfamiliar emotion coursed through Zayl. He quickly immersed himself in the task at hand, taking from his belt the dagger and from a small pouch next to it a tiny, smoke-colored glass vial. Removing the glove from his left hand, the Rathmian began muttering to himself and tracing a pattern before his hostess.

  Fascination filled Salene’s face. She said nothing, made no move. When Zayl brought the point of the dagger to her palm, the noblewoman purposely held her breath, which further steadied her hand for the act.

  Zayl pricked her palm.

  Blood pooled over the opening, but only for a moment. Defying the natural laws, it started coursing up the side of the blade, coloring it crimson.

  When Zayl saw that he had what he needed, he pulled the dagger up. Then, drawing another pattern over Salene’s palm, he sealed the wound.

  “You healed it…,” she whispered, touching the spot and finding no trace of the jab. “I didn’t think—”

  “We are servants of the Balance. If we are to understand death and its repercussions, then we must know something about life and its healing processes. There are limits, though.”

  As he talked, he maneuvered the tip of the blade over the minute bottle. Muttering under his breath, the necromancer released the blood. Zayl watched in satisfaction as every single drop fell into the container. When he was finished, the dagger was spotless.

  Laying the tool to the side, the hooded figure stoppered the bottle. He looked up at Salene…and hesitated. Framed by her rich, red hair, the perfection of her features caught him by surprise.

  “Why do you do that?” the noblewoman asked.

  At first he thought that she meant his staring. Her eyes, however, looked not at him…but rather at his right hand.

  “Why do you never take your glove off that one?” Salene pressed. “Always your left hand, but never your right. Never both.”

  She was observant…too observant. “A matter of form among those of my calling,” he lied. Zayl slipped on his other glove, then put the bottle in the pouch. “If you will forgive me, my lady, I will need to continue the rest of my work in private.”

  Salene nodded, but her eyes lingered on the right hand. The necromancer shifted so as to remove it from her sight and then, with a courteous bow, left her sitting alone.

  But not very alone. Polth stood just outside the room, the giant bodyguard eyeing Zayl speculatively. He had clearly been nearby all the time, although even the Rathmian had not noticed him.

  “She trusts you, Master Zayl. You should know: That is much coming from her.”

  “I will endeavor to do what I can, Polth, but I promise nothing.”

  “Except that you’ll not cause her harm.” Polth’s expression warned the necromancer of the danger he’d risk should he fail in that regard.

  Zayl nodded once, the
n started past the bodyguard, only to have Polth’s thick arm bar the way.

  “One thing more, Rathmian. It would be good to stay inside. Friends I have who say the Zakarum are asking about black-dressed strangers with the look of grave robbers. They speak the words ‘heretic’ and ‘desecrator,’ and fire is mentioned in regard to both.”

  The news did not surprise Zayl. The Church ever found whatever excuse it could to hunt down the Rathmians. Still, he accepted Polth’s warning gratefully. The bodyguard could have just as easily kept such news to himself and then, once Zayl had done his work, allowed the necromancer to walk into the hands of the inquisitors.

  “I will remember, Polth.”

  “I’ll be with the mistress this evening, too,” the giant added. “Just to make certain.”

  “Of course.”

  Polth finally let him pass, but as Zayl headed toward his quarters, he sensed the man’s gaze follow him long after he had stepped out of sight.

  “Where’ve you been?” snapped Aldric. “I’ve gotten nowhere with this thing!”

  Lord Jitan angrily waved the Moon of the Spider about as if it were little more than a trinket he had picked up in the market square. For all the wonder that he sensed within it, it might as well have been a painted rock. Everything he had done had come to naught. Not an iota of power had the noble wrested from the artifact.

  “There were matters to attend to, my lord,” replied Karybdus solemnly. “Besides, the night in question is not yet upon us. You must be patient.”

  “But you promised that even before that I’d be able to draw from the forces contained in this thing! So far, I’ve received nothing!”

  “You are unschooled in the arts, Lord Jitan, and so seek to take with the equivalent of a hammer what can be yours with a simple twist of the key…”

  “Spare me your poetic words, sorcerer! Show me!”

  Karybdus looked about the chamber. Six men-at-arms stood guard in what had once been the library of the House of Jitan. High wooden shelves lining three of the walls bespoke a wide collection of tomes and parchments, but the shelves were now empty, even dust-laden. In the course of his obsession, the aristocrat had thrown out any writing that had not aided him, the result of which had been the loss of several rare works on other subjects. Karybdus ever hid his frustration with Aldric for this heinous act, aware that his overall goals would only be met by giving his host what he wished.

  For all his imposing appearance, Lord Jitan sat dwarfed by the huge oak table filling much of the library. The polished, rectangular piece of furniture had four legs shaped like those of a dragon, down to taloned paws clutching spheres. Parchments lay scattered over the table, the wasted efforts of Aldric’s magical spells.

  Karybdus had known that his host would fail, but had deigned not to mention that fact. Everything had to work as the Rathmian planned, else his attempt to reorient the Balance would go awry and the world would slip further into calamity.

  But it was now time to show Lord Aldric Jitan a taste of what he sought. Karybdus studied the six men standing so attentively. His senses probed deep, analyzing their psyches. Yes, they would do nicely. They contained the necessary ferocity within. It only needed to be called forth.

  “It is very simple, my lord.” Karybdus signaled for the guard by the door to shut it, then strode toward the noble. “Set the artifact squarely in your palms.” The necromancer came around the table, stopping just behind Aldric. He leaned forward in order to whisper in Lord Jitan’s ear. “The men here have served you well. They can serve you better through the Moon of the Spider…”

  The noble listened as Karybdus explained what he needed to do. At first, Aldric looked unsettled, but his expression quickly shifted to one of eager anticipation.

  The Rathmian stepped back the moment that he finished. Aldric gazed up at his loyal followers, summoning them around the table with but a glance. Long in the service of the Lord Jitan, they silently obeyed. None of them were aware of what had taken place in the ruins.

  Aldric focused on the arachnid pattern, his thoughts mentally caressing each limb and outlining the body. As he stared, the shape seemed to move of its own accord. The legs stretched languidly, as if the spider within stirred to waking. Two bright, red flashes—eyes—looked back at the noble, who grinned.

  Without warning, the spider abandoned its position. Yet, in its wake, the shadowy form left a copy of itself. No sooner had the first moved away than the second followed suit. It also left in its wake a duplicate…and that, too, moved on.

  Aldric gradually realized that, with the exception of Karybdus, none of those around him saw this astonishing magic. He almost said something, but the necromancer was suddenly there at his ear again.

  “The Blessing of Astrogha is yours to bestow, my lord…”

  The spiders now stood poised atop both the sphere and Lord Jitan’s hands. Curiously, Aldric felt no repulsion from their touch. He gazed at the shadowy arachnids, then focused.

  Each spider leapt up into the air toward one of his followers.

  Only at the last did the men appear to notice the creatures, far too late for any of them to do anything but scream as the arachnids, growing larger as they flew, landed atop their heads.

  With rasping hisses, the blood-eyed spiders sank their legs into the skulls of their victims.

  The six stricken guards teetered back, some clutching in vain at the horrors on them, others simply trying to escape. None, however, made it farther than a few steps before falling to their hands and knees.

  Animalistic howls erupted from their lips. A transformation seized hold of each of Aldric’s chosen. Their backs began to arch and thicken. Legs grew wiry and feet all but disappeared. Their arms stretched and narrowed and their hands became splayed paws, but paws still able to grasp and ending in sharp nails designed for scoring flesh. In their frenzy, they began rending their garments, ripping off cloth and armor with equal ease and flinging everything about the chamber with wild abandon. Nothing, however, came within range of either Lord Jitan or Karybdus, the necromancer discreetly deflecting all.

  Then, from their chests, the two lower ribs on each side burst free. The mutated men howled anew as blood and ichor spilled on the floor. But the wounds quickly healed and the twisting ribs, now covered in flesh of their own, began sprouting thin, misshapen claws designed for both walking and climbing. The new limbs grew and grew until they were as long as the others, their claws finally slapping hard against the stone floor.

  At the same time, a coarse black fur sprouted over each man’s face and form. Features contorted, stretching and reshaping. The ears and noses shriveled away and, as Aldric Jitan continued to watch in fascination, the eyes split apart over and over, clustering together like grapes in two macabre groups. Although the eyes—all the eyes—remained fairly human in appearance, save that both the whites and pupils were now all blood-red, they glared without any compassion or sanity.

  As one, the six transformed figures hissed, revealing sharp, yellowed fangs dripping with venom.

  And atop the head of each new horror, a spider continued to cling tight. Their red eyes focused on Aldric and the six things that had once been men suddenly quieted. As one, they turned to the smiling noble…and knelt.

  They were spiders, huge spiders…but they still remained men of a sort. Spiders, men…and something primal that the noble could not identify…not that he truly cared. “Incredible…”

  “They have become the Children of Astrogha, who once numbered thousands,” explained the necromancer as if reciting to a class on history. “Mortals blessed with his favor, his likeness.”

  The Children of Astrogha bobbed up and down on their four back limbs. The other four appendages constantly opened and closed, as if in eagerness to do Aldric’s bidding.

  “Your enemies are doomed, my lord,” Karybdus murmured close. “The Children serve unquestioningly the master of the sphere. You should know, to wield this much of the Moon’s power even before the co
ming of the Convergence is a sure sign of your right to the legacy it holds. All that you dream, all that you would claim, will be yours, mark me.”

  “All of it…,” agreed Aldric, eyeing those who had once served him loyally as men and now would do so as both less and more.

  “And with that in mind,” Karybdus continued, “there is a task at hand. One of your enemies has made himself known, and he strikes at the heart of your hopes and desires…”

  Aldric leapt to his feet, mouth curled in fury. “What do you mean?”

  The Rathmian’s expression remained impassive. “He is in the House of Nesardo, with the Lady Salene.”

  Immediately, Lord Jitan’s baleful gaze turned to the monsters that had once been men.

  Karybdus nodded. “Exactly as I was thinking, my lord…”

  FIVE

  As evening neared, a violent storm swept over the city, the worst of it finally centering over House Nesardo. There, the tempest appeared to stall, as if a plant setting down roots. It raged and raged, with no sign of lessening.

  There always seem to be storms, Zayl thought as thunder once again racked the building. Yet, rain is no more evil than the sun or moon. It is only that those who work dark deeds who prefer to cloak their evil with it.

  He took the thought to heart as he readied himself for his spellwork. Zayl had the sample of blood from Salene and the tools he would need for drawing up the pattern. She, in turn, promised to bring with her three items of close personal value to the late Riordan.

  All they needed to do now was to descend into the crypt.

  With Humbart in the pouch, the Rathmian returned to the main corridor downstairs. Salene already awaited him there. Polth, a lit lamp in one hand, stood protectively behind her. The Lady Nesardo wore reasonable attire for journeying below the earth, a riding outfit with green pants and leather boots She wore a similar-colored cotton blouse, over which was buttoned a black leather vest. A matching belt with a small, sheathed dagger completed her ensemble.