Diablo: Moon of the Spider

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Then, would it not be best to simply get to the point?”

  “The point,” remarked Salene’s brother, casually stepping up to where Humbart lay, “is that there’re worse things than you hovering around her. My head’s finally clear enough to reach that conclusion … and one of those things rang a bell with me once I could think. A name mentioned once by a fellow drunkard. Salene’ll tell you I’ve got an awful good memory when I’ve not been dipping into the wine, ale, and all else. It’s actually one of the reasons I do drink. My memory’s too damned good. I can’t forget anything.”

  Zayl had met the likes of Sardak before and understood what some of those memories dealt with. However, such was not his concern at the moment. He had a suspicion he knew what name Sardak had heard. “This other man. He mentioned the name Karybdus?”

  Salene’s sibling leaned down to peer into Humbart’s eyeholes. To his credit, the skull kept silent. “Exactly the one! Just in passing, but with a rueful sort of tone. I can especially recall that name because it’s so damned unusual and ominous. Sounds like a chasm opening up under one’s feet, ready to swallow everything and everyone.”

  Oddly, his description stirred just such a sensation in the Rathmian. “And what else did he say?”

  Sardak suddenly took hold of Humbart and turned him to face the wall. The skull let out an inarticulate protest, which made Sardak chuckle.

  But as he faced Zayl again, the man’s expression lost all humor. “Nothing else, damn it. That was all. My friend, he looked guilty for having even muttered the name once. I never heard it again. Never drank with him again, for that matter.”

  And so, once again, Zayl was at a dead end. No, not entirely. If Sardak’s companion had brought up the name, then the odds were that it belonged to a man, not a demon. Still, in the necromancer’s experience, that made the situation no less threatening. The evil of men often outweighed that of the most cunning of demons. It was one reason why Hell so often eagerly enlisted their aid.

  “I thank you for telling me this.”

  “Didn’t do it for your hide. Did it for her and no other reason.” Sardak looked resentful, though Zayl had given him no reason to be.

  “You love her deeply.”

  “She’s my family! All of it. She’s been not only my sister, but my mother and, yes, even my father at times! I’d die for her and kill anyone I thought was trying to kill her!”

  Zayl nodded. “I believe you.”

  Sardak returned to the door. He exhaled deeply, then muttered, “Anyway, I thought that telling you I heard the name might help in some way. I don’t like you, but she trusts you, and she’s the better judge of character.”

  He had also come to vent at Zayl, not to mention warn him against betraying Salene. Nonetheless, the necromancer offered, “She trusts you, too.”

  For the first time, he caught Sardak off guard. “Yes … I suppose she does.”

  Zayl considered all that he had been told. One possible, albeit remote hope came to mind. “Your fellow drinker. Perhaps I could find him, learn more from him. Do you know his name or where he might be found?”

  “Oh, I know where he can most definitely be found, but you won’t be able to get there. They’d never let one of your kind in. That would cause all sorts of wonderful chaos!” The younger Nesardo snickered. “Almost be worth it … not that it could ever come about.”

  Zayl had sudden visions of himself trying to enter the Zakarum Church itself. Surely Sardak’s companion had been some worker or low-level acolyte for the brother to have such a reaction. “He is among the clergy, then?”

  “Good grief, no, although that would be humorous, too! No, Master Zayl, Edmun’s in an even more stifling place! He’s personal aide to our new, beloved king.”

  NINE

  It was a tradition among the Western Kingdoms that when a king died and his heir prepared to assume the throne, the great nobles of that realm gathered in the capital to pay homage to both and show support for the latter. The converging of so much political and military might was also supposed to be a sign of stability to the general populace.

  Some journeyed by winding caravans pulled by great, thick-coated horses or mules. Others came in single carriages, and not a few rode in with a detail of well-armed and wary mercenaries surrounding them. A hundred banners fluttered past the gates, something that made wealthy citizens and peasants alike marvel, for many of them had been born just before or during old Cornelius’s reign and so had never witnessed such a gathering.

  But those who began arriving in the city were of mixed intentions. Many came to praise the dead monarch, but also considered burying his successor with him. Others who came to offer their loyalty to Justinian IV did so halfheartedly.

  Still, for whatever reasons they came, the point was that they did.

  At least, that was the point to Aldric Jitan.

  The noble watched from the balcony of his hillside villa as the latest arrivals announced their appearance with trumpeting and much waving of their banners. Lord Jitan sniffed in disdain.

  “The red, orange, and blue pennant of Baron Charlemore,” he muttered. “One of the last, as usual. Display worthy of a peacock.” Aldric glanced over his shoulder into the darkened room. “There’ll be maybe seven or eight more, but that’s pretty much the lot. Are you any closer?”

  From within the darkness there came a brief glitter of pale, emerald light. In that moment of illumination, Karybdus was revealed. The steely-eyed Rathmian leaned over a table upon which charts of the stars lay. The intermittent flashes of light originated from a small, sharp crystal shaped like a carnivore’s tooth. Dangling from a silver chain, the crystal swung back and forth over the charts. On occasion, it would pause over some alignment, at which point would come the momentary glitter.

  “Patience is a virtue,” reminded Karybdus. “Especially for a ruler-to-be.”

  “But I can taste it even more now,” murmured Aldric, glancing once again at the baron’s arrival. “You said it would take place while they were all assembled here.”

  “And so it shall. All the signs remain constant. The Moon of the Spider is nearly upon us.”

  “About damned time! And what about that interfering fool? What about the other necromancer? You said he would be no trouble by this point!”

  Another brief flash revealed Karybdus’s expression momentarily shifting to resentment. “He is a resourceful one, but he enters the game ignorant of the rules and the players, not to mention the consequences.”

  Lord Jitan set one powerful hand on the hilt of his sword. “If we can’t use the sphere on him at this juncture and your own traps’ve failed, then maybe good steel would do the trick!”

  “If necessary.” The stone glittered one last time, then vanished from sight as the necromancer’s fingers enveloped it. A breath later, he appeared beside the noble. “It would be an ironic ending for him.”

  “What’s that mean? You speak like you know him well, sorcerer.”

  Karybdus shook his head slightly. “No, but his reputation—for one so young—is one of which I am aware. If he were not misguided, his feats might even be considered admirable.”

  “And he knows of you, too?”

  “He did, but that knowledge I have managed to block from his mind.” The armored necromancer straightened and, with a hint of pride, added, “He is, after all, only Zayl, while I am who I am.”

  Aldric gave a noncommittal grunt. “This Zayl’s still managing to be trouble, despite who you are.”

  “No more. We can proceed as planned.” Karybdus started back into the darkness, but the noble suddenly put a hand on his shoulder. Lord Jitan could not see the necromancer’s countenance from his angle, or else he might have thought twice about touching Karybdus so.

  “Remind me again just what you get out of all this, sorcerer. I know what I get—and well-deserved it is—but I’d like to hear that again, too, just to humor myself.”

  When Karybdus looked back, his expressio
n was that of the scholar once more, analytical and unemotional. His words came in a flat tone, as might have been used by one giving a lecture to students. “We who follow Rathma serve the Balance. The Balance is the All. Without it, the world would tip into anarchy, chaos. We strive to keep that from happening by bringing order.” He nodded toward Aldric. “You are a vessel of our work. Westmarch is in a time of flux. An iron hand is needed. You are needed to keep the Western Kingdoms from collapsing.”

  The tall noble smiled, susceptible like so many of his caste to flattery even when it was obviously such.

  “When you are ruler, there will be demands upon you that some would call vile, even evil. They will not understand the necessity of what you need to do. Sacrifices will have to be made, sacrifices that will, in the long run, benefit humanity. There will come a time when the name of Aldric will have after it such titles as ‘the Great,’ ‘the Far Seer,’ and ‘Champion of Mankind.’ ” Karybdus indicated himself. “As for me, my reward will be that I have served the Balance and my fellow man as best I could and kept back the tide of chaos by aiding in your ascension to the throne … which will not be long in coming now.”

  “No … it won’t,” agreed Aldric, gazing toward the ceiling. He saw his coronation. The adoring crowds would be cheering. The horns would be blaring. He looked further ahead and imagined himself at the head of a vast army—the Moon of the Spider held high in his gauntleted hand—charging down first on the forces of Khanduras, then Ensteig and, when those were his, the barbaric northern regions. Then, Aldric would turn his sights on legendary Lut Gholein.

  There would be order in the world … his order.

  And when he was certain that he no longer needed Karybdus, he would slit the necromancer’s throat. Aldric knew that the spellcaster was not telling him everything. Karybdus had ulterior motives in mind. The noble was certain of that. After all, he had them.

  “Oh, I forgot to mention. I have made another discovery, my lord. It will, I am pleased to say, speed up our task.”

  Breaking free of his reverie, Aldric eagerly looked at his companion. “What?”

  Karybdus pocketed the small green crystal. “We do not need the House of Nesardo after all.”

  “But—”

  The black-clad figure disappeared into the darkness. A frustrated Aldric Jitan followed after him. Despite his mismatched eyes quickly adapting to the lack of light, the noble could make out no sign of Karybdus.

  “The pit beneath would have been a prime location from where to do our work, but my search has revealed an even better place that lies without the city walls,” came the Rathmian’s voice from farther ahead.

  “Better than the original temple?” Aldric tried to think where he could draw forth the powers he sought to harness more reliably than in the place where the priests had raised up the monument to their lord. Tried and failed. “What is it?”

  A pale, ivory glow suddenly erupted in front of him. With a gasp, Lord Jitan backed up.

  Karybdus’s face appeared above the glow … a glow radiating from the Moon of the Spider. The arachnid design on the sphere seemed to pulsate in time with the noble’s rapid breathing.

  “The place where this was created. The place where last stood the Children of Astrogha after the slaughter of the faithful at the temple.”

  “But I thought that was the ruins where we found it!”

  The necromancer held the artifact closer, snaring Aldric’s gaze. Karybdus’s voice echoed in his head. “What we found was where the Vizjerei hid the Moon, hoping that it would never be found. They lacked the power to destroy it or that for which it had been created. No, the location which I have uncovered is far more relevant than either previous. It is a focus into a realm beyond …”

  “A realm beyond …” Lord Jitan tore his gaze away. “Then, we’ve no more need of that b—”

  “Oh, yes, we have much need of her,” cut in the necromancer. “The blood. Remember. The blood.”

  “Yes, I’d forgotten that. She has to die for it, doesn’t she?”

  The pale spellcaster handed the Moon of the Spider to Aldric. As the noble lovingly held it in his palms, Karybdus answered, “Most assuredly, my lord. Most assuredly.”

  Aldric caressed the artifact, his fingers stroking the arachnid as if it were a favored pet. “It wasn’t a problem for me before, sorcerer. I’ve not changed my mind now.”

  “Splendid.” Karybdus backed out of the light. “Then, there is nothing to worry about.”

  “Except this other Rathmian.”

  From the darkness came another sound, that of a large creature padding along the floor—or maybe the wall; Aldric could not say which. From Karybdus’s direction came an odd sound, the necromancer cooing as if to an infant.

  Then, “No, my lord. Zayl will not be a problem anymore. I have decided that the king will take care of him for us.”

  “That miserable—oh, you mean, Cornelius …”

  Again came the cooing sound, followed by the long hiss with which the noble was by now quite familiar but that ever unsettled him. “Yes, good Cornelius will deal with the blasphemer in Westmarch’s midst.”

  Zayl secluded himself in his chambers, drawing upon his training to regather his wits and strengthen his body. For hours, he sat motionless upon the floor next to his bed, reaching out to the innate forces inundating House Nesardo and learning from them.

  But when he determined that he could do no more where he was, the Rathmian decided that, despite the good Polth’s early warnings, it was time to step out into the city.

  Salene and even Sardak tried to talk him out of such a plan, warning that the Zakarum would look for the slightest excuse to toss him behind bars and try him for a heretic. Humbart, too, attempted to deter his friend, perhaps in great part because Zayl intended to go out on his own.

  “You’re looking for one man in a huge city, lad! One man! How many taverns of ill repute do you think there are? One? Two? More than likely a hundred, as I recall!”

  But all argued to no avail. Salene finally planted her hands on her hips and declared, “Then, if you plan to be so foolish, I will go with you so that someone knows where to lead you!”

  “If that’s the case, sister dear,” interjected Sardak, “it should be me. Who knows the haunts better?”

  Zayl cut both of them off. “My lady, you are already clearly a target of some force. Out among the populace, it would be impossible to keep you from harm, and, in the chaos, perhaps your brother or myself as well. You will remain here and I will set in place protections known only to those of my calling. As for you, Master Sardak, since the most important thing in your life is your sister, it would behoove you to stay here sober, not go from inn to inn, likely to fall prey to an ale or two … or three or four.”

  That Sardak did not take offense was certain indication that the Rathmian had appraised him correctly. As for Salene, she still fumed, but Zayl had put into her head the potential threat to anyone seen with her. While the necromancer knew that she was willing to risk herself, endangering others was not Salene’s way. He hated manipulating her so, but it was for her own good.

  “Please be careful, then,” the noblewoman said … and to his surprise, brushed her fingers against his cheek.

  With a brusque nod, Zayl quickly left the pair. Although his expression did not show it, Salene’s touch remained part of his attention for several minutes after. The necromancer was not used to such contact with outsiders, and would be happy when this matter came to a conclusion. Then, providing that he survived it, he could return to the comfort of the savage jungles of Kehjistan …

  The servants were only too happy to hasten his departure, the lanky Barnaby quickly opening the door for him. Two men in livery and cloaks dared the incessant storm to swing the outer gates aside, then, just as eagerly slammed them shut once Zayl was beyond.

  And so, peering from under his hood, the Rathmian got his first good glimpse of Westmarch.

  The Black Ram proved a fe
eble shadow of a structure in comparison to the row upon row of buildings stretching forth for as far as the eye could see. The first were, of course, great homes and estates like that of Nesardo, but Zayl, moving with the patience and determination of a swift jungle cat on the hunt, very soon entered one of the commercial districts. There, stone fronts marked elegant shops selling merchandise of all sorts, including items that the Rathmian recognized from his homeland. One or two especially caught his eye, clearly looted from sites he knew to be sacred.

  Inns of a more genteel nature also lined the cobblestone streets. Some of them had smartly clad guards with swords or other weapons, men whose job it was to keep the riffraff away. Music drifted out from the inns, some of it attractive to the necromancer’s trained ear, some so discordant that he wondered if deaf imps played it to torture some victim for the Prime Evils.

  Then, the Rathmian came upon a church of the Zakarum.

  Twin towers—one on each end—thrust up high above the rest of the nearby structures. They pierced the sky sharply, as if seeking to impale angels upon their tips. The roofs were of scaled tile, giving the great church—a cathedral, truly—a passing resemblance to some hunched-up dragon. The walls of both the towers and the main building were lined with intricate, stained glass windows likely twice as tall as Zayl. Each image was taken from the writings of the Church and to the Rathmian all had a dire look to them. There were fiery angels with gleaming swords, misshapen creatures fleeing a glowing priest, and world-sized beasts devouring unbelievers. It seemed that the Zakarum hierarchy had decided that the faithful always needed to be reminded of what happened to those who did not adhere to the faith exactly as preached.

  Four guards in the blood-red armor and capes of the Zakarum stood at attention by the massive wooden doorway. Soldiers of the Faith, they were called. Zealous in their duties, in their belief. They generally acted only as protectors of the most high in the Church.

  One visored guard peered his way, the man’s eyes and face completely obscured. Zayl kept his expression calm as he walked past, aware that he had been marked by the figure as someone much out of the ordinary and, therefore, of possible threat.