Diablo: Moon of the Spider

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Zayl, lad, there’s a lush, sweet bed right there for the enjoyment! For my sake, use it! How often do we get this chance for such—”

  “Hush, Humbart. You know that is not my way.”

  The skull grumbled, then made no other sound. Rathmians generally did not sleep much; they sank into a form of trance that enabled their bodies to get the rest they needed while their senses continued to explore and expand upon their abilities. It was a necessity, the necromancers ever needing to hone their skills in their effort to protect the Balance.

  Zayl stared at a point on the wall, but his eyes no longer saw it. Almost immediately, the room faded into the background, replaced by a grayish haze.

  It was his intention to discover more about the House of Nesardo … especially what its earliest history entailed. The malevolent force that had nearly struck him down in the coach was somehow bound in part to this location … but why?

  One by one, Zayl peeled away the shields he had built to protect his mind from the earlier assault. Each step was a cautious one, for eagerness would only lead to disaster.

  But instead of the malignant force against which he had earlier fought, the necromancer discovered something else—a faint but definite presence. It permeated the walls, the floors, the very timbers of House Nesardo. He probed deeper and deeper and found layers to this presence. It was everywhere, existing as the edifice itself did, a part of it as much as any nail or bit of stone. A gasp escaped his still body when at last he recognized it for what it was.

  A collective of souls.

  Their numbers were legion. Zayl had never come across so many in one place, not even in the oldest cemeteries or burial chambers of the east. More astounding, the souls before him existed in a semiconscious state, unaware of their deaths, but also unaware of the mortal world. He felt them reliving their lives over and over, like actors in a play without end. They did not mingle, yet coexisted so intimately that the necromancer knew they drew from one another.

  Fascinated, Zayl observed a few. A woman clad in a voluminous ball gown covered in glittering jewels spoke gaily with the empty air. Near her, a grim-countenanced swordsman of middle years swung his blade desperately at what seemed to be three or four foes. Two toddlers—twins—played with one another. Their faces were marked with pox, a clear sign of the reason for their early departure from the mortal plane.

  Curiously, they were the ones who finally noticed him. Although Zayl had no true form, to them he would have appeared much as he did in life. The toddlers ceased their game—one involving a ball and small stick figures—and gazed up solemnly at the necromancer.

  Play …, the one with the ball finally said to him, the mouth remaining still. The child held the ball up for Zayl to take.

  I do not know the game, he replied, his own lips moving.

  This admission caused the twins to lose interest in him. They turned back to their playing, bouncing the ball between them and then choosing a stick figure from the group. A moment later, the twins faded into the background, indistinct but still visible.

  Only as he studied more of the shades did Zayl see one common trait among them. They all had eyes similar, if not identical, to Salene Nesardo.

  Were these the souls, then, of the many generations of her House? If so, the bloodline of Nesardo had once been far more fertile.

  Fascinated, he moved on, gazing at one reenactment after another. Lovers, liars, scholars, fools, fighters, and cowards. The ill, the impractical, the impressionable. The gathered souls of Nesardo covered the spectrum of human frailties and triumphs.

  Then it occurred to him that Riordan Nesardo should be among them.

  The necromancer concentrated, silently repeating the man’s name; doing so bettered the chance that the shade would be drawn to him. It seemed possible that Zayl might be able to elicit not only the answers Salene needed, but also a few of those he desired.

  Riordan … Riordan, husband of Salene … come to me, Riordan …

  Of all the souls here, Riordan’s had been the most recent addition and, therefore, the easiest to to call. The pull to the mortal plane was strongest at the moment of death and weakened as the years went on. Summoning a shade from centuries past required far more effort than summoning one but weeks gone from life. Of course, from what Zayl had witnessed here so far, those rules meant nothing to the the shades of Nesardo. Many of those the Rathmian had so far studied had been dead hundreds of years, yet they seemed as freshly passed on as the most recent lord.

  And where was Riordan? Zayl still could not sense that particular soul anywhere. He of all those here should have reacted to the necromancer’s presence. Instead, some of the other specters began to notice the stranger in their midst. The woman in the extravagant gown paused to stare, her lip trembling. The swordsman staggered, shaking his hand and clutching several suddenly bloody wounds. His eyes locked upon Zayl with a mixture of denial and rage. A pair of lovers, their haunted faces revealing the telltale sign of poisoning on their lips, clutched one another in sudden fright.

  And then, the dead began a horrific transformation.

  Their skin quickly shriveled and decayed, crumbling off their bodies in great pieces. Rich garments blackened and tattered. Frightened eyes sank into fleshless skulls …

  Zayl had intruded too deep. The shades were beginning to understand their deaths. They were seeing that what they were now was nothing more than a facade, that their true selves were moldering away in crypts, graves of earth … or worse.

  The necromancer immediately retreated. As he did, he felt the sensations of despair, fear, and anger that had arisen all around him begin to subside. Just as Zayl had hoped, by his leaving the dead alone, they had reacted like the twins, losing interest in the intrusion and slipping back into their perpetual activities.

  As the misty realm faded away, Zayl took one last look to verify his suspicions. The necromancer caught a fleeting glimpse of the woman in the gown. Once more she was the focus of an invisible ball, resplendent in her costume and obviously being chatted up by gentleman admirers. The cadaverous corpse of a moment before was gone and there was no sign that she recalled his intrusion at all.

  Relief coursed through Zayl as he drifted back to his body. He had come very close to upsetting something core to the secrets of House Nesardo. That could have caused a catastrophe to the Balance. There was a particular reason why those of the bloodline returned here after death, one that he was determined to unveil. More and more the Rathmian saw that his encounter with Salene had not come about completely by chance and certainly had to do with more than contacting the spirit of her husband.

  And, for that matter, where was Riordan Nesardo? Why had he not answered a call that few dead souls could deny?

  The myriad paths laid before him intrigued Zayl. Caught up in trying to puzzle them out, he paid little mind to his return to his mortal shell, an act almost as reflexive to him as breathing.

  That is, until he discovered that he could not enter.

  Something else had gotten to his body before him.

  It clearly sought to claim his form for its own. Zayl probed, but found nothing to identify its origins. It was not one of the souls he had discovered—of that the Rathmian was certain. Curiously, he sensed some familiarity with it, but exactly what that meant escaped the necromancer.

  Then, all that concerned Zayl now was claiming what was rightfully his.

  Whatever intruder it was that had usurped his body, it lacked the natural ties that Zayl had. A Rathmian knew how to strengthen those bonds even in precarious situations like this. To understand death as they did, necromancers also had to understand life, and so Zayl knew well what kept a soul attached to its body.

  He focused his will on those ties, strengthening them, using them to their utmost. Whether or not the intruder chose to leave, Zayl intended to enter.

  What felt like a solid wall briefly obstructed his way, but it could not deny the strength of that which bound the Rathmian to his mortal
form. Zayl pushed, slowly but inexorably making his way.

  And as he bit by bit reentered his body, he began to become aware of his surroundings.

  The first thing Zayl noticed was that Humbart was screaming. The skull’s voice rang loudly throughout the room and no doubt a good portion of the building.

  “Drop it, damn you, lad! What’s gotten into you? Drop it, I say!”

  As his mortal senses took over, the Rathmian felt tension fill his body. He realized that he was standing and that his arms were stretched before him.

  In his left hand, Zayl’s bone dagger was turned toward his chest.

  The only thing that had prevented it from being driven in was his gloved right hand, which held the other wrist in a death grip. The two limbs struggled with such violence that the necromancer’s body shook.

  “Listen to me, Zayl, lad!” the skull continued. “Wake up! This isn’t you!”

  Someone pounded on the door. Zayl heard Salene’s voice, but what she said he could not understand.

  The necromancer focused his full will on forcing the left hand to drop the dagger. At first it resisted, but then one finger curled open, followed by another …

  Without warning, Zayl recovered full use of his rebellious hand. The rest of the fingers opened and the dagger dropped onto the rug. At the same moment, the insidious invader within vanished.

  Gasping, Zayl dropped to one knee, his right hand still clutching the other wrist.

  “Zayl! You’re awake! Praise be!”

  Although unable to answer, the necromancer was by no means inactive. His mind swept the vicinity, seeking any trace of his unseen foe. Yet, despite a thorough search, Zayl discovered only one thing amiss.

  Salene Nesardo stood next to him.

  Zayl knew very well that he had bolted the door, the better not to be disturbed while in a trance. He had also laid three subtle spells around the entrance, ensuring that no one would enter without his permission.

  But the noblewoman had done just that, which spoke volumes about her gift.

  “Zayl!” Salene gasped, taking him by the shoulders. “What happened here?”

  She had not witnessed the struggle, Zayl realized. All Salene likely knew was that there had been a commotion and that somehow the necromancer had been injured.

  The Rathmian decided it best for her not to know the full truth, at least for now. “My own fault. I was attempting some study of the forces inundating this building and overextended myself. I was foolish.”

  “Overextended himself?” blurted Humbart. “That was—”

  “Quiet, Humbart.”

  “But, I only—,” the skull protested.

  “Humbart!”

  Salene gasped. “Who said that—?” Her gaze fixed on the skull. “It came from you.”

  Zayl finally ignored them both, instead taking up the dagger with his right hand. He stared at it, thinking.

  Whatever had sought his body had desired his death and had chosen his dagger, an integral part of the Rathmian calling, as the tool. Coincidence? Perhaps, but there was something about the entire incident that made Zayl suspect that the thing knew much concerning the necromancer … too much. The followers of Rathma kept their ways and methods most secret from outsiders.

  What had he stumbled upon?

  Karybdus studied his dagger, its faint glow giving it an especially ethereal look. He frowned, not disappointed, but also not pleased.

  He sat on the stone floor of a chamber completely unlit save for the light from the blade. His cloak and robes were draped across the floor in such a manner that it almost looked as if he had melted into the stone.

  In the darkness surrounding him, something large scuttled about.

  “Calm yourself, my love,” he murmured to the shadows. “It was to be expected … but it will be remedied.” Karybdus placed the bone-white dagger in his belt and rose up with just the aid of his legs. His voice carried only detachment. “The Balance will be set proper again. It will be … at all necessary costs.”

  FOUR

  Salene insisted that Zayl rest for a day before he began the summoning, but the necromancer needed no such respite and, in fact, was more eager than ever to call up the spirit of Riordan Nesardo. Twice now, he had been assaulted by mysterious forces, but the more he meditated on that which had sought to slay him by his own hand, the more he felt the second assault separate from the first. There might be a factor that bound them together, but the latter attack had a more mortal feel to it.

  Could it be this Lord Jitan? If so, then he had studied the followers of Rathma closer than most. The necromancer was very much interested in meeting this particular noble.

  The skies remained dark that next day, an omen to Zayl, but one he did not mention to his hostess. He silently began his mental preparations, aware that this summoning would surely not be like most. There were wards and other defenses he would need to prepare.

  Sardak slept most of the day away, but Salene came early to see if there was any way in which she could assist the necromancer. Zayl found her quite different from the usual women of her station, and even most of the men. That had to do with more than merely her gift, something the Rathmian had run across on occasion when dealing with other nobles. Salene Nesardo was strong of personality and will and braver than many others.

  Humbart Wessel was a perfect example. Salene’s initial shock did not give way to abhorrence, but rather fascination. When she returned in the morning, she greeted the skull as if he were as much a guest as Zayl … an act which tickled the spirit to no end. Humbart would have regaled her with story after story of their adventures—somehow with him taking the physical lead—but a glance from the necromancer cut him off. He also kept the promise that Zayl had forced out of him after the noblewoman had departed following the attack—that Salene was not to know what had really happened.

  Under normal circumstances, Zayl would have needed little time before commencing, but with all he had so far experienced and the fact that Salene’s husband had not answered him during the necromancer’s excursion into the netherworld, the Rathmian wanted all factors in his favor.

  “The hour after midnight,” he finally informed Salene and her just-waking brother. “Before the place of burial.”

  “That would be below the house. In the crypt.”

  Zayl had assumed that House Nesardo had such a place and suspected that it was the nexus to which the souls he had discovered had been drawn. “Good, then—”

  From somewhere without, a great bell rung once, twice, three times. It had a finality to it that caught the necromancer’s interest immediately.

  “The bells,” muttered Salene, eyes narrowing sadly. She glanced at Sardak, who was, for once, somber. “King Cornelius is finally dead.”

  “Took long enough,” Sardak replied. “When I die, I want it to be quick, not lingering for weeks like that.”

  Some fragments of conversation that Zayl had heard when departing the ship that had brought him to Westmarch came back. He knew that the king of the land had been ill, but not to what extent. A new sense of urgency struck the Rathmian. This death was too timely for his tastes.

  “Has the king an heir?” he asked.

  “Three sons originally, one dead as a youth.” Lady Nesardo pursed her lips. “His heir and namesake died from a spider bite while out in the countryside some months back. Now, it’s to be Justinian. The fourth of that name.”

  “Justinian the Wide-Eyed, some of us call him,” Sardak added, not looking at all pleased. “As naive a boy as ever lived, and he’s as old as I.”

  “He had no idea he would be king, Sardak. Everyone expected it to be Cornelius the Younger.”

  “Which will not help Westmarch at the moment, sister.”

  A wise old ruler dead of sickness. A promising heir poisoned by accident. An untried, unready successor…

  “A spider?” Zayl suddenly muttered. “A poisonous spider? Are they common here?”

  “Actually, very rare, b
ut—”

  Salene got no further, for just then a white-haired female servant appeared. Wringing her hands and trying not to look at the necromancer, the servant announced, “Mistress, General Torion is at the door!”

  “General Torion?” The noblewoman looked perplexed.

  “Perhaps he comes to spirit you off to Entsteig, dear sister. Should I pack your things?”

  “Hush, Sardak! Fiona, please tell the good general that I really haven’t the time—”

  “Surely you do, at least this day,” boomed a voice from behind the servant.

  Fiona let out a squeak and rushed away. In her place there came the epitome of the polished, capable soldier that stories spoke about but whom Zayl had never actually met in life. General Torion had flowing brown hair brushed back over his shoulders and a trim beard with a hint of gray in it. His aquiline face sported a small scar below his left eye, one of a brilliant blue pair. He stood a head taller than Zayl and was likely a third again as broad in the shoulders. He was not a giant like Polth, but the catlike ease with which the veteran officer moved made Zayl suspect that the bodyguard would have been on the losing end of any battle between the two.

  The Nesardos’ visitor was clad in a red uniform with a golden breastplate, and in the crook of his left arm he carried a plumed, open-faced helm. High boots and a sheathed sword with a rounded guard made up the rest of his ensemble.

  “Torion!” declared Salene, recovering. “To what do we owe this honor?”

  The commander had first smiled upon seeing her, but now his aspect turned much darker. “You heard the bells. The old man actually passed away last night, but we’ve spent all this time preparing. Justinian’s going to need the support of the majority of the nobility from the outset, and all agreed that your word for him would go a long way toward his getting that. We don’t want a repeat of the Cartolus Insurrection.”

  “What happened then?” Zayl asked.

  For the first time, Torion—like the necromancer, he seemed to have no other name—appeared to register the black-cloaked figure. The general started to draw his sword. “By the Church! What is this dog doing here? Salene, has he taken control of your mind?”