Diablo: Moon of the Spider

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Polth?” Salene took a step down, the glow matching her movement.

  The silhouette seemed to ripple … then shifted deeper into the crypt.

  Fascination and fear intermingled. Momentarily forgetting Captain Mattheus’s searchers, the noblewoman slowly wended her way down. Yet, no matter how far or how quickly she descended, the shadowy form ever remained just at the edge of her vision. Despite that, Salene was absolutely certain that it was her former bodyguard whom she saw.

  But Polth is dead! a part of the Lady Nesardo reminded herself. Nonetheless, Salene continued all the way to the base of the stairs.

  The glow matched her step by step. She could now see the first few vaults, but no longer any sign of the elusive shade. A small spider scuttled out of the light and Salene suddenly recalled with vividness the attack by the demonic creatures.

  Good sense returned. She backed up the last step. Better to wait in the alcove or, if she could, even leave the crypt entirely. She had made a mistake in coming here.

  Her hand slipped to her side, and only then did the Lady Nesardo discover yet another terrible mistake. She had left the pouch with Humbart outside. In fact, the more Salene thought of the voice she had heard, the more it seemed that it had been the dead mercenary calling to her. He had probably tried to alert her to her carelessness, but too late. The door had muffled his voice enough for her not to recognize it.

  Berating herself, Salene started up. If one of the soldiers did come out back to search the grounds and in the process discovered the pouch and its unsettling contents, even ancient custom and privilege might not be enough to keep Captain Mattheus from daring to enter the crypt.

  But as she took another step, a voice echoed in her head. Mistress …

  Salene hesitated. Biting her lip, she glanced over her shoulder.

  Mistress …

  The noblewoman stepped down. She saw nothing ahead of her, yet the voice seemed real enough.

  Mistress …

  She looked to her left.

  And there, half-lost in the shadows, dead Polth stared down at her. Despite his terrible demise, he now looked whole, albeit pale and somehow hollow.

  Reaching out tentatively, Salene whispered, “Dear Polth … is it you?”

  His head tipped forward, and although his lips remained set, she heard his voice again. I live … to serve you, mistress …

  There was no mockery in his tone despite the irony of what he had said. His eyes held a sadness, yet also a defiance.

  “Polth, dear Polth …” She started toward him, but the light followed and, as it did, the bodyguard’s form rippled and retreated. Polth seemed to exist neither in the dark nor the light, but only at the edge of both. Salene immediately halted. “What—why are you here?”

  I live … to serve you, mistress …, he repeated. One arm rose, pointing deeper into the darkness. The truth … there …

  “What—what are you talking about?”

  There … mistress … the truth … about Nesardo … and Jitan …

  Jitan! For this apparition of her loyal servant to mention the name of Aldric Jitan now meant that Polth had indeed discovered something most foul.

  Aware of what both Sardak and Zayl would think of her foolhardiness, Salene Nesardo followed the specter’s arm. The light continued to match her like a twin, unveiling more of the crypt as it went.

  She expected Polth to vanish, but instead, the figure continuously rippled wherever the edge of the light happened to be. No matter how many steps Salene took, the dead bodyguard was always the same distance at her left side. Despite what he now was, the noblewoman found herself taking a peculiar comfort from his presence.

  To her surprise, the bodies of the creatures who had attacked them still lay where they had fallen. Rats nibbling on the rotting carcasses looked up as the light fell upon them, but most did not retreat from their feasting. Salene eyed the corpses with more curiosity than revulsion. For some reason, she had expected them all to have vanished, as if they had only been nightmares. That they had not done so emphasized the danger she had faced, yet put a mortal touch to it. These creatures had died as men could die.

  As had Polth …

  Even as she thought the last, Salene walked past the spot where Polth had perished. Fortunately, there was nothing left to be seen. The Rathmian’s spell had been very thorough.

  Full of feeling, she looked at the shade. “Polth, can you ever forgive—”

  He silenced her with a shake of his head, then pointed ahead. The message was clear: Polth wanted her to continue on, no matter what. His own death meant less to him.

  She journeyed past Riordan’s vault and those of her parents. Soon, the names she could make out became ones only vaguely known to her, if at all. The style of markings grew archaic and cracks in the stone were common.

  At last, she came to the end of the vast crypt … and another set of ancient steps.

  “There?” she asked, indicating the path down to the next level.

  In reply, Polth pointed at the steps. His ability to speak seemed very limited. A tear came unbidden to Salene; she had heard tales of ghosts doing great things for those for whom they cared, but never had she thought she’d experience it firsthand.

  “I pray that you can go to your rest after this,” the Lady Nesardo muttered to her companion.

  Polth only continued to point down.

  With her ever-present light to illuminate the path ahead, Salene descended. A thick, moist air met her as she went from one level to the next. The noblewoman coughed, but did not stop.

  This level was not unknown to her. Servants who had shown deep loyalty and devotion to the Nesardo House were entombed here. While these vaults were not as elaborate as the ones of the family itself, they still represented an honor to those granted final rest here. Only a select few of each generation were allowed such a fate, and Salene had expected Polth to be one of them. Unfortunately, there existed nothing of him to put in the vault.

  But the specter seemed unmindful of the honor he would miss. When the noblewoman looked his way once more, all the giant did was point insistently down the vast hall.

  Moss covered many of the older vaults. Several no longer had legible name plates. As she wended her way through the crypt, Salene started to wonder if the honor would have been worthy of her bodyguard. Clearly, even before she had inherited House Nesardo, this level had been in need of cleaning and rebuilding.

  Then, the light floating ahead of her fell upon a sight that gave Salene pause and made her wonder at the worth of her entire trek.

  Rubble filled the rest of the chamber. The collapse was centuries old, but no less daunting. Mixed among the rock and earth were bits of carved stone and even fragments of bone. A slab that she finally identified as part of an upper floor jutted out of the top of the collapse.

  She knew the tale, of course. It had taken the Nesardos years to rebuild this part of their estate after the collapse from the tremor. They had concerned themselves most with the house above and the two levels of the crypt important to them. No one, it seemed, had been eager to dig out the older level. It had been said that some had even called the collapse a blessing.

  But what was the purpose behind leading her here? Did Polth think that she could float through solid rock?

  Salene thought then of the magic she wielded. Did she dare use it here and now? She glanced at Polth, but the shade merely stood there, as if waiting.

  There seemed no other choice but to attempt a spell, yet the would-be sorceress had no idea just how. All of her previous spells had come unconsciously, the results of reactions to potential or immediate threats.

  She stared at the vast mound of rubble. Perhaps if she tried something small at first, such as moving just a few small stones. Then, if that worked, a spell on a larger scale …

  Steeling herself, Salene moved closer.

  No …

  The ghost’s warning came too late. The rubble under her feet gave way … and a pit
opened up beneath her. Salene desperately grabbed for some hold, but everything she touched fell in with her.

  Screaming, the noblewoman vanished into the darkness below.

  THIRTEEN

  Zayl sat warily across from the wendigo, trying to decipher its thinking. The necromancer and the beast had not moved since first the latter had unexpectedly reached out not to tear the man apart, but to plead for his aid.

  The practical side of Zayl—generally the far more dominant side—insisted that he leave the wendigo to its fate. After all, it was a cursed monster, a creature who craved human flesh. It had become a thing of the Prime Evils, nothing more. It was beyond redemption.

  But a side with which the Rathmian was less familiar, an emotional side only recently stirred from a long slumber, pointed out that this beast was not acting at all as it should be. It reminded Zayl more of the ancient legends of the creature, when the wendigos and their cousins had been quiet, private beings of the forest and mountains.

  And so, after staring for more than an hour at his former pursuer, the necromancer rose to his feet and strode toward the injured giant.

  Meaty hands that could have torn him into bloody gobbets of flesh stayed lowered as he came within reach. Zayl bent down and touched one of those hands, which then cautiously turned palm up. The Rathmian murmured under his breath.

  In response, the wendigo grunted several times. Zayl could not understand what the beast sought to say, but the tone seemed one offering peace and trust.

  In darkness, there is light, even as in light, there is darkness. So Rathma preached. Zayl hoped that his ancient lord had been correct in that assumption.

  He turned to the wendigo’s leg, the cause of the creature’s distress. Sure enough, it was broken from the force of the explosion. Only the brute strength of the wendigo had enabled it to even rise at first.

  But that was not enough to explain the change in the furred giant’s persona. Somehow, the forces that Zayl had summoned had struck deep at the core of the wendigo’s heart and soul, wrenching from them the vile taint of the Prime Evils. It was the only explanation that made sense.

  The necromancer started to reach for the shattered leg, then took one last look into the beast’s eyes. His brow arched. Even in the dark, he could see the astonishing transformation in them. Gone were the blood-redness and insane fury; here now was a pair of orbs so very touching in their nearly-human grief.

  Those eyes decided it for him. The Rathmian touched his dagger to the area in question while his free hand drew symbols just above the leg.

  The wendigo let out a grunt. Its paw slid near the leg. Zayl glanced toward the huge hand, but did not falter. All that mattered was his spell.

  The wendigo withdrew its paw, leaving the necromancer to his task.

  A faint moonlight glow spread across the ruined limb. As it did, the leg straightened and the tears in the skin sealed themselves. The scars tightened, then completely faded. Even the fur returned.

  When he was done, Zayl let out a long gasp. It had not taken him much time, but the effort had been monumental. Still, the results pleased him.

  There was a loud grunt in his ear. The cloaked figure was suddenly lifted bodily into the air.

  Twice, the giant touched his moist black nose against Zayl’s. That done, the wendigo grunted in a longer, more elaborate fashion before setting its much smaller companion on the ground again.

  “You are welcome,” Zayl said, not knowing how else to respond.

  The giant figure grunted, seemingly better at understanding the human than the human did it.

  He expected the wendigo to rush off into the forest, but the giant instead let out another series of growls, all the while gesturing behind Zayl. The necromancer at first thought that perhaps another threat lurked in that direction, but gradually came to understand that the giant was pointed toward Westmarch.

  “Yes, I must go there.” The rain had let up—some, anyway—and although even Zayl’s training could not entirely keep his exhaustion and pain at bay, he had to continue on. However, as he started off, the wendigo fell in line behind him.

  The Rathmian peered back. “There is no need to come with me.”

  The wendigo’s response was another series of growls and grunts, some quite elegant despite being unintelligible. Their meaning was clear. The creature would not leave Zayl to fend for himself.

  “You owe me nothing. You may return to the forest.”

  His giant companion appeared undaunted.

  Zayl frowned, then, resigning himself to the inevitable, he turned from the wendigo and continued his trek. Behind him came the almost silent padding of thick feet. Compared with the wendigo’s footsteps, his own resounded like thunder.

  It took all of Zayl’s reserves to make the journey, but with the wendigo at his heels, the necromancer felt his confidence return. When at last he sighted the distant walls of the city, he exhaled deeply, not at all concerned at the moment about the fact that the inhabitants likely wanted his head as much as the demons of Ureh had.

  “Trag’Oul be praised.” Zayl looked over his shoulder for his furred companion. “The—”

  But, without warning, the wendigo had disappeared.

  The necromancer cautiously surveyed the dark forest. There was no sign that the legendary beast had even been with him. Zayl marveled at both the wendigo’s cunning and its ability to move in silence. He had been fortunate indeed to have escaped its initial attack.

  With the capital in view, the wendigo had rightly assumed that any obligation it had had to him had ended now. Zayl made the sign of the Balance, and wished the forest dweller a safe return to its den. The Rathmian had made of this creature an outcast among its own kind, for they were still tainted by the power of the Prime Evils. Zayl had not given his former adversary any true blessing; the lone wendigo would ever have to be at odds with the others.

  Yet, the beast had been grateful to be rid of the evil within, and the necromancer now reassured himself that, under the same circumstances, he would have felt the same.

  A slight lightening of the heavens was the only sign of the shift from night to day. The weather continued its foul course, driven, the necromancer sensed, by those powers gathering in and around the city. Powers possibly manipulated by the Lord Jitan and—and—

  And then, staring at Westmarch, the name “Karybdus” suddenly came to mind.

  Only … this time, Zayl remembered …

  Remembered … and gaped in horror at the knowledge once again flowing free through his mind.

  Salene pushed herself uncertainly to her feet. She had fallen a tremendous distance, far deeper than the third level to which she had assumed she was descending. By her own reckoning—which, at this point, she knew was questionable—the noblewoman had dropped the equivalent of three or four additional levels.

  Had it not been for her unpredictable abilities, Salene was certain that she would have perished. The rocks upon which she now lay were jagged, sharp. That she had only a few bruises was a miracle in itself.

  Stone and rubble lay scattered in every direction. The blue glow still floated near her, but its scope was limited and so her first glimpse of her surroundings beyond the area of the fall revealed little.

  Peering around, Salene saw no sign of Polth. Despite what had happened, she felt certain that there had been no treachery intended on his part. His shade had expected that the same reflexes that had saved her from the creatures in the crypt would protect her now.

  Salene wished that she had such confidence in herself.

  She stumbled forward, the glow accompanying her. For the first time, Salene became frustrated by its meager illumination. If it had been brighter, perhaps she would have seen that the area upon which she had been treading had been unstable. Certainly that would have saved her much trouble.

  Eyes fixing on the magical light, Salene concentrated. She wanted more. She wanted a light capable of illuminating whatever lay ahead so that she would not fall p
rey again.

  The glow obliged, swelling several times its previous size and radiating a light so bright that at first the Lady Nesardo had to shield her gaze in order to avoid being blinded.

  And when she dared look again, the sight before her caused the noblewoman to stumble back in shock.

  The small passage in which she stood ended only two yards ahead. Had she taken a single step more, Salene would have discovered that fact without the amplification of her light spell.

  But even then, she would not have beheld as much as a tenth of what lay beyond.

  The chamber stretched downward and around, forming a vast bowl. More amazing, filling that bowl was a huge amphitheater of stone benches in which hundreds could have sat without any crowding whatsoever. Despite its obvious age, the overall structure was all but intact. Other than dust, the only signs of the onslaught of time were cracks here and there in the benches and one section where the roof above had collapsed, crushing two rows to her right.

  Yet, as astounding as such a sight was, it paled against that which Salene made out at the far end of the ancient structure.

  The spider hung from a web of gold that covered the cavern wall. Its humongous body was composed of a black jade that glittered evilly in the glow. Each segmented leg was arched downward and ended in ruby talons.

  The head was at least as large as Salene herself and upon it was clustered eight sets of eight huge diamonds. The noblewoman averted her own eyes from the crystalline orbs, for there was something in their facets that made it seem that the spider stared back at her with great hunger.

  Finishing the image were a pair of golden fangs tipped with more crimson rubies.

  Vivid memories of the creatures in the crypt arose. Salene quickly looked around, but although there was no sign of any of the horrors, she wanted nothing more than to return to her home. Better to face the good Captain Mattheus than remain here any longer.

  Yet, instead of doing just that, the Lady Nesardo took a step down toward the amphitheater. She could not explain her actions even to herself. Her mind screamed for her to turn and run, but, somehow, the huge arachnid drew her closer despite her disgust and fear of it.