Darksiders: The Abomination Vault (6 page)

Surrounded by twin columns of angels, they marched from the copses of trees through blasted clearings, smoldering wounds in the primeval woodland, then deeper into the forest once more. None of the angels seemed remotely as comfortable with Death’s presence as Azrael did; Death, for his part, would have had to actually be sleeping to care any less
how
they felt.

A soft flutter overhead heralded Dust’s reappearance, settling to perch on the dull outer curve of Harvester’s blade.

“Interesting,” Azrael observed.

“Not really. Crows are very poor conversationalists.”

“A good thing you’ve never had any interest in conversation, then.”

Death glanced sidelong at Azrael’s expression, but it remained impassive. He honestly couldn’t tell if the angel had meant that in jest or not.

A few moments more of leaves and sticks crunching under the warriors’ heavy tread, a constant popping as though the forest itself were an arthritic grandparent, and the procession came across the first of the shattered stone soldiers.

They could have stopped to allow a closer examination, but a glance told Death enough for now. He could not quite agree with Sarasael’s description. It seemed, to him, less like a canine with a humanoid torso, and more like a blocky insect, rearing up so that its front legs might rend and grab. Everything else was as the departed soul had portrayed: the graven runes, the carapace of rock, and the utter lack of any unnecessary features—such as, for instance, a head.

“Solid stone, all the way through,” Azrael said without looking around.

“And the others? The stone-and-brass soldiers?”

“Largely hollow, save for some rods providing the outer surface with extra structural support. Part of why they could move so swiftly, I suppose.”

“Hmm.” Death allowed himself a few paces to reflect. Then, “I’m not familiar with either design,” he admitted. “If I’ve ever seen them before, I don’t recall it.”

“Nor were any of us,” Azrael told him. “Which means we have no idea who attacked us. Constructs
usually
mean a Maker, but …”

“But plenty of others have hired, purchased, or even usurped mastery of constructs before,” Death concluded. “Meaning that, for all your deliberations and all the soldiers you lost, you have nothing of any substance.”

“Your tact, as always, is overwhelmingly appreciated.”

Death chose to let that lie. The next length of their journey passed without conversation, save for the occasional resentful murmur of angels who would much rather be soaring back to their camp than trudging over the dirt like “lesser beings.”

Any spiteful satisfaction Death might have gained from their discomfort vanished utterly, however, beneath a tide of agony that flowed from up ahead.

It wasn’t
his
pain; he wasn’t suffering in any way. But he was
aware
of the torment of others, the anguish of creatures unaccustomed to such things. It was rather like the tang of rain in the air, or that first gust of wind announcing the coming of winter, sensed by the spirit rather than the body.

And he felt, too, the recent passing of so very many souls.

“Our camp,” Azrael announced, with just a hint of bitterness.

“How primitive,” Death said blandly.

The so-called camp boasted a surrounding rampart of ivory-white stone, some twenty paces in height and easily three times that, lengthwise, on each side. A portcullis of gleaming silver, its bars serrated into thousands of barbed fangs, provided the only means of entry for earthbound creatures. At each of the four corners, a spindly tower loomed nearly as high above the battlements as the battlements rose above the soil—and atop each tower, a double-barreled siege cannon some four times the size of the portable weapons Death had so recently faced.

“Imagine,” the Horseman continued, “what you could have accomplished with actual time and resources.”

Azrael nodded grimly, apparently oblivious—or perhaps simply naturally immune—to Death’s sarcasm. “Sadly lacking, I know. Still, the best we could manage, given the circumstances.”

The twin columns of angels, along with their guest, approached the lustrous gate at a casual pace. The nearest cannons tracked their every move, swiveling at seemingly impossible angles to maintain a line of fire even as they stood by the wall itself. The portcullis didn’t rise to allow ingress;
rather it faded almost completely from sight, leaving only a wavering mirage in its place. As best Death could describe the sensation of passing through those phantom bars, it felt like stepping through a waterfall, without the getting-wet part.

Only when they’d passed through the battlements did the cannons return their aim toward the surrounding woods and the horizons beyond.

Within the fortifications, a perfectly geometrical array of smaller structures glinted orange in the sunlight. Each was constructed of an amber-hued glass, just opaque enough to allow privacy to anyone within. Death knew, without the need for close examination, that the substance would be as strong as stone or steel despite its crystalline appearance—not due to any special senses on his part, but simply because he knew that angels in the field would accept nothing weaker.

In neat rows between the buildings, bloodied soldiers lay on stiff cots, recovering from their injuries. More angels dashed around them, tending the wounded with medicinal balms both alchemical and mystical. They did their best—their faces had gone slack with exhaustion and effort—but they were so few, and their patients many. Blotches of blood and scattered feathers were more abundant on the grass than fallen leaves.

The accompanying angels peeled off to return to their own cots, or to seek treatment for their injuries, many glaring at Death as they departed. Azrael alone remained to lead the Horseman to the one structure that stood in the perfect center of the encampment.

Of course
.

No doors marred the perfect crystal surface. As with the portcullis, a section of the wall simply phased away, allowing the angel and the Rider to enter.

“What is
that
doing here?” The voice was gruff, powerful, clearly accustomed to instant and unquestioning obedience—but it also quavered, ever so slightly, with repressed agony.

“A pleasure, Lord Abaddon,” Death replied.

The greatest warrior the White City had ever produced sat upon a chair of ivory-hued hardwood, gripping it so tightly that the armrests had cracked. Shoulders and chest seemingly large enough to uproot a small mountain were encased in gold-trimmed armor so heavy that most angels couldn’t have lifted it, let alone worn it. The square jaw, framed by an unkempt mass of the angels’ traditional platinum hair, was distended in a furious scowl that seemed quite capable of
chewing
through the defensive walls.

A pair of angels stood, one to either side of the great general, tending his injuries. With balm-soaked cloths and foul-smelling unguents, they prodded—ever careful, ever gentle—at their commander’s face.

And it was, indeed, that face that drew Death’s attention. Vicious gouges marred the flesh from forehead to cheek on both sides, and a crimson-soaked bandage completely hid the angel’s right eye.

Or, to judge by the concave flex of the blood-stiffened fabric, the empty socket that had once housed the eye.

That Abaddon was conscious, let alone functional and rational, was enough to impress even the impassive Horseman.

Azrael stepped between them, speaking softly but swiftly. A few emphatic gestures, a few barked questions, and Abaddon grudgingly nodded.

“All right, Horseman. Azrael’s convinced me we’re on the same side of this—for now.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

The general grumbled, low in his throat. “Tell me what you know.”

“Less than you do,” Death said. “I know of the attack, up to the appearance of the brass warriors. Beyond that …” He shrugged.

“There’s little to tell beyond that,” Abaddon said. “They
gave us some trouble, and I lost some good soldiers, but we rebuffed them.”

“Did you?” Death asked him. “Are you certain?”

Abaddon’s glower returned, stiffer even than before.

“We did,” Azrael said, stepping in. “I know what you’re asking, Death, and I can assure you, the garden was not breached.”

“Hmm. I’ll need to see for myself. Once I’ve returned, we can—”

“No,” Abaddon growled.

While, at the same time, Azrael said, “The way is barred.”

“Then unbar it.”

“I’m sorry,” Azrael told him, and it sounded as though he genuinely meant that. “I understand how important this is to you—”

“You cannot
possibly—
”

“—but we cannot risk it. The enemy may still be watching. To lower the defenses, even for a moment, might grant them the opportunity they require. I won’t do so, not even for you.”

“I know my way to the gate,” Death said, his voice dangerously calm. Only the blazing fire in his eyes, stoked brighter than Azrael had ever seen it, suggested the growing fury within. “Do you believe your wards can keep me out indefinitely if I choose to break them?”

“Not indefinitely,” the scholarly angel said softly. “But long. Long enough for our common enemy, whoever he may be, to move to whatever the next stage of whatever plan he’s following.”

“And you’d be fending off the forces of the White City at every moment,” Abaddon said. “
After
having had to kill every one of us present just to begin.”

“Myself included,” Azrael added.

Death’s mask couldn’t hide his scowl. “You? You’ve never been a warrior, Azrael.”

“Neither am I remotely helpless on the battlefield, as you well know. Would you really pit yourself against all of Heaven merely to confirm with your own eyes what I swear to you is true? When I’ve no reason to deceive you?”

The general’s two attendants fell back, seemingly pushed away by an almost palpable clash of wills. Three of the most potent beings in Creation watched one another, each considering what the other might say next,
do
next. Azrael looked almost to be holding his breath; Abaddon, with his remaining eye, measuring the distance to the impossibly gargantuan sword standing upright in the corner.

And Death … finally shook his head. Azrael had too much control to sigh in relief, but everyone sensed it all the same.

“Know this, though,” the Horseman said. “If I find you were wrong, if I find that Eden was breached and the remains of my brethren have been disturbed in any way, not all the blades in Heaven will keep me from you.”

“Understood.”

Death turned away, staring at the amber wall as he struggled to swim against the rushing tide of anger. Only when he was certain that he’d regained all control did he look back at the angels.

“So what now?”

“We need to decide that,” Abaddon said. The Horseman chose to ignore the fact that the general’s gaze continued to flicker between Death himself and that sword. “Can you …” Clearly he had no desire to say what he was about to say. “Can you ask one of
them
who sent them?”

“No. Some constructs have souls, like any other creature; lesser automatons have life, but no true soul. These are the latter. There’s nothing for me to call back and question.”

“Then,” Abaddon said, “until we can determine who attacked us, I don’t see much we
can
do.” His lips twisted in a
rictus grin: bitter, self-mocking, and utterly without humor. “But then, I’m not seeing as well as I used to, am I?”

“All the miracles of angelic medicine I’ve heard about aren’t enough?” Death asked. “Surely regrowing a lost eye isn’t beyond your healers’ skills.”

“Normally, no,” Azrael said. He glanced briefly at Abaddon, who nodded once, reluctantly. “But in this instance, it’s not to be. Something about the weapon that struck Lord Abaddon was … horribly unnatural. The wounds it dealt turned instantly necrotic. Our healers, and the general’s own strength, kept the rot and poison from spreading, but I fear the wounds themselves are beyond even our … Death? What is it?”

The Horseman’s body had gone rigid as any tombstone. The skin on his knuckles threatened to tear.

“This weapon,” he whispered, barely more than a breath. The others had to lean in to make out the words. “Was this the sword that one of the brass-armored constructs carried?” Then, at Abaddon’s grunt and Azrael’s nod, “Do you have it?”

“No,” the general told him sourly. “The construct that carried it was one of those that retreated when it became clear they could not win past us.”

“A narrow-bladed sword? Nearly as long as I am tall, but scarcely three fingers wide at the base? Serpentine filigree running up the center of the blade?”

Both angels stared openly now. “What do you know?” Abaddon demanded.

Again Death turned away, apparently scrutinizing some unseen image—or some half-faded memory—hovering between him and the wall. Finally, just as Abaddon was drawing breath to speak again, he said, “We are allies in this? I can trust you to keep me apprised of anything you discover?”

“Assuming you are equally forthcoming with us, of course,”
Azrael said. The general glowered at him, shifting uncomfortably in his creaking chair, but made no overt protest.

“Affliction.”
Still Death kept his back turned, as though concerned, despite the mask, that they might read something untoward in his visage. “The name of the sword is Affliction.”

“Descriptive enough,” Abaddon said flatly. “But how do you know of it?”

“Because it’s a Nephilim weapon.” Finally, the Horseman turned toward them, raising his scythe for emphasis. “Taken from the Makers and imbued with our power at roughly the same time as Harvester.”

“I see.” Abaddon’s sneer had deepened, his single eye narrowed sharply enough to cut, and Azrael didn’t seem much happier. “And who wields it now, Horseman? One of you?”

“No. No, Abaddon, that’s the problem. Affliction was lost ages ago, on the fields of Kothysos.”

“Kothysos? I don’t believe I know of that one.”

Once it became clear that Death wasn’t planning to elaborate, Azrael spoke up. “There’s little written of it, even in the Library of the Argent Spire. We know it occurred during the height of the Nephilim rampage across the many realms. Several races of the Old Ones, concerned that they could not defend themselves if the horde turned their way, hired an enormous army of mercenary demons to crush the Nephilim. They met on the fields of Kothysos.