Then, he saw both the pattern’s meaning and the answer they desired. “No …”
“What does Rathma teach us, Zayl?” the woman insisted.
“Do not make me do this …”
“The lesson must be learned for you to take your place among us,” reverberated the faceless figure. “Strike the pattern, young one. Let loose the spell.”
The skeletal instructor raised one bony hand toward their student. “But first … you must answer the question.”
Zayl’s hand shook. He almost reached down with his empty one to wipe away the abomination he had drawn. But then, his teachings took over. He focused on the pattern, trying to see it clinically, not emotionally. They would expect him to do no less.
“Rathma teaches us that to use the Balance so”—he involuntarily swallowed—“will destroy our own focus, and, therefore, our souls. And if that should happen, we become the very threat that we seek to keep at bay.”
“A near enough answer,” proclaimed the woman. “Complete the spell, Zayl.”
Gritting his teeth, the student plunged the dagger into the center, burying the sacred blade to its hilt in the soft ground.
Utter silence filled the jungle … and then new howls tore through the air. They were not the cries of animals, but rather originated from another place, a place given opening into the mortal plane by Zayl’s pattern.
Ethereal wisps of energy burst from the center, rising up and swirling around the caster. Zayl’s hair and cloak rose as if electrified. Even the garments of the skeletal man and tattooed woman reacted, although their shadowed companion appeared untouched in even the slightest way.
Zayl watched the wisps wrap around him. His expression he managed to keep in check, but his eyes revealed a trace of deep, dark emotion.
Many of the wisps rose up into the jungle canopy, where they darted about. The howls turned to moans that sent shivers through Zayl’s body.
And then … two of the wisps returned to the student, spiraling about him before finally floating back over the pattern.
“Look at them,” commanded the hood.
Zayl would have preferred to keep his gaze anywhere else, but he obeyed. Even had the elder not ordered him, his own guilt would have made him look.
As he focused on the wisps, they briefly took on forms. Shadowed, barely glimpsed forms …
A man. A woman. Both with some distinct resemblance to him.
Zayl reached out to them, beseeching. “I did not mean for it to happen! I—”
The hooded form stretched an iron boot toward the pattern, obliterating the outer edge of Zayl’s design.
The howling and moaning ceased. The wisps vanished in an instant … the two before the young necromancer the last to fade.
Falling forward, Zayl cried, “No! Come back! Please—”
“Please!”
He jolted up, the vision still burnt into his memory. His body quivering, Zayl desperately looked around for the two.
But he was not back in the jungles of Kehjistan, not back at the moment when the gifts of Rathma had finally been become his in full.
Not back at the moment that his secret desire had been forever crushed by those who had been his mentors.
No, these were the quarters Zayl had been given by Salene Nesardo. He was across the Twin Seas, in Westmarch. The memories came flooding back … the inn, the thieves, the emanations from House Nesardo, the struggle against the crypt fiend.
But—there was a gap afterward. Something had been wrenched from his mind. Zayl put his hands to his head as he tried to focus—
And immediately he felt the cold touch of the right appendage.
“No …” The necromancer stared at the hand and its accusing fingers, its hellish aspect. What he had done to make it so went against Rathma’s teachings, but at the time, Zayl had not cared. It had been a necessary matter to him.
But Salene had seen it, and knowing that she had twisted his gut in a manner the necromancer had not experienced since … since his folly had slain the two most important people in his early life.
Mouth set, he looked over his shoulder. The skull of Humbart Wessel sat silent, but Zayl was not fooled.
“You cannot sleep, Humbart. Pretending otherwise is beneath you.”
“Nothing’s beneath me, lad, save this piece o’ furniture!”
The Rathmian slid off the bed. His muscles ached, but he ignored the inconvenience. “Spare me your witticisms. What happened in the crypts?”
“What didn’t?” The skull quickly told him the details, adding the flourishes the undead mercenary’s stories generally contained. Zayl bit back further retorts as he listened, his analytical mind piecing together the facts between Humbart’s exaggerations.
Polth’s death he already knew of, and although the children of Rathma were supposed to be above mourning—for was not death simply another state?—Zayl regretted the bodyguard’s sacrifice. Salene had one less protector, something the noblewoman could ill afford. She was entangled in a matter that stretched beyond the mortal plane and even beyond the realm of the dead. There was a foulness to this that disturbed the necromancer, a foulness he felt was tied in part to the destruction of the Worldstone.
The dark ones will be stirring, a jungle spirit had told him during a summoning he had made prior to sailing. Even the lost ones …
“She took your … handiwork well, lad,” Humbart belatedly added. “After the initial shock, of course. When I told her how you lost it—”
“You did what?”
“Easy, lad, easy! She’s a strong one, that girl is! Could be one of your kind, at least in terms of will! Understood right off what you were trying to do in Ureh and why you felt you had to fix that limb as best you could.”
The words did nothing to assuage Zayl. “And you told her what I—”
The skull’s brow ridge almost seemed to wrinkle. “Of course not! Some things should remain better unknown, or forgotten!”
“Yes …” Zayl’s head suddenly throbbed so much that he had to sit back. He breathed cautiously, letting his measured inhalations calm him. The throbbing subsided. “Did anything amiss happen while I was unconscious?”
“The lady had a visitor. I gather it was this Lord Jitan.”
That perked the necromancer’s interest. “Indeed? I wish I could have met him.”
Humbart snorted. “He certainly left her in an ill mood, I could tell that.”
Zayl would speak with Salene about the sinister noble when the next chance arose. For now, though, he had to recoup his strength and try to fill in the empty spaces in his memory.
“So,” interjected the skull. “Who’s this Karybdus character?”
“Karybdus?” The Rathmian eyed his undead companion. “What do you mean?”
“You were struggling even while out, lad. The only thing that seemed to finally bring you back was the lady. She’s got a gift on par with yours, I think, if only she’d know how to use it properly.”
Salene had done well enough at first down in the crypt. Still, instinct went only so far. What the noblewoman needed was proper training by a sorcerer. Not Zayl, of course, but someone whose area of expertise was more acceptable.
He returned to the subject at hand. “And this is when I mentioned … Karybdus?”
“Somewhere about there. So, who is he?”
Frowning, Zayl responded, “I have no idea.”
“And are you usually in the habit of mouthin’ names you don’t know? I’ve not noticed that since our partnership began, boy.”
“I am not.” The necromancer pondered the name again, rolling it over his tongue and tossing it about in his thoughts. Karybdus. It had a familiar ring, and yet nothing came to mind.
The holes in his memory …
“I said nothing more.”
“Wish I could tell you otherwise.”
Zayl filed away the name for later investigation. Perhaps Karybdus was a demon. Certainly that would explain much.
And yet …
Rising, he headed for the door.
“Where do you plan on going?”
“I need to return to the Nesardo crypt.”
“Not like that, you shouldn’t,” pointed out Humbart.
The necromancer paused to gaze down at himself. He wore only his pants, the one item the modest Salene had left him. And those were torn. His boots stood at the side of the bed, forgotten by him in his haste. It showed Zayl’s chaotic state of mind that he stood barefoot and all but unclothed, yet still ready to reenter the treacherous realm below. He had not even thought to take his dagger with him.
“I think you’d better sit down for a while still, lad.”
“I have no—” There was a tentative knock at the door. Without thinking, Zayl said, “Enter.”
The door swung open, and Salene stepped in. She took one look at Zayl and gasped.
The necromancer instinctively brought up his hands, belatedly realizing that he now presented his hostess with another good look at the right one.
Pulling it behind his back, he muttered, “Excuse my state, my lady.”
Salene had already turned away. “I thought I heard your voice, but I expected you to be in the bed. It was careless of me! I was just so relieved to know that you were conscious!”
Looking around, the Rathmian located the remains of his cloak. He draped it over his form, and despite its ragged condition, it helped ease his thoughts. “I was inconsiderate. You may look this way again.”
As she turned, he noticed a blush on her cheeks. Not accustomed to such reactions from women, the necromancer glanced at the bundle in her hands. “Clothing?”
“Your measure is near enough to Sardak that I dared have some garments ordered. Simple ones, but akin to what you wore. The cloak lacks the markings of your calling, but—”
He took the clothing from her. “But they will all do splendidly. I am in your debt.”
Her expression grew utterly serious. “Not in the least. Not after … all that.”
“I am sorry about Polth. I know that he meant much to you, as you did to him. Such loyalty is not bought with coin.”
“Polth’s father served my father.” Salene bowed her head. “As did his father before him. The Nesardo curse appears to be on his family as well, for he was the last of his line.”
Zayl considered. “If you would like, I could—”
His unfinished offer was quickly cut off by her gaze. “No. No more of that. Let Polth rest. Let my husband rest. It was more than a wasted effort … it was a costly one.”
“But not entirely without some knowledge learned. Tell me, does the name ‘Karybdus’ mean anything to you?”
“No … but it seemed as if it did for you, Master Zayl. You uttered it with some recognition.”
He nodded ruefully. “Yes, but that recognition seems to have escaped me in waking.”
She looked sympathetic. “With some more recuperation, perhaps.”
“Perhaps …”
“We can talk about this in a few minutes,” Salene insisted. “You must be famished.”
The unfamiliar rumble of hunger had made itself noticed, but Zayl considered such a mundane necessity the least of his concerns. Still, it would allow him to dress and give his hostess a moment’s respite. “Some broth will do.”
“You’ll eat more than that if I have a hand in it.” She turned away. “I’ll see to it immediately.”
“Lady Salene.” When the noblewoman looked back, Zayl continued, “You had a visit from Lord Jitan, I understand.”
“Yes.” Her expression indicated her deep distaste for the man.
“Should you find yourself in his company again, it would be best if you did not for any reason mention this Karybdus to him.”
“You think he would know who he is?”
The necromancer silently cursed, realizing that he had just put a notion in Salene’s head. “Please do not mention the name.”
She turned from him again. “I doubt I’ll be seeing Lord Jitan anytime soon, at least if I can help it. I’ll be back with something for you to eat.”
She closed the door behind her. Humbart chuckled darkly.
Zayl glared at him. “What jest so amuses you?”
“’Tis clear that Rathma teaches much, but obviously little when it comes to dealing with a woman … or maybe it’s just yourself.”
“She will listen. She is sensible.”
The fleshless head said nothing.
Beset by an unfamiliar sense of frustration, Zayl focused on dressing. Salene had found garments remarkably similar to his own, even the cloak. It lacked many of the inner pockets with which his previous one had been adorned, but the necromancer could add those when he had time.
One thing, however, could not wait. Unlike his previous cloak, this new one had not been made ready.
Spreading it across the bed, Zayl went to one of his pouches and removed a crimson candle. He gently centered the squat piece on the cloak, then, locating his tinderbox, lit the wick.
The moment it ignited, the oil lamps illuminating his room muted. Shadow fell upon the chamber. The flame from the candle rose strong, but its color was as red as blood and only served to add to the ominous aspect of the spell.
Zayl stretched forth his skeletal hand and touched the tip of the flame.
What sounded like a brief, angry whisper emanated from the candle. A small wisp of smoke rose above the bed. It writhed for several seconds, then slowly formed a murky mouth.
“Zayl …,” it rasped. As it spoke, there appeared brief glimpses of long, vicious teeth, also made of smoke.
“I have a demand of you, X’y’Laq.”
The smoky maw grinned. “A request. A wish.”
“A demand. You know what I hold over you.”
The spirit chuckled. “The candle grows shorter. Soon, it will not light.”
Zayl shrugged off this reminder. “I will worry about that when the time comes.”
“You should be worried about it always, human …”
From seemingly nowhere, the Rathmian’s left hand suddenly revealed his pale dagger. Zayl held it near the wick. “Until then, remember what I can do because of the binding.”
The arrogance went out of the spirit’s voice. “You have summoned me. What do you need?”
“As you did before with my previous cloak, do so with this one, but add to it the Scale of Trag’Oul…which you conveniently forgot the last time.”
The smoky mouth drifted downward, hovering inches above the cloak. “You did not specify. You must specify. Those are the rules …”
The dark-haired spellcaster waved off the excuse. “You knew what I wanted … but, yes, I should have been specific. The Scale of Trag’Oul here.” Zayl touched part of the hem. “The rest—all of the rest—just as they were on the other cloak. No deviations, no missing marks. Exact duplication.”
“You are learning well, Zayl human. May others of your ilk not be so swift to understanding.” The mouth grew broader. “I am ever hungry.”
“Do as I commanded. Now. I’ll waste no more of the wick on you.” To emphasize his point, Zayl touched the edge of the flame with the dagger’s tip.
What could best be described as a gasp escaped the entity. The mouth floated closer to the cloak. For a moment, nothing happened, but then suddenly the mouth inhaled sharply.
“No mistakes or lapses,” reminded Zayl.
X’y’Laq made no reply. Instead, the demonic mouth exhaled.
Small symbols composed of smoke issued forth, scattering over the cloak. Zayl’s practiced eye quickly surveyed each rune, noting shapes and nuances. On another level, he sensed each rune’s individual magic.
But the count was off. “All of them, X’y’Laq.”
“I merely paused to catch my breath,” the mouth quickly assured him. It exhaled again and two more tiny symbols fluttered out to join the rest.
Zayl looked them over one more time, finally nodding. No sooner had he done so
than the symbols dropped upon the hem and other specific places on the cloak, even those located underneath.
Zayl touched the garment, and the first of the runes crystallized. It flared a bright silver, then seemed to vanish from sight.
One after another, the rest of the symbols did the same. Zayl watched until he was certain that the last of them had become a part of the cloak, then at last pulled the dagger away from the wick.
“Rightly done.”
“Would I fail you?”
There was a knock on the door.
“Salene …,” Humbart somehow managed to hiss.
The mouth rose up, turning toward the door at the same time. “A female? Do invite her in. I want to see if she is soft and tender to the—”
The necromancer’s right hand caught the wick between two fingers and doused the flame.
With a snarl, X’y’Laq’s murky maw dissipated.
“A moment, please,” called the Rathmian. He seized the padded glove from where Salene had placed it. She had already seen the macabre appendage, but for some inexplicable reason Zayl believed that she would forget about it if, from this point forward, he kept it hidden. “Enter.”
However, it was not Salene who stepped inside, but rather Sardak. Sardak, looking very sober and very distrustful.
“The servant told me you were awake. Who were you talking to just now?” He peered past Zayl.
“That would be me!” piped up the skull.
Sardak barely batted an eye. Like his sister, he readily adapted to the bizarre. In some ways, perhaps the brother was even more comfortable with such than Salene. Drink could produce unsettling and horrific companions. “No, this voice sounded different … envious and with an insatiable appetite … for more than just food.”
“Was there something you required?” asked the necromancer.
Sardak shut the door. “Just a short, friendly talk before my darling sibling returns with your meal. I don’t like you or your kind, Master Zayl. You pry into things that no one should. The past is often better left to rest—”
“Agreed. Those of my order only do what must be done to preserve the Balance.”
Sardak gave him a mocking smile. “I’ve no idea what that means and I don’t really give a damn about it. What I do give a damn about, though, is Salene. That’s why I wanted to see you before she came back up.”
Diablo: Moon of the Spider Page 11
