Diablo: Moon of the Spider

by Richard A. Knaak

  Justinian’s eyes—his well-focused and now no longer watery eyes—bore into Torion’s. “Isn’t that exactly how my father worked? As much as he trusted in you, he always had other sources of information.”

  “That’s true, your majesty. Yes, there’s a necromancer in the city. A pale, dark-haired knave known only as Zayl. He was captured in an altercation involving the Zakarum—”

  “Who had already petitioned me about gaining custody of this Zayl when the tragic escape took place, as I understand it. The petition caught me by surprise, Torion.”

  The general adjusted his collar. “I was about to inform you when the chaos broke out. To be honest—Justinian—Zayl escaped one of the nullified cells set up by your father for just his type.”

  “No, not quite.” The young king glanced to the side, then, pursing his lips, explained, “He’s a necromancer. They’re different from the Vizjerei. There would’ve needed to be some other spells on the cell. That was a glaring oversight.” He waved his hand at the officer. “But that’s neither here nor there. I certainly don’t blame you.”

  “Nevertheless, the fault reaches to me.”

  “Forget that. If you feel you’ve failed me, you can remedy it by catching him again. Then, this time, I want this Zayl brought directly to me.”

  General Torion gaped. All the sense that he had thought Justinian had suddenly gained seemed to have vanished in an instant. “That would hardly be wise! With his dark powers—”

  Justinian patted his chest, where something under his shirt jingled. Only then did his companion notice that the new ruler of Westmarch wore a black chain around his neck. “Don’t fear. I am protected.”

  “What—,” Torion began, only to be cut off again by Justinian.

  “And how have the preparations gone?” the king asked without warning. “Everything should be done by now, I imagine. The men pulled from the walls, et cetera.”

  “It’s all accomplished. I had the last contingent withdrawn this morning.”

  “They’re all getting their rest? They’ll be fit for when I need them?”

  The veteran commander nodded. “As per your instructions. They’ll be at their sharpest come the display. I’ll stake my life on that.”

  “Let us hope that it doesn’t come to that.” Frowning slightly, Justinian rose. “That leaves just the necromancer. See that he’s caught, Torion. It’s vital to everything. Absolutely everything.”

  “He’s trouble, surely, but hardly that.”

  The heir’s eyes snared his again. “Just see that you bring him to me.”

  Under that startling gaze, Torion could do nothing but nod once more.

  Justinian’s mood became jovial again. Coming around the desk, he slapped the officer on the back. “Good old Torion! I know I can count on you! I’ve always counted on you! Farewell!”

  General Torion quickly opened the door for his monarch. After Justinian had gone, he simply stood there, trying to assimilate everything that had just happened.

  In the end, though, it all came down to the fact that Justinian was his king now and Justinian wanted Zayl brought to him. So long as Torion could keep Salene out of the situation, that was fine with him. Of course, if Captain Mattheus did have to kill the Rathmian during the course of the capture, the general would make his apologies to his monarch. Justinian would surely understand.

  And if Zayl was brought back alive, Torion would be the first to volunteer to act as executioner. He gripped the hilt of his sword, imagining the necromancer’s head rolling free.

  Salene would eventually understand …

  Karybdus.

  As Zayl planted himself against a wall—the better to escape the searching glance of a guard above—his mind still reeled from the immense implications presented by his recovered memories.

  Karybdus. Legendary even among the reclusive Rathmians. His deeds were used as examples of the ultimate dedication to the Balance, of the strict adherence to Trag’Oul and the teachings of Rathma himself.

  He was the one who had nearly slain Zayl?

  It was too much to believe, yet, the truth was there. Zayl had touched the other’s thoughts just as Karybdus surely had his. They had never met, not to the younger Rathmian’s knowledge, but he had sensed that Karybdus had recognized him as well. Some of Zayl’s feats had been spoken of by his fellow Rathmians, he knew, yet to think that the greatest of their order was aware of who he was—

  Stop that! Zayl bitterly commanded himself. His admiration for everything that Karybdus had accomplished in the past had nearly made him forget the terrible threat such an adversary posed. Who knew better how Zayl worked than another necromancer? Karybdus as an ally would have been a tremendous relief; Karybdus as a foe … Such a scenario meant that Zayl’s chances of surviving were nearly nonexistent.

  He crept around a corner, eyeing the street that would bring him within view of House Nesardo. Even with guards keeping watch on it, the Rathmian doubted that he would have any trouble gaining entrance without them realizing it. Zayl had to find out how Salene fared. Only after assuring himself of her safety could Zayl concentrate on dealing with one whose skills and knowledge were a thousandfold greater than his own.

  But what could have caused Karybdus to be involved in something that went so much against the teachings of the sect? In the course of his life, the older necromancer had battled tyrants, spellcasters, and demons foul in his quest to maintain the Balance. It was Karybdus who had perfected many of the spells Zayl and others were taught. Where, because of their calling, Rathmians often perished before their time, Karybdus was known to be over a hundred, his stamina and life fueled by a drive to see the world in ultimate balance. There were many, Zayl included, who believed that Karybdus had all but reached the perfection of Rathma himself.

  There had to be some dire explanation for this monstrous travesty, and Zayl could think of only one. Karybdus had faced many foes wielding terrible powers. Several of the tales concerning those struggles had spoken of his utilizing the life-tap in manners of which other necromancers could barely even conceive.

  But there was always a dread danger to using the spell so often. As with the crypt fiend that Zayl had faced, Karybdus had risked taking in some aspect of each of his multitude of adversaries. Perhaps no single one had affected him, but the accumulation of such evil had evidently finally taken its toll. Eventually and without his knowing it, Karybdus had become the very menace that he had been fighting.

  This revelation shook Zayl as he peered through the rain at Salene’s estate. It meant that each Rathmian had to take more care than they realized; few had the tremendous will power that Karybdus was said to have. Simply fighting the crypt fiend might have been enough to turn Zayl, had he taken in just a little more …

  He momentarily pushed aside all such horrific notions as he watched a soldier pass within a few yards of the estate. The armored figure looked as if he was simply on watch, but his pace was too slow and measured.

  The shadows were a Rathmian’s friend—at least, most of the time. Necromancers knew how to mask themselves in shadows seemingly too pale or narrow for any creature to hide within. The Rathmian now blended into the darkness; even had the soldier looked his way, Zayl would have been impossible to see.

  By the time the armored figure was halfway back to his original position, the hooded spellcaster already stood within the grounds of Nesardo. He paused behind a tree to watch two of Salene’s own guards make their rounds. While they were loyal to her, he suspected that it would not be a good thing if they saw him. It was very likely they would think that the better part of protecting their mistress would be to remove the threat at her side.

  Once the path was clear, Zayl moved on to the house. There were lights in some of the windows above, where she and her brother had their quarters. Zayl studied the windows for a moment, deciphering which ones belonged to Salene’s quarters … then vanished back into the shadows once more.

  Sardak poured himself a drink fr
om his private stock, and although his hand did not shake, he was as anxious as could be. He had the feeling that this night, already fraught with troubles, would become only more complicated as it went on.

  “Sardak Nesardo …”

  His hand flinched and the glass in it cracked audibly. He looked to the shadows … and his surprise gave way to bitterness at the figure materializing like a nightmare from their midst.

  “So! The necromancer! Might’ve known that you’d be skulking in corners like that! Very nice trick! Can you do it at the festival next month? Should go over quite well!”

  “Spare me further jests, Sardak,” Zayl retorted, his level tone belied by a slight darkening of his expression. “I have been to my quarters, then to your sister’s—”

  “Now that is ungentlemanly.” Sardak took a silk cloth from his pocket and wrapped it around the cuts in his palm. “No bits in the flesh, thank you very much.” He peered at the necromancer. “You want to know where my sister is? My precious sister? My sister who’s risked herself just for you?”

  “Sardak—”

  Salene’s brother took a wild swing at Zayl. The latter easily shifted just out of reach.

  “She went to the crypts, damn it! She didn’t want to be found by the good Captain Mattheus—he works for Torion and he’s got a nose like a bloodhound! She went down there mostly for you and hasn’t come up yet!”

  “The crypts?” Zayl did not bother to hide his consternation. “And after she was gone for too long, you did not go after her?”

  “You think I didn’t want to? Right now, stationed by the entrance to the lower levels, are a pair of Captain Mattheus’s men. He set them there, then went back to get permission to search below. Even the Zakarum frown on such desecration, but for you I’m sure everyone would make an exception.”

  Zayl turned toward the door. “Come with me, if you wish.”

  “Come with you? Where?”

  “To the crypts, of course. To your sister.”

  Despite himself, Sardak started to follow. “But the guards at the entrance—”

  Zayl glanced back at him. Sardak shut his mouth. His eyes narrowed in determination.

  “Give me time to grab my sword. That’s all I ask.”

  The necromancer nodded.

  The two soldiers left by Captain Mattheus were able men whom the adjutant trusted with his life. They performed their duty with the same precision he did and, although they did not know it, both were being groomed for promotion.

  But to Zayl, they were merely a momentary impediment. The spell which he cast was a variation of the blindness that had overcome the Zakarum. In this case, however, the men were not aware that their vision was impaired—nor, for that matter, that their hearing was as well.

  Thus it was that Zayl and Sardak—the latter holding an unlit torch—walked directly up to the duo, who grimly stood guard even as the necromancer and his companion came within a hair’s breadth of them. When Zayl opened the way, the sentries did not even flinch.

  Only after they had shut the doors behind, lit the torch, and gone down the corridor did Sardak finally blurt, “Damn, but I want to learn that spell! Could’ve saved myself a couple of bad scrapes in the past! Can you teach me?”

  “Yes, but you will first have to take an oath to Rathma, give up drinking to excess, and—”

  “Never mind!” Salene’s brother responded, snorting. “You lost me forever at the drinking part. I’ll just suffer along as usual …”

  They wended their way through the old dungeons, where Zayl was again assailed by the tortured memories left by their former occupants. This time, he immediately shut them out.

  “Damn, but I hate those voices,” murmured his companion.

  This surprised Zayl. “I did not know that you heard them so clearly.”

  “I don’t tell Salene everything; why should I tell you?”

  Sardak was clearly more magically sensitive than he had let on. Almost as much so as Salene. Zayl would have liked to have asked him more, but at that moment, a low, almost inaudible sound reached his trained ears. Unlike before, it was not the murmur or wail of a long-dead prisoner.

  It was humming … and the Rathmian recognized the tune.

  “Humbart?” he called.

  The humming ceased and from the corridor ahead came, “Zayl! Lad! Praise be!”

  Turning the corner, they faced the true doorway to the crypts. It was shut tight, but below it lay a large, dark pouch containing an object the size of a melon—or a head.

  Zayl plucked the pouch from the floor, then opened it.

  The skull’s empty eye sockets stared at him with what seemed glee.

  “Thought I’d be lost down here forever, I did,” the hollow voice declared. “Expected the guards to come looking for you and her, but they never did! Of course, if they had and found me, likely the damned fools would’ve thought I belonged down in the crypt and put me back there! Ha! Can you imagine those old bones being any good company?”

  “Quiet, Humbart! What about Salene? What happened?”

  “Girl was terribly distracted, lad. The lady put me down, then went inside without me! I tried callin’ to her, but she either didn’t hear me or paid me no mind! ’Course, after she froze that Torion fellow, she was probably—”

  Zayl gave Sardak a glare. “She did what?”

  Her brother gave no response. The skull, however, was all too glad to explain. The necromancer listened, both heartened and dismayed by what he learned.

  Salene’s powers were now truly manifesting themselves, but her lack of training had endangered her. Still, from what he had heard, he suspected that Torion’s condition was at least only a temporary one. When he said so to the others, Humbart gave a knowing sound and Sardak exhaled in relief.

  “There’s somethin’ else,” the skull muttered. “I thought I heard her talking to someone. Someone she knew.”

  “In the crypts?” growled Sardak. “Damn!”

  Zayl wasted no more time. He slipped the fleshless head back into the pouch, which he secured to his belt.

  “Mind you don’t leave me like she did!” came Humbart’s muffled order.

  Sardak tugged the entrance open with an effort worthy of the late Polth. The party swiftly descended to the first level.

  “Thought it would stink more here.” Salene’s sibling eyed the nearest names. “All the properly born ones. If it wasn’t for Salene, I wouldn’t even be considered worthy of the servants’ level.” His mouth tightened. “If I find it’s Lord Jitan who’s got her, I’ll poke out both of his mismatched eyes and feed ’em to a wendigo!”

  The necromancer frowned, but Sardak did not notice. Lord Jitan and Karybdus were clearly bound together, although how, he did not yet know. Zayl had not bothered to mention the return of his memories. He intended that both Sardak and Salene be nowhere near when he confronted his counterpart. From Sardak, he wanted only assistance in getting the noblewoman as far away from danger as possible. Sardak stood no chance against the other necromancer.

  Of course, Zayl’s odds against Karybdus were not so good, either.

  Sardak let out an epithet. Waving the torch, he asked, “Are those the things that attacked her before?”

  “Yes.” The corpses of the spider beasts lay quietly rotting or not so quietly being devoured by rats and the like. Zayl scanned the area, but felt nothing.

  No … there was another presence. Faint, but familiar. Even as he sensed it, it grew much stronger, as if drawn back to life by his presence …

  The shade of Polth materialized before them.

  Rathmian … came a voice in Zayl’s head.

  The necromancer did not answer at first, surreptitiously making certain that what he saw and sensed was indeed what he thought. Necromancers could make a shade say or do what they desired. Only when he was certain that this was Polth and only Polth did Zayl answer.

  “Why do you remain here, bodyguard? Your duty in life is done. You should move on as all do.”r />
  Failed … failed in life … and in death …

  “What’s he mean by that?”

  The question came from Sardak, and the fact that it did startled Zayl again. Determined to discuss the limits of Sardak’s abilities with him when they had the opportunity, Zayl remained focused on the spirit. “You refer to Salene? Is she … no more?”

  To both his and Sardak’s relief, Polth shook his head. Instead, the shade pointed down. Sent her there … for the truth … Didn’t know … didn’t know he was there! Didn’t know … I failed her …

  The specter all but faded, so distraught was he by what had happened to his mistress. Zayl mulled over his words, determining as best he could what Polth meant.

  “Is she in the servants’ crypt?” Sardak grabbed Zayl’s sleeve. “Come on, damn you! She might be injured!”

  When the necromancer did not move, the brother ran on without him. Zayl caught Polth shaking his head. Zayl frowned. If Salene was not down in the next level, then where—

  The ancient crypt below that … or deeper yet?

  He sought to ask the shade, but the dead bodyguard, his time spent, had vanished. The Rathmian sped after Sardak, hoping that the brother would not go rushing into disaster.

  Sardak was already below by the time Zayl reached the steps leading down. The necromancer doubled his pace, hurrying to where the light of the torch flickered.

  There, he discovered his companion staring at a hole in what was clearly an ancient rockfall. Zayl leaned down, praying to Trag’Oul that it was not yet Salene’s time to move on to the next plane.

  “She’s not dead,” whispered Sardak. “I’d feel it; I know I would. Does it go all the way down to the old level?”

  “Farther. Much farther.” Zayl shifted position. He lowered his feet into the hole.

  “What’re you doing?”

  The necromancer met Sardak’s worried gaze—worried over his sister, not Zayl. “Go back up. I must do this alone from here. It is even more desperate than I imagined.”

  “I’m not going to abandon her!”

  “Listen to me. There are ancient forces beneath the Nesardo estate. This was once another place, a place of blood sacrifice. I sense this, and I believe you do, too.”