But his distraction did what it was supposed to. Given the chance to recover enough, Zayl cast another spell.
A spear of bone formed in the air before the Rathmian. With a single word more, Zayl sent it flying at the wraith.
The Talon of Trag’Oul was a weapon both physical and mystical. That the wraith had no mortal substance made no difference.
The Talon’s target turned just as the spear reached it. The wraith sought to twist out of the way, but moved too slow.
Zayl’s missile tore through its side.
A shriek more horrifying than any previous escaped the specter. Still screaming, it turned and vanished into the deeper section of the crypt.
Gasping from his efforts, the necromancer looked to Salene and Polth. Their grotesque attackers had finally worked up their strategy. One leapt up onto the vaults, then to the ceiling, where it dropped down toward the bodyguard. Polth instinctively shifted to meet it. The moment he reacted, two others—the foremost crawling across the opposing vaults—charged Salene.
But she was evidently not the helpless figure that they thought her. The crimson-haired noblewoman gestured toward the one leaping at her from the vaults—and a bolt of ice struck the hellish arachnid square in the chest. Hurtled back at the wall, it hit with a bone-cracking thud, then crumpled in a heap on the floor. Frost covered its entire body and sprinkled the air around the corpse.
Salene gaped at what she had done.
The second horror tried to use her shock to its advantage. Fangs dripping and claws out, it lunged for her throat.
There was a flash of icy blue light, and in its brief illumination what appeared to be a shield of some sort came between Salene and the fangs.
Howling, the monster pulled back a paw completely frozen solid. Again, Salene seemed startled at what was clearly her own handiwork.
Polth had managed to avoid the first creature’s plunge at him. With expert swordplay, he drove it back, then, seeing a moment, turned and ran the one with the ruined paw through.
But then another leapt out of the shadows, bowling the giant over from behind. Two more of the demonic arachnids joined their comrade in assaulting the bodyguard.
Without hesitation, Zayl threw his dagger. The glowing blade flew unerringly at his target, sinking into the back of one of the creatures. Hissing sharply, the man/spider spun in a circle, grasping frantically for the deeply buried weapon.
The fact that it was still buried there startled the Rathmian utterly. By rights, the dagger should have returned to him once its grisly task had been done. By blood and sacrifice, it had been bound to his conscious will years ago. If he desired it to come to him, it did…but not now.
Only then did Zayl understand that he had played right into someone’s hand.
The sixth beast fell out of the dark webs above him, hissing lustily as it landed upon the spellcaster. The heavy weight crushed Zayl into the floor, nearly knocking him unconscious. He felt clawed hands tear at his back, rending his garments with ease and leaving bloody gashes in his flesh. Burning venom dripped onto the back of his neck.
But Zayl was not easily subdued. He slammed his elbow into his adversary’s midsection and heard a satisfactory grunt of pain. Some of the weight vanished, enough so that the Rathmian could turn on his back and better face his foe.
The monstrosity snapped at him with yellowed fangs as long as Zayl’s fingers. Its breath stank of the grave. Yet, the eyes were the most unsettling aspect of all, for Zayl could have sworn that they carried in them a human trait.
Then, the Rathmian’s gaze shifted upward and he saw an odd growth atop the head of the fiend. After a moment, the necromancer realized that it was a separate creature…a smaller spider, but one still larger than his hand. It stared in his direction with baleful red orbs, its own smaller fangs twitching evilly.
The revelation almost undid Zayl, for his astonishment gave the larger fiend the chance to tighten his grip. The fangs drew near the necromancer’s throat and—
Suddenly a heavy fist struck the monster in the side of the head. The beast tumbled back. Polth filled Zayl’s view. The bodyguard’s uniform was ripped to shreds and he had scars everywhere, but he wore a triumphant grin.
“My thanks, Master Zayl,” Polth rumbled. “The one you took from me, it was enough. The other two, they fled, having learned their folly!”
Sure enough, other than the Rathmian’s foe, the only creatures left were the dead ones. Even as Polth helped Zayl rise, the final creature scurried back up into the shadows.
The necromancer frowned. He was forced to acknowledge that he could not magically sense the creatures. They were a complete blank to his abilities. Small wonder that he had been caught off guard by the one dropping from above.
Another concern took over. Zayl tried to look past the imposing bodyguard. “Salene! Is she—”
“Untouched she is—but unharmed…I can’t say.”
Zayl saw why. Salene Nesardo stood where he had last noted her, both arms wrapped tight around herself. She stared at the beast she had slain, and Zayl knew right then that this was the first life that his hostess had ever taken. That it was some monstrous creature seeking her own death did not matter.
“We must get her upstairs and into bed,” the necromancer suggested. “The surroundings will help ease her thoughts. You go to her. I will be with you shortly.”
“Aye.”
Humbart’s skull lay eye sockets up. A low mutter flowed from the late mercenary’s fleshless head, much of it having to do with wishes for a good sword arm and a pair of legs. Aware that if his companion could grumble so he was undamaged, Zayl went first for his dagger, still tight in the back of its victim. As he stumbled along, he crossed what was left of the spell pattern.
Wait please wait please wait please listen please listen please!
The frantic intensity of the voice suddenly inside Zayl’s head made him clutch his skull in renewed pain. He concentrated, drawing up mental shields that made the cry more tolerable.
He seeks the moon seeks the moon seeks the moon he has it but it is not the moon but it is the moon and if the moon is held to the moon then the spider will come again …
Zayl tried his best to make sense of the rambling words. He knew immediately their source. Riordan Nesardo had finally responded, albeit neither in the manner expected nor on the subject for which his shade had been sought. But his frenetic tone indicated that this was a warning that needed to be told more than anything else, and that was what mattered now.
What do you mean? the necromancer thought. What of the spider? What of the moon?
A vague, misty form drew together near the vault where Salene’s husband had been buried. Spider moon spider moon spider moon moon spider moon spider moon of the spider moon of the spider the time comes the spider comes Astrogha comes …
“Astrogha?” Zayl blurted. Something about the name struck a chord. “Moon of the Spider?”
“Zayl!”
Riordan’s presence vanished from his head, as did the shadow on the vault. Zayl heard Polth’s swearing voice and realized that the one who had called the necromancer’s name had been Salene.
“Look out, lad!” added Humbart. “It’s back—”
Strong hands grabbed the Rathmian, tossing him far. Zayl landed atop the very beast toward which he had been heading. His face slid against the hilt of his dagger. He instinctively seized the mystical weapon, tugging it free and spinning around to see what was happening.
The shriek that filled the crypt was answer enough even before Zayl finished turning. The wraith had returned, seeking to feast upon the distracted spellcaster.
But Polth had thrown Zayl out of its imminent path. The bodyguard stood defiantly, his sword again out just as the wailing specter fell upon him.
Yet, where the Rathmian might have had some defense, the fighter did not. The wraith coursed through him without pause, its taloned wings seeming to grasp at Polth’s chest as it did.
The gia
nt screamed. His body shook and his skin shriveled. The sword fell from his crumbling fingers. Polth’s desiccated flesh turned to ash and even before he fell, there was little left of him but a skeleton.
The wraith continued on, its hunger unabated. Salene stood directly before it, the noblewoman so horrified by the death of her loyal servant that she stood frozen.
Zayl held the dagger before him, point down. He spouted out the words to the spell as quickly as he could. Polth had perished for him; he would not let the same fate befall Salene.
The pale illumination spread from the dagger to the wraith, enveloping the winged fiend as if in one of the spiders’ webs. The wraith shrieked as it still sought Salene, who stood barely a yard from its vile reach.
Standing, the necromancer cried, “Ulth i Rathma syn!”
The light pulled back into the blade…and with it came the thrashing specter. The creature howled and flapped as hard as it could, but it was unable to escape the pull. Zayl shuddered with effort, for the spell he used drew from his own soul. Yet, if he let up in the least, the Rathmian knew full well, the wraith would have both the noblewoman and him.
His spell was a variation of the life-tap that a necromancer could use to revitalize himself with the essence of a foe. It was ever a dangerous spell, for in taking in the life of another, one risked taking on the victim’s attributes. There were legends of Rathmians who had literally become their vanquished enemies, necromancers who had then turned to the side of Hell until hunted down by their brethren.
But what Zayl attempted now had even greater risks. He had combined the life tap with a mastery spell generally used on the recently deceased. Utilized against a common shade, there would have been little risk, but here Zayl sought control against one of the most malevolent of the undead. Worse was the fact that though what he absorbed now weakened his adversary, it also sickened the Rathmian. Zayl took not life into him, but the undeath that was the wraith’s essence. The coldness that filled the human was one that even a servant of the Balance could not long tolerate and live.
Passing above Polth’s ravaged corpse, the shrieking wraith neared the blade. Zayl gritted his teeth. He had one last spell in mind, but he wanted the specter contained as much as possible before he attempted it or else all the necromancer would accomplish was slaying the noblewoman and himself.
Closer…closer…
There!
Zayl focused on the bodyguard’s remains.
Polth’s corpse exploded, the anguish of his death a most powerful force. Zayl steered that force at the wraith.
Amplified by the necromancer’s magic, the death energies overwhelmed the specter, burning it away. The wraith managed one final, angry shriek—and vanished without a trace.
Zayl tried to unbind himself from the wraith’s destruction, but his effort was not entirely successful. The deathly energies enveloped him …
The last thing he heard was Salene’s cry.
SIX
Salene Nesardo had not known what to make of the pale, dark-haired figure when she had first decided to have Polth approach him in the Black Ram. It felt right to seek the necromancer’s skills, despite a childhood in which the Zakarum Church had played a significant role. Perhaps her choice had also been in part due to her gift—or curse, as she sometimes thought it—or perhaps when she had looked into his gray eyes, the noblewoman had recognized the man within. Rumor and legend made the necromancers vile, disturbed scavengers of the grave, spellcasters in league with evil, but that had not been what Salene had seen inside Zayl. She had, in point of fact, seen something akin to what she noted in her own mirror: a silent determination to do what had to be done, no matter what the consequence to one’s self.
And now, Zayl had nearly died because of her.
He lay in the bed she had set aside for him, the first time he had made use of it. Fearful to leave him alone in the crypt while she ran for help, Salene had dragged him up the steps as best she could. Only when he had been safely out had she gone for Sardak. With her brother’s aid, they had brought him back to the room.
Salene’s hands still shook. She witnessed Polth’s death over and over in her mind. He had served her loyally even before her marriage to Riordan and had not hesitated to protect the necromancer. That last had surprised her, but perhaps Polth had believed Zayl the best chance for her survival. It shamed her that there was nothing of the man left to bury—the Rathmian’s last spell had destroyed what little the wraith had not—but she knew that Polth had never been one for ceremony. He would have liked Zayl’s using him as the weapon that had destroyed his slayer.
An unusually subdued Sardak had offered to summon servants to help her, but Salene knew that none of them would come near the necromancer. Fortunately, she had never been as delicate as some of her counterparts, and in fact knew something of aiding the injured from having had to help her brother after some of his more elaborate drinking bouts.
And if her own skills proved too limited, she evidently had the aid of the late Humbart Wessel upon which to call.
“Gently there, gently there,” admonished the skull as she peeled away what remained of Zayl’s cloak and shirt. “You brought some good strong whiskey for those wounds, I hope.”
“It’s right next to you.” The mercenary’s skull—brought back at the same time as Zayl—sat atop its usual place, the flask of whiskey to its left side.
“Make sure you drench each of those beasts’ slashes with it. I hope it’s got some good bite in it, not like some of those fancy liquors bluebloods drink … beggin’ your pardon, my lady.”
“My brother drinks it. It should kill any infection.”
Humbart chuckled hollowly. “Wish I could taste it, I do!”
As she used a knife to cut away the strips of material, Salene noted that at least Zayl breathed steadily. That said, his already-pale skin was practically pure white, save for some blueness around his lips. That frightened her.
The noblewoman took a moist cloth from a ceramic bowl she had brought with her and began wiping clean the wounds. Sweat matted the hair on Zayl’s chest and his body felt like an inferno despite the snowy look.
When she was satisfied that she had wiped off the wounds as much as possible, Salene retrieved the whiskey. There were herbs that she knew could have also helped, but it was too late to send out a servant to find someone who sold them.
With extreme caution, the noblewoman poured a few drops on the first wound.
Zayl flinched slightly. Salene waited for more of a reaction, but none followed.
“Have no fear, lass,” Humbart assured her. “Zayl’s got a strong pain threshold. That’s all I’d be expecting from him even now.”
Breathing easier, she applied more whiskey. Each time, the necromancer reacted in the same mild manner.
“That should be enough,” Salene murmured a few minutes later. As she stoppered the flask, she realized for the first time that she had never bothered to remove the long glove from Zayl’s right hand; he had taken off the left one at some point during the summoning. Wanting him to feel as comfortable as possible, the Lady Nesardo began tugging on the garment.
“There’s no need for that!” the skull suddenly piped up, the tone bordering on frantic. “He’s perfectly fine with the glove on! It’s a Rathmian thing, you know! Just leave it—damn!”
A brief scream escaped Salene.
She stumbled back in horror at what lay beneath. It twitched as if in response to her scream, further heightening her shock.
“Salene!” Sardak banged on the door with his fist. “Salene, what’s going on?” He shoved the door open, pushing her to the side at the same time.
“’Tis nothing, lass!” insisted Humbart. “Nothing at all! You—”
“Fire and brimstone!” snapped her brother. “What did I tell you about his kind?”
Salene continued to stare, her horror now mixed with morbid fascination. She heard neither Sardak’s nor the skull’s words. All that mattered was the gr
isly sight before her.
Zayl’s right hand was fleshless.
Only a few well-placed strands of sinew seemed to hold the bones together. Otherwise, no skin, not a single patch, draped the horrific appendage. The entire hand was the same from the tip of the longest finger to the wrist. Only there did bone and flesh come together, and even then it was at first in a charred stump that continued for two or three inches into the forearm.
Sardak seized hold of her. “Come with me, Salene! Leave this monster to his own devices—”
“Here now! Zayl’s as good a man as any you’ll find!”
The noblewoman shook her head, her thoughts gradually clearing. “No … no, Sardak. He saved my life, and tried to save Polth’s!”
“Salene—”
She gently guided her brother back to the door. “Thank you for your concern, Sardak, but I’m all right. You return to your room. If I need you, I’ll come for you.”
Her brother tousled his hair. All the drink had burnt out of him. He eyed the skeletal hand with continued disgust, but finally nodded. “You’ll do what you think best, sister dear. You always do.” Sardak met her gaze. “But know that I’ll be listening for you. The slightest damned sound out of the ordinary and I’ll be back—with a sword ready!”
He closed the door behind him, leaving Salene alone with Zayl and the skull. Salene tentatively approached the still form on the bed.
“Did it … is it from what happened in the crypt?”
Humbart’s voice was entirely subdued. “I’d like to say that was the case just so you’d think more kindly of him, but, no, lass—my lady—it wasn’t. That happened a while back.”
“Tell me.”
“’Twas cursed ones who took it, slavering damned souls from a lost city called Ureh. The lad and a bunch of treasure hunters had found the place—actually, he and I were trying to keep them from entering. We already knew that there was something bad about the city, but never expected what we found! It was a ruin then, but it came to life while we were all there. All beautiful and peaceful, we thought—until everyone started disappearing and the city’s ruler turned out to be bound to one of the Prime Evils themselves! Zayl was one of two to survive, but it cost him his hand, ripped off by those fiends.”
Diablo: Moon of the Spider Page 8