More likely to be a guest of the great General Torion …
For some reason, the more Salene thought about it, the more she believed such an outcome a very reasonable possibility. Torion controlled the city guards, and such an incident would have quickly drawn them. If the Church did not have Zayl—as her brief companion had clearly indicated—then, unless he was still roaming Westmarch, it was likely that one of his kind would have been brought directly to the general.
A part of her argued that there were many flaws in her conclusion, but that part was drowned out. Filled with a sudden determination, the noblewoman untied her horse and mounted. Torion’s sanctum—which served as both his headquarters and home—lay some distance away, but she had come this far already. Zayl deserved whatever help she could offer. Torion would listen to her …
As she urged the horse forward, a muffled voice growled, “Are we alone?”
“Yes, Humbart.”
“Are you all right, Lady Salene?”
She detected a concern in his words that had nothing to do with her search for the necromancer. “Of course!”
A pause. Then, “Where’re we riding to now?”
“General Torion’s, naturally.”
“And would you mind telling me why?”
His line of questioning made no sense to her. “Because, if the Zakarum didn’t capture Zayl, then it stands to reason that the city guards likely did.”
Again, there was a pause, one so long that at first Salene thought she had answered the skull’s queries. “What’s that about the Zakarum Church?”
Perturbed by his lack of understanding, she slowed the animal. After gazing around to see if anyone else was near enough to hear through the wind and rain, she said, “You heard everything he said about what happened in the tavern, didn’t you?”
“The tavern?” After a moment, Humbart added, “I didn’t hear a damned thing about any tavern, Lady Salene. Neither that nor anything at all about the Zakarum or General Torion, unless it came from your lips! It was a strange, one-sided conversation I heard, nothing more!”
Salene reined the horse to a complete stop. Shaking off some of the rain dripping down her hood, she brought the pouch close. Humbart’s fleshless countenance pressed against the material. “A man came out of the tavern! He talked about Zayl’s nearly being captured by the Church! You must’ve heard all of it!”
Even in the gloom, she could almost make out the eyeholes of the skull staring back through the fabric … and staring back, Salene imagined, in concern.
“You talked to no one that I could hear, sorry to say, my lady! All I heard was you talking to yourself …”
He had to be speaking nonsense. The man had been there, had even, in his own way, suggested Torion’s quarters as a possible place to find the necromancer.
Torion …
Letting the pouch settle back at her side, Salene urged the horse on again.
“Where’re you off to now, blast it?”
“The same place I was before,” she replied, steeling herself against any argument by the skull. “I’m going to see if Zayl is with Torion. That’s all that matters.”
The storm chose that moment to unleash a long rumble of thunder, drowning out any possible comment from Humbart.
Not that Salene would have listened, anyway.
“What am I to do with you, necromancer?”
It was not a question Zayl enjoyed hearing upon first waking up. Nor was the voice—a voice that he recognized—one which he welcomed.
The side of his head still pounded. Despite a tremendous urge to sleep until the pounding ceased, Zayl opened his eyes.
Sure enough, General Torion gazed down balefully upon him.
The Rathmian started to rise, only then realizing that he was chained to a wall.
“The officer in charge of the men who brought you in heard about your little display in the tavern. You’re damned lucky that he didn’t just gut you when no one was looking.”
Zayl managed to push himself up to a sitting position. As his head cleared, he became more aware of his surroundings … or lack thereof. He was a guest of one of Westmarch’s cells, a deeply buried one from what he sensed. The floor was dirt and straw, the latter much-used. The walls were ancient stone, so ancient that the necromancer could sense touches of magic Torion likely did not know existed. There were also haunted memories here, just as there had been under House Nesardo. Some spirits still lingered or were perhaps even imprisoned this place.
A dampness clung to the chamber. Moss covered the corners. The door was a thick iron plate with a bar that could be slid into a slot on the wall outside. A small grate toward the top of the door represented the only access to the world beyond the cell. The only light came from a square oil lamp that his captor held close.
“I ask you again: What am I going to do with you?”
“Release me?”
The corners of the general’s mouth rose ever so slightly. “The necromancer has a sense of humor. Will wonders never cease.” His expression darkened again. “Or perhaps you really think I can do that.”
“I have done nothing. I was the one attacked.”
“Not according to his majesty’s personal aide, Edmun Fairweather, and he has Justinian’s ear. Oh, and the Zakarum have their righteous bone to pick with you—but that should be no surprise to a necromancer, I suppose.”
Zayl met the commander’s steady gaze with one just as strong. “And what crime do they claim against me?”
“Blasphemy, naturally. Also casting evil spells upon guardians of the faith … and, no, self defense means nothing to them. They don’t like your kind, necromancer, and neither do I.”
“I see.”
Zayl’s flat reply seemed to stir something up within General Torion. “But I consider myself a fair man even to those I dislike. I’ve found no accountable crime, so I’ll do what I can to get you out of here. Be grateful my men happened along. If the Zakarum had gotten you, nothing could have freed you from them. They are their own law within their walls. Your present surroundings would have been a lot hotter. The Church believes in cleansing everything with fire.”
Turning from the prisoner, Torion knocked on the door. A moment later, a harried guard opened it for him. The general would have left without another word, but a matter of concern occurred to the Rathmian.
“General Torion! Salene must not be drawn in by the Zakarum or—”
He was stopped dead by the other man’s dire expression. “Don’t you tell me about any danger to the Lady Nesardo! You’re the one who’s risked her life simply by being in her company! You want to keep her safe? Don’t mention her name again! Better yet, forget you ever met her, necromancer!” After a pause, he added, “Oh, and don’t think we’ve forgotten your skills. This section was designed for your ilk. Your spells won’t work here. Go ahead and try; they all do. It’ll give you something to do while I try to save your miserable hide.”
With that, the tall soldier barged out of the cell. The anxious guard peeked inside at Zayl, then slammed the door shut. Zayl heard the bar slide into place … and then there was only a silent darkness.
They had taken his dagger and pouches, and if what Torion had said was true, they had removed the danger of his magic, too. Despite that, Zayl had every intention of trying to escape and believed that he had a very good chance. Necromancers were rare in the Western Kingdoms. If the cells had been warded against Vizjerei and their kind, it was possible that he might yet find his skills available.
It was certainly well worth the try. To depend upon the efforts of the general or the good mercy of the Zakarum was likely suicide. Even if it meant becoming a fugitive in Westmarch, Zayl felt it his best option. Besides, he had the very distinct suspicion that time was rapidly running out for everyone, especially Salene.
Muttering under his breath, Zayl called upon his dagger. No matter where it was, it would do its best to come to him. He focused on the piece, imagining its every facet to pe
rfection. His blood fueled it; it was as much a part of his body as his hand or heart.
And almost immediately, Zayl sensed its presence. The ritual blade was not that far from him, but something held it back. Perhaps he had underestimated the spellwork of which the general had spoken. The Rathmian concentrated harder, beads of sweat forming on his brow despite the chill of his surroundings.
Then, to his surprise, a murmuring reached his ears, a murmuring that at first he took as coming from the hall outside. Only after listening longer did the necromancer notice that, in fact, the murmuring originated from the very shadows of his chamber.
Something was in the cell with him.
As he stared into those shadows, Zayl intensified his efforts to summon the dagger. The murmuring grew. It came from every direction. The words were unintelligible, but the malevolence in their tone was unmistakable. There was a sense of incredible age …
There was also a dread familiarity to it, and it took the Rathmian a moment to recognize the growing presence as the same ancient force he had encountered at Salene’s home.
He began tugging hard at his chains, well aware how futile his efforts were.
The shadows took on the reddish touch of freshly spilled blood. Chanting arose, such as might be heard before a ritual sacrifice. Images came unbidden to the necromancer—twisted men and women wearing odd black headpieces and clad in cowled robes upon whose chest was the mark of a sinister arachnid. They wielded blades with serrated edges and before them writhed row upon row of helpless, brutalized victims.
Then, Zayl realized that what he had taken for headpieces were, in fact, the same sort of spiders that had controlled the creatures in the crypt.
He shook his head hard, trying to focus only on the dagger. The chanting filled his ears. To combat it and the foul visions, Zayl raised his own voice higher, repeating over and over the summoning spell.
Without warning, the cell door swung open and the guard who had peered in earlier stepped before him. One hand holding a lamp and the other resting on the pommel of his sheathed weapon, he leaned over the prisoner.
“Here now!” he growled. “Stop your babbling or I’ll cut your tongue out! Quiet, I say!”
Zayl did quiet, but only because he now stared in horror at what the lamp revealed of the surrounding walls.
A moistness dripped over the stone—the blood, he somehow knew, of those sacrificed in the visions. It spilled onto the floor and quickly spread toward the captive and his unsuspecting jailer.
“Get out of here!” urged the Rathmian. “Hurry, before it’s too late!”
“What’s gotten into you?” With the lamp, the guard followed his gaze. “’Fraid of a few spiderwebs or rats?”
He looked directly at the ever-growing bloodbath but clearly did not see anything. The guard even went so far as to take a step toward the far wall, inadvertently stepping into the edge of the macabre pool.
Satisfied that there was nothing, the man turned to face Zayl again.
As he did, out of the wall behind him oozed a pair of skeletal, ichor-bathed arms. Though they could not reach the guard, the twisted fingers grasped eagerly, hungrily …
Another pair of arms began emerging to the side of the first. Then another …
“For the sake of your life and your soul,” Zayl went on, unmindful of the other man’s darkening expression, “leave now!”
Brow furrowed, the guard peered over his shoulder and apparently still saw nothing.
But for Zayl, the walls now held a hundred or more pairs of clutching, grasping hands, and adding to the horror were fleshless, angry heads that to his higher senses screamed with the condemnation of those forever damned by their sacrifice to the twisted priests’ master.
The guard suddenly slapped Zayl across the face. “Don’t try your stunts on me, sorcerer! You’d best pray to whatever deity you serve, because when the Church takes you, they’ll—”
The monstrous, clawed hands could finally reach the unsuspecting soldier. As the man gaped in surprise and dawning horror, more than a dozen seized his arms, legs, throat, and torso.
And with one easy effort, ripped the hapless guard apart.
The skeletal hands flung gore-soaked body parts everywhere. The lantern crashed to the floor, falling on its side but still staying lit.
What was worse to Zayl than the physical carnage, however, was what he could see happening beyond the mortal plane. The guard’s soul—a wispy thing with some vague resemblance to the man—was still held prisoner by several hands. They mercilessly dragged the wide-eyed shade toward the wall, then threw it against the screaming skulls.
Like a swarm of the carnivorous river fish Zayl had once come across back in Kehjistan, the heads closed on the helpless soul, voraciously devouring it.
And when there was nothing left, they turned their monstrous attention back to the chained necromancer.
The pool of blood now reached Zayl, but instead of flowing around him, it climbed up his boots and clothing, pouring over the Rathmian as if intending to encase him. Zayl felt his legs stiffen. He kicked at the foul liquid, but it adhered to his body like tar. Worse, it was colder than ice, chilling him all the way to the bone.
Zayl could have called for help, but he knew that to do so would only condemn anyone foolish enough to come to a fate akin to that of the unfortunate guard. The Rathmian watched helplessly as the monstrous hands converged on him and the blood continued its surge over his body …
But when the skeletal appendages seized Zayl, they did not rend him to pieces. Instead, two tore his chains from the wall, removing the last thing preventing them from dragging him toward the mouths.
The skulls’ jaws opened wide and eager. The screams of the ancient dead and the chanting of their torturers filled his ears …
Zayl threw all his will into calling the blade.
It flew through the open door and landed in his grip even as he was dragged forward. Without hesitation, he twisted his hand around, severing the fleshless fingers holding his arm. As they fell away, the cloaked spellcaster cut at the foul crimson coating over the lower half of his body.
The chanting reached a crescendo, the cries becoming mere backdrop. A wave of icy wind made Zayl shiver. He looked up at the wall.
Another hungry skull formed, but this a gargantuan one that reached from the floor to the ceiling. It crowded out the others. When it opened its huge maw, Zayl saw that it was filled with webs upon which emaciated corpses lay. Each one looked as if it had been sucked dry.
Only then did the necromancer note that this skull had eight eyeholes.
Zayl muttered a spell. The dagger gleamed. He touched the blade against the fiendish hands, which released him as if burned by the weapon’s touch.
Hopeful, Zayl brought the dagger to the blood. The tide flowed backward, clearing from his torso and legs.
Eyeing the open door, the Rathmian rolled to the side—
From out of the grotesque maw shot a thick, white spray.
The spray covered Zayl from head to foot. It stuck to him as even the blood had not. The Rathmian struggled to cut his way free, but his very blade stuck.
In desperation, Zayl shouted, “Zi i Odyssian mentus—”
The huge skull inhaled, drawing in the web … and with it the necromancer.
A moment later, Zayl vanished into the black maw.
ELEVEN
Zayl plummeted through a vortex of maddening sounds. Screams, cries, laughter—they assailed his ears until he prayed that he would go deaf.
He continued to clutch the dagger tightly, well aware that it was all that stood between him and a fate far worse than any he could imagine. The ritual blade flared bright, but its comfort was minimal in this monstrous realm.
Then, without warning, the webbing vanished. The necromancer tumbled free—
And collided a moment later with a hard surface.
Zayl lay there stunned for a time, unable to do anything to defend himself. With each moment th
at passed, he expected to be torn apart, yet nothing happened.
Finally, with great effort, the Rathmian pushed himself to his feet.
Only then did he see that his garments had changed. He wore the robes of the men and women he had seen in the vision, the priests with the spider emblem on their chest and the unsettling headpieces.
Holy one, you must hurry …, rasped a voice from the grave. Strong hands seized the startled necromancer’s arms, guiding him over to what he now saw was a long stone walkway. The moon is in ascension. The sacrifice must be made and only you are permitted to do it.
“What?” Zayl glanced at the speaker, barely managing to bite back an exclamation when he saw him.
The man’s face was a decaying horror upon which countless tiny arachnids made their homes. Where webs did not cover the rotting green flesh, others spiders lunched on what remained of the muscle and sinew, sucking on it with vampiric gusto. One eye was turned in and dried, the other had long ago been devoured by the creatures.
Long strands of mite-ridden hair draped down the back of the skull. The robe was tattered and soiled and where it clung to the torso, gaunt ribs showed through the material. The hand that held Zayl’s arm was no better and everywhere upon the ghoulish priest the spiders crawled and crawled and crawled …
Atop his head, what Zayl had once assumed a headpiece stared back at him with baleful inhuman orbs.
A parasitic spider.
The necromancer instinctively pulled away, only to bump against another priest. This one was no better. In fact, his lower jaw hung to the side, the muscle on the left the only thing still holding it. He still had both eyes, but they were dry and yellow.
They have all been made ready for you, the second one said in a voice identical to the first. They are impatient to be sent to the arms of Astrogha!
Astrogha? The shade of Riordan Nesardo had spoken of an Astrogha. And had there been something about a moon then, too? Zayl tried to think, but the chanting returned, filling his head and crushing his thoughts. Zayl gripped the blade tighter, hoping to at least keep the voices within from driving him further to the edge.
Diablo: Moon of the Spider Page 14
