Diablo: Moon of the Spider

by Richard A. Knaak

  Screaming, he shoved past his partner in crime, a stocky, bearded figure holding a dagger in one hand. The second mariner’s other hand was still half-clenched. Zayl quickly glanced down at his waist. While he had been distracted by the first man, the companion had cut free the large pouch without his sensing it.

  Of course, that had been the worst mistake that they could have made.

  The second thief belatedly noticed Zayl rising. He started to lunge, but the spellcaster muttered another word.

  The blade went completely past Zayl. His attacker stumbled, then gasped. He began frantically waving both hands about.

  “My eyes! I can’t see! My eyes!”

  The effect was a temporary one, just like the spell that had made the first brigand think that he was surrounded by demonic creatures. Zayl started to reach for the blinded villain—

  “Look out!” called a female voice.

  He ducked back just in time to avoid the curved edge of a sword across his midsection. A wiry figure who was clearly in league with the pair grinned as he slashed again at Zayl.

  The necromancer reached to his waist and removed a small dagger. His adversary laughed, for although the spellcaster’s dagger was a curious one—being serpentine of shape in the blade and carved from what appeared ivory—it hardly matched the length of the villain’s sword.

  But when the cutthroat attempted to get past Zayl’s guard, the dagger was there, meeting the longer blade and deflecting it with ease. Twice more, the attacker lunged, only to be foiled.

  Zayl then pressed. He easily came under the other’s guard, his dagger cutting the brigand in the arm and the chest. The necromancer’s foe began to retreat—only to stumble over the purloined pouch.

  “Watch where you’re steppin’!” complained a voice that seemed to come from within it.

  The would-be thief collided with the floor. In desperation, he flung his sword at Zayl, then leapt away. He seized the arm of his still-blind comrade, then both men fled through the door.

  Zayl had no intention of giving chase. He thrust the dagger into his belt, then quickly retrieved the pouch. An epithet started to escape it, but a quick tap by the necromancer brought silence.

  Of the other patrons, most had fled at some point in the struggle. The few who remained seated eyed him for the most part with trepidation, loathing, and not a little fear. Zayl found it of interest that the woman and her bodyguard were standing as if having been prepared to give assistance. They were, in fact, the only ones who did not now treat him as a pariah. The Rathmian recalled the warning cry and knew that it had been the noblewoman who had given it. He bowed his head slightly in her direction, noting how she appraised him even now.

  Turning back to the booth, Zayl found Hyram anxiously coming over to him. The necromancer easily read the innkeeper’s expression, for it was one that he had seen far too often.

  “I will be leaving,” Zayl informed his host before Hyram could get up the nerve to ask him to do so. “I will not be needing the room, either.”

  The proprietor could not hide his relief. “’Tis not me, master, but the others, they don’t understand—”

  Shrugging off Hyram’s attempt at explanation, the black-clad figure retrieved his one glove from the table. Putting it back on, he tossed some coins to the innkeeper. “This will suffice, I think.”

  The stout man eyed what lay in his palm. “More than enough, master! I can’t in good faith—”

  “Do not trouble yourself.” Zayl was not wealthy, not at all, but as this had been his first stop in the capital, he wanted to leave with some semblance of respect from the locals, even after such chaos. A lost cause, surely, but he felt that he had to try.

  With the same silent stride with which he had entered, the necromancer headed out of the Black Ram. Zayl had no notion as to where he would spend the night, but, if necessary, he would do so out in the wild. He was used to doing so in the jungles of Kehjistan and so this would not be so different, albeit cooler. His training had taught him to ignore most differences in temperature, and, fortunately, the weather here was not that chill anyway.

  The mists had thickened since his entrance. Zayl focused, trying to see with more than simply his eyes.

  “Damned thugs …,” grumbled a voice at his side.

  “Be quiet, Humbart.”

  “You weren’t the one rolling helplessly over the floor … and that without so much as a single drink beforehand!”

  Zayl tapped the pouch. “No, I had only a sword against which to contend.”

  “And you’re welcome for my help there, lad! What would you do without me?”

  The pale figure permitted himself a brief smile, but otherwise did not answer.

  Then, he sensed another presence nearing him. In a whisper, he commanded, “Silence …”

  “Are you just—” But another tap by the necromancer on the pouch finally quieted his unseen companion.

  Reaching out with his heightened senses, Zayl located the newcomer behind him. With one hand near the hilt of his dagger, he continued along as if unaware.

  Heavy thuds signaled the other’s approaching steps. Stealth was clearly not a strong suit of the one following him.

  When he felt that his pursuer had gotten close enough, Zayl spun around. In the necromancer’s hand, the pale blade stood ready.

  The shadowed form of a giant met his gaze. Something about it struck Zayl as familiar and when he looked closer, he recognized the man. It was the bodyguard of the noblewoman who had given Zayl warning.

  The giant’s hair was shorn close. His rounded face reminded the Rathmian of some of the primates inhabiting the jungle trees, even to the flat, wide-nostriled nose. There was nothing foolish about the dark-skinned figure before Zayl, however. He stood with the stance of a well-trained fighter, in that manner reminding the necromancer of Captain Kentril Dumon, a mercenary whose path Zayl had crossed and whom he respected highly.

  The bodyguard was clad in dark blue livery with crimson edging on his sleeves and pant legs. An emblem—a red circle surrounding a blue hawk’s head—had been sewn on the uniform just where the heart was located, one of those unfortunate traditions that often gave enemies a perfect point upon which to target their weapons. The broad-rimmed boots seemed a bit garish to the Rathmian, but he would not have ever been foolish enough to say so to such a mountain of a man.

  “I come at the behest of the mistress,” rumbled the bodyguard, showing both hands empty. He had an accent that marked him as coming from near to Lut Gholein, on the western edge of the Twin Seas and a place through which Zayl had passed on his way to the Western Kingdoms. “She would seek your counsel, Rathmian, in a matter of the soul.”

  “Would not a Zakarum priest be more appropriate than I?”

  The giant grinned, and even in the misty dark Zayl could see his white teeth … his many white teeth. “The Zakarum, they would not appreciate the mistress’s intent.”

  The fact that she asked a necromancer to come to her made that clear enough, but Zayl was not ready to simply acquiesce. “And what would she wish of one of mine?”

  “She must speak with her husband. A matter of urgency.”

  And if the woman needed Zayl, it was because her husband was dead. An inheritance, no doubt. There were those who thought the Rathmians no better than the charlatans who read fortunes or gave séances at the fairs or on the roads. Paid performers, even if some of them had the gift.

  He started to turn away, but the bodyguard would not have it. The man reached for Zayl’s arm, unaware of the danger of doing so.

  “She has nowhere else to turn. She said that something drew her to the inn and when she saw you, she felt certain that you were the reason.”

  The necromancer hesitated. The last was likely a lie, but her suggestion that she had been drawn to the same location as him made Zayl think again of Rathma’s words. Was the way being shown to him now?

  He balanced the pros and cons of agreeing … and found the cons slight
ly the stronger. Yet, when Zayl opened his mouth to speak, it was to answer, “Very well. I will see her.”

  “Thank you …” The bodyguard’s tone hinted of tremendous relief, something that the Zayl had not expected from a hired fighter for an employer. Most would have simply accepted the response. Zayl read in this man a deep loyalty.

  His large companion led the necromancer through the mist-enshrouded streets. Despite his agreement to see the noblewoman, Zayl remained cautious. This could still be a trap set by thieves or even the Zakarum.

  But if a trap, it appeared an elaborate one. Some blocks from the Black Ram, Zayl and his still-unnamed companion confronted an elegant coach pulled by four muscular white horses. A dour driver in the same livery as the bodyguard nodded to the giant. Zayl noted that the house insignia was not at all obscure, a contrast to the age-long practice of aristocrats out on such ventures. The noblewoman was either very open about her deeds or very naive.

  The bodyguard moved ahead to open the door of the coach. As he did, someone within leaned toward the opening. Zayl faltered slightly.

  Her skin was a shade darker than his own, her full lips a deep, rich coloring that he knew was not the result of any enhancement. The hair cascaded down past her shoulders, ending above her bosom. He had no doubt that her face and form attracted many a man, but she was clearly one who did not in any manner use her gifts for influence or gain. Certainly not with a foul necromancer, especially.

  The noblewoman eyed Zayl closely, then glanced at her underling. “Thank you, Polth.”

  The giant bowed. “Mistress …”

  She extended a slim hand toward the Rathmian. “Please. Enter.”

  “I would first know a name, my lady. A true name.”

  Before she could answer, a male voice within the coach snarled, “By the stars, Salene! I told you that this was going too far! Tell him nothing and let’s be gone from this stinking area! I’ve known much better places to get drunk in than that flea trap we just left!”

  Zayl recalled the man in the Black Ram that he had assumed was her brother. So far, there seemed little similarity in their personalities. That he had already given away her first name while insisting she tell him nothing said much.

  “Hush, Sardak,” she returned quietly, smiling at Zayl as if well aware of what he thought of her brash companion. “What he asks is fair if he’s to assist me.”

  “You can’t trust his kind! The Church of Zakarum says he’s a desecrator of graves, a ghoul—”

  Salene’s smile hardened and the gaze she turned on the unseen Sardak immediately silenced him. When she looked again at Zayl, it was with honest apology. “My brother is protective of me, Rathmian, as I am of him, Master—”

  She no doubt had to be more protective of the impetuous Sardak than he of her, but Zayl did not say so. He nodded, then drew closer. “I am just Zayl, my lady.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Among my calling, we most often forgo any other name, for we are but servants of the Balance, with ties to no House or clan.”

  “Well, ‘just Zayl,’ I am the Lady Salene Nesardo and if that is enough introduction, I’d prefer that we leave here now. What I wish to speak to you about is better done elsewhere.”

  She retreated into the coach, her invitation for him to sit beside her obvious. Zayl’s brow arched; few women there were who would have willingly offered that, even for the summoning of a rich husband’s spirit. He had expected her to insist he sit next to the charming Sardak.

  A muffled snort escaped the pouch. Polth frowned, but when the noise did not repeat itself, he relaxed again. Still holding the door, he said, “Master Zayl?”

  Bowing his head slightly to the bodyguard, Zayl slipped up into the coach with the quiet ease of a shadow. Salene emitted a small gasp at his grace and swiftness and from the other seats Sardak mumbled a curse.

  His vision more attuned to the night than that of most people, Zayl saw the sour expression on the brother’s face. However, despite Sardak’s threatening attitude, Zayl calculated that the man was little danger to him. Drink was Sardak’s only weapon, which he used against himself.

  In that brief moment during which her brother had captured the necromancer’s attention, Lady Nesardo had fully recovered her wits. She glanced at the large pouch. “The coach is small. I can have Polth put that in the storage box in the back, if you like. You might be more comfortable then.”

  Quickly sliding a hand atop the bag, Zayl replied, “It stays with me.”

  She had obviously seen the movement of his hand, but said nothing of it. “Yes, I saw how those thieves learned that lesson, to their dismay.”

  Lady Nesardo said no more about the pouch, not even evincing any curiosity as to what it held. That despite having no doubt heard the voice in the inn. She would find out soon enough the truth if Zayl agreed to what she requested.

  Sardak remained grimly silent throughout the ride, staring at the necromancer as if Zayl had grown fangs and a pair of horns. Zayl had expected his hostess to begin explaining her needs, but when she spoke it was only to ask him such mundane questions like how his journey across the Twin Seas had gone and what Lut Gholein was like. Salene did not ask why he had traveled so far, though. The noblewoman did her utmost to treat him with a respect due another of her station. As one who was generally looked upon with disdain, distrust, or fear—all feelings embodied in her brother, at the moment—Zayl found it refreshing.

  Then, without warning, a black wave washed over him, overwhelming his senses.

  It was too much even for his training. A gasp escaped Zayl’s lips and the cloaked figure suddenly sprawled against the back of the seat.

  The interior of the coach vanished. The necromancer was caught in a bottomless, black vortex. He felt bony fingers clawing at his flesh and heard the wailing of thousands of lost souls. The fingers tore relentlessly at him, resurrecting another horrible time that made the Rathmian’s gloved right hand clench tight.

  Suddenly, Zayl became trapped in a sticky substance that he could not see. It was everywhere, and even his slightest struggles entangled him further. The wailing grew more strident. He heard the sounds of battle and the cries of death. Magical forces sprung into play around him.

  And then…something else approached. It reached out from beyond death, from a place far worse. Even though it was so very distant, he could sense its awful malevolence—

  But at that very moment, another presence entered his struggling thoughts. Who or what it was, Zayl could not say, only that it sought to drag him forth from what assailed him. He seized the lifeline it offered, and finally managed to focus his will.

  The necromancer’s mind tore free of the stickiness trapping it. The clawing hands and the mournful voices receded, and with them the pain. Foiled, the dark presence sank back into the foul place from which it had emerged.

  And the mortal world began to come into focus again.

  The first thing that Zayl saw was Lady Salene Nesardo’s shadowed face looming over him. Her expression was filled only with concern. She had one cool hand against his temple.

  He realized then that she had been the source of his lifeline.

  The noblewoman had some gift of magic herself.

  “His eyes are focused again!” she muttered. Her other hand thrust toward her brother. “Give me your flask!”

  “Salene—”

  “The flask!”

  A moment later, she brought a small silver drinking flask to Zayl’s lips. The disciplines of the Rathmians did not preclude drink, but still the liquid that slipped down Zayl’s throat burned like fire.

  The necromancer coughed violently. Through his struggles, he heard Sardak chuckle.

  “Can handle the dead, but can’t handle his liquor …”

  Salene glared at him. “Considering what you pour into your system, be thankful that I’m not having to ask him to summon your spirit.”

  “At least my spirit would be full of spirits!”

 
Zayl ignored their argument, clearly an ongoing one of no relevance to the stunning attack on him. He shifted back to a proper sitting position, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. Calm he might have seemed, but inside the necromancer was still feeling the effects of the earlier strain. It had taken him completely by surprise, catching him with most of his defenses down.

  From where had it originated? He had sensed nothing upon his arrival in Westmarch, nothing even at the Black Ram. How could such a powerful force be so localized?

  “Are you better?” asked Salene.

  “I am well.”

  “What happened to you?”

  Instead of answering, Zayl eyed her and asked, “There is more to this than simply speaking with the shade of a loved one, is there not?”

  The coach came to an abrupt halt. The Lady Nesardo quickly glanced out of the window.

  “We’re here,” the noblewoman declared, utterly ignoring Zayl’s question.

  “Home sweet home,” added Sardak with some mockery.

  Polth appeared at his mistress’s door. He swung it open, then gave the Lady Nesardo a hand down. Sardak, moving with astonishing grace for one in his inebriated condition, slipped out right after her without so much as a glance back at the necromancer.

  From without the coach, Salene commanded, “Help our friend, Polth. He did not have a pleasant ride.”

  Without batting an eye, the bodyguard held his huge hand out to the Rathmian. “Master Zayl?”

  “Thank you, but I am recovered enough.” Keeping the pouch near his side, he stepped out. While he had been recouping his strength, the coach had apparently not only arrived at the gates of its destination, but had entered them. A huge brick wall with spikes atop surrounded a wide, manicured lawn. Zayl saw that the vehicle had driven up a stone path that wound from the iron gates to the front steps.

  “Welcome to our humble abode,” jested Salene’s brother, stretching his arm toward the house.

  Zayl looked up … and up farther yet.

  In the midst of so many tall, arched buildings with jutting towers and gargoyles atop the battlements, the House of Nesardo stood unique. It loomed higher than any of its neighbors, but where their towers ended in tiled, weathered points, its did so with a pale, moonlike roundness that seemed so pristine even in the dark of night that Zayl first thought it a new addition. But a cursory study of the structure as a whole immediately put that notion to rest. There were no breaks between the sections, as was always evident with even the most intricate reconstruction. This was the house as it had originally been designed.