The noblewoman smiled anxiously as the tall, slim figure approached.
“I’ve brought the articles you mentioned.” She held up a sack that clinked, indicating that at least two of the pieces were, in some part, made of metal.
“Then, if you will lead the way …”
Lifting another of the lamps from the nearest wall, Salene complied. Polth left her to take up a position at the rear. For the bodyguard to choose such a place was a clear sign that, in the crypt of Nesardo, Polth considered Zayl the only questionable factor.
The necromancer did not find it odd that the family would have its crypt beneath its home, for the practice was not unknown in Lut Gholein or the eastern half of the world. The powerful and wealthy seemed especially covetous of their dead, as if their mortal shells were of any more value than those of the lowest beggars in the streets.
Yet, there was something more to House Nesardo’s crypt, something that made the necromancer eager to see it. As Salene guided them through the house, he sensed again the collective of souls beneath his feet and the unidentifiable energies that seemed to either coalesce around them or that were, perhaps, the reason for their being there at all.
The trio descended a series of stone steps that took them beneath ground level. They passed empty, dust-laden chambers whose brutal history Zayl could sense from the stark emotional impressions still lingering.
Salene suddenly hesitated. Turning to the necromancer, she said, “My family is not without its black deeds, Master Zayl.”
He nodded, the only answer that his hostess required. As one with the gift, Salene had likely felt the emanations from these chambers throughout most of her life and so suspected that he now did, also.
At the end of the corridor, they descended once more. The Rathmian tensed, aware that they were very near their destination.
Moments later, they confronted a thick iron door. Salene held her lamp close, revealing an eight-sided starburst pattern set in the center. Polth stepped up to the front and, after handing his lamp to Zayl, tugged tight on the rounded handle.
The bodyguard pulled the ancient door open, a grating squeal accompanying its movement.
A torrent of whispering voices rushed up to meet Zayl. They spoke not to him, though, nor to any living thing. They were the voices of the very dead he had confronted earlier, the voices of Nesardo’s past reliving their former lives, over and over…
As Polth retrieved his lamp, Zayl noted Salene watching him intently. “Sometimes,” she murmured, “sometimes I think I hear my ancestors when I come down here…”
Lady Nesardo turned and entered. With Polth close at his back, the necromancer did the same.
And as he first beheld the crypt, Zayl realized that his visit among the dead earlier had given him only a mere indication of their final resting place.
Although the shadows hid the full enormity, the edifice clearly ran the length of the house and beyond. Zayl did a quick estimation and decided that it covered most of the family grounds. The ceiling was as high as that of many cathedrals. He and his companions actually stood at the top of yet another set of steps which led down to the meticulously built stone floor. To each side, vaults at least ten high held the remains of Salene’s bloodline. White, polished stone markers covered each space, the name and dates of the individual carved on them. The vaults continued on into the darkness, not one space in the immediate vicinity empty.
“We will have to walk a little farther,” whispered Salene, stepping down. “Riordan’s place is midway through this chamber.”
“Are there other levels?”
“Three. One bears the bodies of loyal servants. The deepest is actually not from my family. It was an earlier crypt. The first Nesardos built this upon it.”
The Rathmian’s brow wrinkled. “Where would one—”
She shook her head. “You can’t descend to it. The entrance caved in some centuries past during a quake. I know of it only because Riordan was always fascinated with our family history and uncovered the knowledge in his research.”
More than ever, Zayl wished to commune with the late Lord Nesardo’s shade. There was much that Riordan might be able to explain beyond Salene’s current needs.
A layer of gray ash covered the floor. Vague footprints preceded the three. One pair matched Salene’s in size and shape. So deep underground, the dust came, but came slowly. From the number of prints and their pattern of movement, he knew them to have been created during Riordan’s burial procession some years back. Glancing at his hostess, Zayl saw her unconsciously retracing her steps. He wondered if she now relived that tragic moment.
Deep below the surface they might be, but that did not mean the crypt was devoid of life. Scavenger beetles, some as large as Zayl’s palm, scattered out of sight as the lamps illuminated the way. Millipedes burrowed into cracks in vaults. Most astounding of all, though, where the shroud-like webs draping so many parts of the crypt. Several were large enough to cover a man and in them could be seen tombs of another kind: the wrapped, shriveled bodies of the spiders’ victims. Most were other insects, but a few were small rats, no doubt sickly ones to have fallen prey to the much tinier arachnids.
“When Riordan died, I had an army of workers clear this crypt of such vermin,” said Salene with a disgusted survey of the webs. “I can’t believe that it’s gotten this bad again. Where do they come from?”
Zayl did not reply, for he was instead caught up in the ever-increasing intensity of the psychic emanations. Each vault’s inhabitant existed in the same dreamlike state, their spirits active when they should have either rested or gone on. The whispers had reached such a level that he was at times tempted to cover his ears.
They had gone only a few steps more when the noblewoman suddenly paused. A look in her eyes was all the information the necromancer needed, but a glance up at the marble plate just above her head verified that they had indeed come upon the mortal remains of Riordan Nesardo.
“If you would prefer a moment to yourself, my lady—”
“No. I’ve had enough such moments since his death. I cared for my husband, Master Zayl, even loved him in a certain way, and likely always will. But now I think it’s best to continue with what we must, then leave him in peace.”
But the cowled spellcaster was not so certain that it would be as easy as Salene thought. From Riordan’s vault, Zayl suddenly realized that he sensed nothing. This was the only vault where no spirit was active. Why that, when all the others could not rest?
Such questions would, he hoped, be answered very soon. “I shall work here, then.” He returned, reaching into his cloak and removing a piece of white chalk from a pouch. “If I may have some room, please…”
As Salene and Polth stepped back, Zayl knelt. He placed his own lamp next to him, then began drawing a five-sided pattern. In the corner of each, he drew the five elements as Rathma preached them—earth, air, fire, water, and time—in the center the outline of a serpentine form, and under it a downward arch. This was a simplified version of the symbol representing Trag’Oul, one commonly used for spellcasting. As the fulcrum of the Balance, the dragon was bound to all the elements and they to him. Although the symbol was simplified, the overall pattern was far more complex than Zayl had often utilized in the past. Myriad symbols soon decorated each of its borders. The necromancer suspected that all of them would be necessary if he hoped to achieve results.
When the pattern was finally complete, he reached into the large pouch and removed Humbart.
“What a depressing place!” the skull growled. “I wouldn’t be caught dead here…if I had any choice in the matter, that is.”
From Salene’s direction came a brief chuckle, while from Polth there emerged only a grunt. His having expected the shade of Riordan Nesardo to possibly appear at some point, a talking skull evidently seemed far less astounding to the bodyguard.
“Quiet, Humbart,” the necromancer murmured. He placed the fleshless head in the center, over the mark of T
rag’Oul. There were times when uses arose for the skull, and this was one of them. As a soul midway between the afterworld and the mortal plane, Humbart Wessel offered a link like no other. He was yet another precaution Zayl had put in place to better his chances of reaching Salene’s departed mate.
“Don’t know why I’m doing this,” Humbart continued to grumble. “Them souls are all so flighty, so full of their misery and loss. If I had a stomach, it’d empty from all their whining…” That said, the spirit stilled.
The Rathmian retrieved the tiny vial of blood donated by Salene, then, with the tip of his dagger, drew the contents up onto the blade. He took the weapon and outlined a circle around the skull and the mark.
Looking up at the noblewoman, Zayl said, “The items, please.”
Salene handed him the sack. The necromancer reached in and removed the pieces one at a time. The first was a ceremonial dagger with the Nesardo symbol etched into the hilt—a hilt that looked to be pure gold. The edge of the weapon was blunt, the item for show, not for use.
The second piece Zayl removed was a blue, silken scarf such as the Rathmian had seen adorning the throats of a couple of returning nobles aboard ship. Imported from across the Twin Seas, such an item marked Riordan’s high status in Westmarch.
Setting the scarf and dagger outside the circle of blood, Zayl located the last piece in the sack: a medallion with a golden chain. The necromancer frowned as he gazed upon it. The chain was of recent forging, but the medallion was much, much more ancient. More ancient than House Nesardo, in fact.
The metallic piece had almost been worn smooth by time, but he made out a shape—a head—with eight limbs sprouting from it. Zayl frowned, trying to recall anything in his teachings that matched such an image. When nothing did, he reluctantly added the final item to its proper place outside the circle.
“I will begin the summoning now,” he informed Salene. “It would be best if you were next to me so that your near proximity can enhance our hopes of success.”
Without hesitation, she complied. Her sudden closeness momentarily distracted Zayl, who was more used to performing summonings without another nearby. He sensed her power pulsate with each breath she took, the gift so naturally a part of her that the woman likely did not know the potential she carried.
Polth suddenly stirred. Zayl assumed that he was somehow the cause for the bodyguard’s reaction, but Polth, hand on his weapon, instead peered into the darkness farther in.
“What is it, Polth?” Salene asked.
“Nothing, mistress. One of the vermin, I suppose.”
The necromancer held the ivory dagger over the center and began to murmur. He felt energies swirl around him, gathering for the spell. The whispers of the ghosts halted as they felt the intrusion into their plane begin.
Riordan …, Zayl silently called. Riordan Nesardo, husband of Salene…Riordan, Lord of House Nesardo …
Several previous lords of the manor briefly stirred, then returned to their dream states when they realized it was not they whom the necromancer sought. Zayl had learned from the earlier incident to focus more, so as not to re-create the havoc he had caused those souls.
The crypt had always been cool, but now a stiff chill filled it. Salene abruptly shivered and Polth let out a low curse. To the Rathmian, however, the sudden shift in temperature was a promising sign. It meant that his spell was indeed reaching into the spirit world.
Riordan … Riordan Nesardo … come to us … come in the hour of your bride’s need … A reluctant soul was often more willing to respond if a loved one was so involved.
Zayl felt a sudden stirring. He manipulated the dagger over the pattern, uttering words passed down by Rathma to his followers, words in a language known only to the faithful.
But nothing further happened. The necromancer sensed that something wanted to come, but that other forces held it back.
Without glancing at Salene, Zayl said, “My lady, if you would place one hand on the hilt of the dagger, I would ask then that you softly call your husband’s name.”
She obeyed without question, clearly trusting in his knowledge and skills. Zayl adjusted his grip so that she could properly touch the hilt, then focused his spellwork to coincide with her summons.
“Riordan?” the noblewoman whispered to the silent crypt. “Riordan…can you hear me? It’s Salene. Please, Riordan…I need to speak with you…”
Now the presence stirred anew, pressing closer, but something still held it back. The necromancer had a vague impression of a winged form—
He grabbed for Salene. “Down!”
“Something’s coming, lad!” roared Humbart. “I think it might be a—”
A flesh-rending howl filled the crypt, echoing over and over again. Rats, insects, and arachnids scattered in primal terror.
From the webs and dust formed a monstrous thing with wide wings both fiery and yet dry and decayed. Its body was a cadaverous corpse with not even enough flesh left to cover its bones. There was some semblance of a face—a man’s, so it seemed—with wisps of hair and even some beard remaining. But there were no eyes left, only black pits, and the howling skeletal mouth was distended beyond mortal limits.
The arms, too, stretched far beyond anything human and, like a bat’s limbs, were part of the wings. The remaining fingers were twisted talons clearly capable of shredding.
Even as it coalesced, the ghastly shade soared down upon them. Zayl had barely thrown Salene to the floor before the fiendish shadow passed directly over them. Had they still been kneeling, it would have gone through their bodies.
“What is it?” blurted the noblewoman. “Is that—is that Riordan?”
“No…it is a wraith, a damned soul!” And what it was doing here now was of especial interest to the Rathmian. Unfortunately, before he could consider the reasons, he first had to survive the encounter. “Polth! Take her!”
He need not have even spoken. The bodyguard had already leaned down to seize his mistress. Polth lifted Salene to her feet as if she weighed nothing. He then kept one protective arm around her while with the other he brandished his weapon.
But a sword was no match for a wraith. Rolling to his feet, the necromancer brought up his dagger. Not at all to his surprise, the monstrous spirit fixated on him. Wraiths ever thirsted for what they no longer had, and spellcasters offered them a double bounty. Both Zayl’s life force and his magic presented a bounty. They would not slake the horror’s thirst—nothing mortal could—but that would not keep the wraith from draining him of everything regardless.
And then it would go after Salene, who also had the gift.
Eyes on the shrieking ghoul, Zayl commanded, “Take her upstairs! It will not follow out of the crypt! Go!”
“No! I won’t leave you alone!” The Lady Nesardo struggled to escape Polth’s ursine grip.
“Mistress, you must come!” The giant began dragging her toward the distant steps.
With a chilling scream, the wraith flew down at Zayl. Although its origins had once been human, it no longer had a lower torso. Instead, a savage, bony tail whipped back and forth—acting almost like a scorpion’s sting. The sinister shade was not in any way corporeal, but if any part passed through the Rathmian, it would be as if a hundred blades had been thrust into his heart.
And that agony would pale in comparison to what he would suffer when the wraith began to suck him dry.
Muttering quickly, Zayl held the dagger up. From the nearest vaults, a torrent of bones burst through the marble. They tumbled in front of the necromancer, forming in an instant a wall whose brilliant illumination matched that of the dagger. Zayl disliked disturbing the bones of Salene’s kin, but had no choice.
The wraith veered off just before it would have touched the bone barrier. It shrieked angrily, seeking a way around Zayl’s spell.
That would not take long, either. In truth, such a defense would hold little against the monster, but the necromancer sought only a delay so that he could prepare a better
defense. At least with the focus on him, Salene was safe.
But then, from the shadows, he sensed the movements of others.
Risking himself, he glanced toward the darkened steps. “Get her out of here, Polth! Quickly! There—”
Finally having determined that the bones were no menace to it, the wraith chose that moment to plunge. As it flowed through the barrier, the bones quivered…and the entire structure collapsed in a heap.
Zayl brought up the dagger again, but too late. He turned the ghoulish creature aside, but one wing passed through his torso.
It was as if someone had stolen a piece of his soul. Crying out, the Rathmian dropped to one knee. It was all he could do to keep a grip on the dagger.
“Zayl, lad! There’s a foul beast atop the vaults! A big, hairy bastard of a spider thing with fangs and claws! By my lost soul, there’s another!”
Low, sibilant hisses, coming from all sides—even from overhead—now filled the crypt.
Several monstrous forms dropped through the thick webs above.
Salene screamed.
Through pain-racked eyes, Zayl saw the darkened figures of her and Polth suddenly surrounded by at least four hunching shapes that would have been nearly as tall as the bodyguard if standing straight. They seemed some hellish cross between men and giant, black arachnids. Polth held them at bay with his sword, but the creatures, moving about on the back four of their macabre limbs, paced around the pair in clear preparation for a group attack. One opened wide its lipless maw, hissing and revealing a pair of huge fangs such as the necromancer had seen on jungle spiders of the most virulent toxicity.
But concern for Salene and Polth faded into the back of his mind as Zayl sensed the wraith returning for him. He rolled out of the way just as the specter dropped into the area where he had been kneeling.
“Come and try that on me!” snapped Humbart. “I’ll take you on with no hands to tie behind my back!”
The wraith moaned at the skull and with a vicious beat of its ethereal wing somehow sent Humbart rolling. He swore as he collided with one wall of vaults.
Diablo: Moon of the Spider Page 7