It was a choice of taking precious time to search the stream or reaching Zayl on her own. Salene did not even know where she was, and could only assume that she had reached the limits of her spell.
That brought another concern to the forefront. Could she reach him? If even with the power of the medallion all Salene had done was drop herself into the middle of the vast forest, then how could she trust that her next attempt would do any better? Before stealing away the artifact from Justinian, the noblewoman had never even tried such a spell.
Stop it! Salene demanded of herself. Sardak is gone, Torion and the city are in danger, and Zayl may be moments away from death! Oddly, Zayl concerned her most of all.
“One quick look,” the bedraggled woman muttered. “If I can’t find it right away, I’ll try to do it myself!”
Her boots constantly slipping on the slick ground, Salene made her way to the stream. It looked to be twice as large as normal and the fury with which it rushed made her wonder if the medallion was even in the area anymore. The small, light piece might very well have been swept much farther down.
But she had to look. Cautiously putting first one foot and then the other into the stream, Salene peered into the water. At least the light from above allowed her to see a bit—
Suddenly wondering about that light, the Lady Nesardo looked up.
A shadowy spider all but covered the lunar orb.
“No … no …” For the horrific arachnid to be so prominent meant that there was no more time. Karybdus and Aldric had been waiting for just this moment.
Frantically, she leaned down to the stream and splashed away at the water. Here and there, she caught glimpses of the bottom, but saw nothing other than rocks and moss. Salene began to shake.
Then, another light—one that reminded her of the comforting one she had first noticed—appeared among the trees to her left. A subtle yet arresting tone—music?—also seemed to come from that direction. Salene looked at the light … and noticed that framed in it was what appeared to be a glorious figure with a long, shadowed hood and a robe of silver. For just a moment, the startled noblewoman also thought she made out wings of fire … but when she blinked, they were nowhere to be seen.
“Who is it?” she called, wary of any stranger in the forest.
The figure did not answer, but continued to walk toward her. She imagined it to be male and much taller than herself or even Zayl. The noblewoman cocked her head; the tone resonating from the direction of the stranger touched her as no song she had ever heard.
“Come no farther! Tell me who you are first!”
Still he did not answer. Salene tensed. She doubted that she could summon up so much as enough flame for a candle, much less a bolt to throw at this newcomer. Still, she had no intention of simply standing there while danger possibly threatened.
“Your last warning!” she cried. Salene raised a hand up in preparation. If she could at least summon enough to frighten him …
The light behind the figure faded away with such abruptness that Salene had to blink to adjust her eyes.
And when she opened them again, she saw that what approached her was in no manner human.
It was a wendigo.
More to the point, by the fur, scars, and, especially, the eyes, she somehow knew it for the one that had carried her off from the temple.
TWENTY-ONE
Karybdus had not survived for more than a century by being unwilling or unable to adapt. He had clearly underestimated the Astrogha’s reach into the mortal plane from the demon’s prison. A careless mistake, but one not insurmountable. The armored necromancer always considered other options in advance, and so he already knew what he had to do.
If Astrogha desired Zayl’s body, Karybdus would grant him that … for a time. In truth, no one knew a Rathmian’s strengths and weaknesses better than one of their own, and that fact worked to Karybdus’s advantage. He had already laid a number of subtle spells upon the late Aldric Jitan that would have enabled him to cast out Astrogha when the world was in true Balance; variations of those could be cast upon Zayl. The younger necromancer’s own protective spells and inherent power would mask them even better than the ones on Karybdus’s aristocratic dupe.
But he had to act fast. Invisible to the mortal eye—with the exception of a skilled spellcaster such as himself—was the work that the demon now did in preparation to taking Zayl. However, the demon was finding Zayl’s resistance much greater than expected. Karybdus applauded his counterpart’s able if ultimately futile defense. It proved the strength of Rathmian training … and also bought him the time that he needed for his new spellwork.
The so-called Children of Astrogha were simple to fool, little more than weak manifestations of the master demon. Karybdus concentrated. Besides, he would not need long to finish his work.
He withdrew from his belt the ivory dagger taken from Zayl. It was now the key to his plans. Another variation of the life-tap would ensure that, when the time came, the spider demon would find his “superior” body even more fragile than the one for which he had abandoned it.
But as the necromancer surreptitiously began his spells, he failed to notice the black pouch lying to the side. Had he noticed it, he might have seen how what seemed eyeholes lay pressed against it—eyeholes focused in his direction.
The legs pressed against Zayl’s skull with such force that at any moment he expected them to crush his head. Yet, he knew that what would happen would be far more horrifying. Each of the appendages would bore through the bone until they buried deep inside the brain itself. There, they would meld with his mind. Once that happened, there would be only Astrogha, no more Zayl.
But it would not end there. Astrogha would use the necromancer’s learning, his abilities, to enhance his own demonic powers. The secrets of the Rathmians would be added to the spider’s vast knowledge … and surely that would mean a far greater danger to the mortal plane.
How could Karybdus let this happen? Zayl no longer believed that his counterpart had become a victim of his many battles against the Darkness. No, the legendary necromancer was simply mad … not that knowing that was any comfort to Zayl.
The insidious voice of Astrogha filled his mind again. Give in to my will, mortal Zayl, and you will become a god …
I will become nothing! the necromancer returned. Take what you must, but I will not give it to you!
He could not understand why the demon did not just possess him as he had Lord Jitan. Surely, Zayl’s skull was no thicker than the noble’s.
Was there more to it? Could it be that what Zayl knew, what gifts he had, the necromancer had to surrender to the demon? Perhaps Astrogha risked losing what he sought if he simply made Zayl an empty host such as Jitan.
So, perhaps there was one card still left to play. Now he understood why the spider had worked around Karybdus to draw Zayl to him even before he was freed. After having fought and lost more than once against sorcerers like the Vizjerei, Astrogha sought to ensure that he would never be defeated again.
Zayl knew that he would rather become like Aldric Jitan than grant the demon’s monstrous desire. He strengthened his will and felt Astrogha’s anger when the latter realized that the Rathmian would not fall prey so readily.
But Zayl hoped that Astrogha did not also realize that there was a limit to the human will. The necromancer wanted his fiendish adversary to lose patience and slay him before he started to falter again. If Zayl’s will began to fail and Astrogha noticed, then the demon would surely triumph.
All that you dream, you can have, the spider murmured. Riches, slaves, power … an empire …
You mean you will have them …
I will not do to you what I did the fool! Astrogha sought to reassure him. Do you not recall how my followers of old called you their master? Share with me what secrets you hold and I will share mine …
It was not the words themselves that were beguiling, for they were basic and blunt. However, woven into each syllable was anoth
er form of magic, a subtle one that burrowed into the unsuspecting mind the way a worm burrowed through a rotting corpse. Merely listening to Astrogha allowed that magic to penetrate one’s thoughts … unless that one was skilled in deflecting such tricks, as Zayl was.
Yet, again, even he had his limits … and they were approaching faster than the Rathmian desired.
But, other than continue to pray for death rather than possession, Zayl could think of nothing to do. There was no one there who could help him, either, for there was only Humbart, who lacked even a full skeleton, much less mobility.
If he was to perish, though, Zayl took comfort in one thing. He had sent Salene back to the city. She would escape from there. At least, if he had failed in everything else, he had not failed in that.
Surely, she was safe …
He had fought many battles over the span of his career and, at the moment, General Torion would have traded this monstrous struggle for the very worst of them. The best he could say of the situation was that his men were temporarily holding their own. Some reinforcements had arrived to back up those with him, but reports from the rest of the capital indicated that, even when those sent by Justinian arrived, their numbers would not be great. Most of the soldiers Torion had originally expected were now needed elsewhere. It seemed that at this point the spiders were pouring over every wall.
But that was not the worst of it. Reports also filtered in concerning many defenders and even innocent civilians who now walked the capital as the living dead, their bodies mounts for the hideous arachnids. Several initial positions had fallen because of soldiers’ ignorance of the terrible fate besetting those whose heads were not covered sufficiently. Fortunately, thanks to Torion himself, word had quickly spread as to the danger.
But the spiders kept coming. For every one that was skewered on the end of a sword or burnt by oil and fire, there seemed a dozen more—maybe even a hundred.
Where do they all come from? the veteran commander wondered as he helped roll another barrel of oil forward. At least a fifth of the capital was either ablaze or had already been burnt. Even more of it would have been if not for the fact that the rain was growing stronger. It was necessary to fuel every blaze with oil or some other flammable liquid, but finding stockpiles was becoming more and more difficult. Several places where oil and such should have been stored had been emptied out previously. From what little he had gleaned, the orders to do so had been signed by Edmun Fairweather. Torion cursed the dead man constantly and hoped that his fiery demise had been long and painful … and even then it would have been too kind for the general’s taste.
Passing the barrel on to another soldier, Torion paused for a breath. Justinian, now back to his senses, had turned much of the coordination of the struggle over to his far more skilled and experienced commander. It was not vanity for General Torion to think that, without him, the efforts to save everyone from this nightmare would not be nearly so organized. Of course, he was fortunate in that several of his top officers had so far managed to survive. Wherever possible, Torion had put one of them in charge. His one regret was that no one had seen Alec Mattheus. There had been a message sent much earlier—when capturing Zayl had been the only concern of the evening—that had said the captain intended to take a patrol and follow up a hunch beyond the city walls.
Torion had resigned himself to the fact that the man he had once assumed would be his successor had likely perished out there, fighting to the last against the eight-legged fiends.
Taking another deep breath, the general surveyed the vicinity. A line of archers worked steadily to send oil-soaked fire arrows wherever needed. They were defended by soldiers armed with swords, pikes, and, naturally, torches. To the north …
To the north, and heading toward Torion, was a helmed figure that looked much like the missing Alec Mattheus.
The weary commander grinned. He started toward the captain. Alec, his expression dour, slowly saluted the older fighter. In his other hand, the adjutant held a well-used blade.
“Alec, lad!” called Torion, forgoing military protocol. He was too happy to see his aide. With no sons of his own, he secretly considered the captain the equivalent of one. “Where the blazes have you been? Are you all right?”
There was a silence, then, the approaching figure responded, “Yes. I am all right.”
His voice had a monotone quality to it that did not surprise Torion. All the soldiers were exhausted, and Alec looked as if he had been dragged through the streets.
“Well, glad I am to see you, lad!” The general glanced back at where the men were moving the barrels. “Maybe you can take over while I see how the others are—”
Out of the corner of his eye, Torion noticed the adjutant reaching toward him in an attempt to wrest away his helmet.
Reflexes honed on the battlefield still barely enabled the older officer to prevent the helmet from being torn free. Torion stared aghast at the captain, refusing at first to believe the obvious.
But all he had to do was look closer at the way Alec’s own helmet hung to see that it sat just a little too high. Perhaps he would have noticed it sooner on anyone else than on Captain Mattheus, denial a powerful force.
But soon there was no denying that what stood before him was no longer his trusted aide.
As General Torion drew his sword, the captain thrust. Torion let out a grunt of pain as the tip of the blade cut across the side of his neck, just missing the vein.
He deflected the next attack, noting with concern that the figure before him fought more and more with a style he recognized as akin to Alec’s. Well aware of how skilled his adjutant was, Torion pressed harder.
Finding an opening, the veteran commander lunged. His aim was true; the sword cut right through the captain’s unprotected throat.
A thick, half-congealed mass that had to be blood dripped out of the horrific wound … but Torion’s adversary did not even slow.
Swearing, the general stumbled back just in time to avoid a swing to his head. One part of him registered the fact that his opponent was still seeking to strike off his helmet, while another part wondered just how to defeat something already dead. The spider atop Alec Mattheus’s body clearly had more control than most …
Gritting his teeth, Torion lunged again, and this time, like Alec, he attacked not the body, but the helmet.
Even alive, Captain Mattheus had not quite been the general’s equal, and Torion succeeded where his possessed adjutant had not. The edge of his blade caught the helmet’s edge. With one twist, it tumbled off, clattering onto the street.
“By Rakkis!” growled Torion as he stared at his true foe. The spider hissed, and Alec’s body reacted with a furious series of cuts and slashes against the commander. For a moment, Torion was put on the defensive. His strength began to flag.
No! I will not let this happen! He stared into the face of the man he had considered both his successor and his son and, with a prayer for Alec’s soul, thrust.
His blade cut the spider in half. A foul, greenish goo spilled out of the monster.
The captain’s expression contorted. His body went through a series of grotesque spasms.
Then, at last, Alec Mattheus dropped limply to the street. His sword still lay tightly gripped in his hand.
Struggling for air, General Torion gazed at the corpse. This one, more than any other, affected him personally. He looked over his shoulder to where other soldiers—and several able civilians—were valiantly struggling to hold back the tide of evil.
And although he had won his own battle, the commander of Westmarch saw that, unless some miracle happened, the defenders would be able to do no more than hold. They were merely mortal, while the spiders kept coming and coming and coming.
It was all up to Zayl, then, General Torion realized. All up to the man he had tried to hunt down.
All up to the necromancer … and, Torion suddenly thought, Salene.
You delay the inevitable …, hissed Astrogha in his mind. W
e will be one … one …
Zayl felt his will weakening. He knew the demon felt it, too.
And when we are one, I will give you the pleasure of slowly slaying the gray one who thinks me so foolish …
He meant Karybdus. So, Astrogha was not so blind. He knew that Karybdus was still a Rathmian and, therefore, a threat.
But did the demon realize just how cunning Karybdus was? Zayl was not so certain. Either way, the mortal plane would suffer.
Then, the spider did something that shook Zayl. Even though it still fought a mental duel with the Rathmian, it also began spitting from its mouth a horrific, sticky substance … a webbing of sorts. True spiders did not spin their webs so, but Astrogha’s form was a resemblance, nothing more. The demon continued spitting, the magical webbing wrapping itself around Zayl’s feet, his legs, then the rest of him.
Astrogha was preparing for the moment when his host would finally give in to him. The demon desired his true, hellish form, and from Zayl’s body he would re-create it.
And there was nothing that the captive necromancer could do about it.
Karybdus watched the spinning with detachment. The full cycle of this rare lunar convergence had little time left to it, but Astrogha clearly would complete his transformation before then. The armored necromancer secreted Zayl’s blade in his belt again. Everything was prepared. Astrogha would be permitted his brief return to the mortal plane, accomplish what was necessary for the Balance … and then Karybdus would send the arachnid back to Hell forever. There was a fine line; each event, such as unleashing the demon in Westmarch, could be allowed to proceed only so far. One could not let matters get out of hand … not that he ever let them.
After that, it would be time to move on elsewhere to determine what next had to be done. Karybdus suspected that he had much work ahead of him before the Balance would truly be even. There had been too many generations of Rathmians simply fighting evil. Likely, it would take him another hundred years to set things straight.
Diablo: Moon of the Spider Page 29
