Darksiders: The Abomination Vault (16 page)

“What I fail to understand,” War said, in what was blatantly an attempt to shift the conversation, “is what threat the Grand Abominations could pose. If the Vault remains hidden, and all the Abominations are locked within—”

“That’s just the problem,” Death interrupted. “They
aren’t
all locked within.”

The eyes of the triple idols filled once more with flame.
“Explain!”

“I thought that might get your attention. The
bulk
of the weapons are indeed within the Vault. Over the many eons of the Nephilim rampage, however, some were lost. Abandoned on scattered battlefields, or perhaps taken by a truly fortunate foe who never knew what he had. We
believed
that most of those lost had been destroyed, but of course we could never be positive.

“Now I’m fairly certain that our enemy, whoever they are, already have possession of at least one, if not more. Two were
lost on the fields of Kothysos, and the pieces that remain there now are insufficient to entirely account for them. And I cannot imagine that our foe would be so foolish as to tip his hand by attempting to breach Eden—in order, one assumes, to search our fallen brethren for more of the Abominations—if they didn’t already know
precisely
what trail they were on.”

“Do you think they’ve learned how to awaken the ones they have?” Strife asked from behind the gathered trio.

“I’ve seen no evidence of that level of power,” Death answered. “I have to assume not. But they’re most certainly making every effort.”

“So be it.”
It was from the leftmost head that the pronouncement boomed.
“You are correct, Horseman. Your usefulness does, for now, outweigh your insolence. Your punishment shall wait for a more opportune time.”

“Thank you
so
much.”

“For the nonce, you will locate this Maker, Belisatra, and anyone else at the heart of this cabal. You will eradicate them, and any threat they pose. Above all, you will
ensure
that none outside the purview of the Charred Council locate the Abomination Vault, or obtain the weapons.”

Death offered a shallow bow, only marginally sardonic. “As I’d intended. It will be done. Do you, perchance, know anything about Belisatra? I have nothing but her name to go on.”

“We do not. Whatever her activities, she has never involved herself in anything to threaten the Balance, or otherwise attract our attention, until now. No doubt you’ll come up with something.”

“No doubt,” he muttered as he began to turn away.

“Make use of your brethren in this.”

The eldest of the Horsemen froze. “I’m not certain that—”

“The Grand Abominations might tip the balance
throughout Creation in favor of any faction to gain control of them—and you may rest assured that, the longer this takes, the greater the number of factions that will take an interest. You can afford neither to fail, nor to dally
.

“Leave one of the Riders available to deal with any other disasters that may arise. Take the others
.

“Panoptos!”

Instantly the many-eyed creature swooped down from above. “Yes, my lords?”

“Escort the Horsemen from the court. See to it that they have access to any resources they require.”

“But of course.”

“All of you, then. Go!”

They departed, all five. Death stood rigid, his shoulders tensing further with every step.

“Well,” Strife said, idly spinning his helm in one hand. “This ought to be fun, don’t you think?”

The haft of Harvester creaked in Death’s grip.

He stepped off the stairway, his boots immediately kicking up soot and cinders from the blasted earth. He broke into a long-legged, distance-eating stride, seemingly with no destination in mind. The others, after an exchange of puzzled looks, moved to keep pace.

Columns of fire roared between the motley group and the horizon. Smoke swirled about their heads and feet, stalagmites snapped off at the base as Death refused to veer from his chosen path. Until, when the court of the Charred Council itself was just another distant bulge in the terrain, he halted.

“Panoptos, go away.”

“So sorry to disappoint you, Death, but I have my orders. You heard them yourself. You must have heard them; I’m almost positive you were standing
right there
, unless it was some other grim, glowering—”

“Then go over
there
,” Death growled, gesturing with the scythe. Even through the mask, it was clear enough that he spoke through clenched teeth. “The four of us need a moment to talk.”

Apparently well aware that he’d pushed about as far as he dared, Panoptos flitted off to one side.

Death stared at him. “Farther.”

Muttering something unintelligible under his breath—a clever trick, for a creature that seemingly had no orifices through which to breathe—Panoptos darted beyond earshot.

The other three Riders waited as Death froze a moment in obvious concentration. A small patch of smoke, rising through the blazing cracks in the earth, abruptly turned a sickly green. The cloud expanded, rolling outward from some unseen center, and Despair appeared in their midst. Dust—who had his beak tucked under a wing and would have appeared to be asleep, had he not been furtively watching them with a half-lidded eye—was perched atop the saddle horn.

“So,” Fury said, once it became clear that Death was not prepared to start the conversation. “Who goes, and who stays?”

“I go,” Death told them. “The rest of you stay.”

That pronouncement ignited a veritable eruption of protest.

“If you believe for one instant—!”

“Who the hell do you think you—?”

“I’m not sure that—”

“This is not a discussion!”

War, Fury, and Strife fell silent at Death’s bellow, though each wore an expression suggesting that the argument was not, in fact, settled.

“In the absence of Council orders to the contrary,” he said, his voice again calm now that he’d regained their attention, “I still command. And I’ve made my decision. If I require your
help, rest assured I’ll call for you. Until then, I need you to remain where I know I can find you.”

“Wasting our time?” Strife demanded. “Accomplishing nothing?”

“Death,” Fury said, “surely we can be more useful out there assisting you than we can waiting for—”

“Traveling in a group would slow me down, and attract far more attention than I will alone. It’s far more efficient for me to track down the enemy on my own,
then
bring you in. Besides, if Belisatra
has
managed to awaken one of the Grand Abominations, I’m far more likely to survive contact with it than any of you.”

“Oh, I see,” Fury said scornfully. “This is to
protect
us, is it?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“I’ve never heard such gall!” Strife was leaning forward, as though it was all he could do not to lunge at his brother. “What are you hiding from us?”

“I’ve told you the plan,” Death said, turning toward his mount. “Accept it.”

“And if we don’t care for your plan?”

“Then please, by all means, consider yourself more than welcome to grumble about it while you
follow it anyway
.”

Death had reached Despair and placed one hand on the saddle horn, dislodging an irate Dust in the process, when the dull metallic
click
sounded from behind him. He froze, then slowly craned his neck to look back over his shoulder.

Strife still held his helm in his left hand. In his right, he clutched a dreadful pistol, its quadruple barrels gaping wide, the hammer cocked back and almost quivering in readiness. War and Fury stood rigid, waiting to see if their interference was required—and, perhaps, deciding which of the pair they would support.

“ ‘In the absence of the Council, I command!’ ” Strife parroted. “Says who? A lot’s changed in the five centuries you’ve
been away, Death! What makes you think you can just stroll back in after all this time and take over?”

Death’s hand slipped from the horn as he turned. Leaving Harvester to lie across the saddle, he carefully, methodically, crossed the distance separating him from Strife. Each footstep seemed impossibly clear, despite the muffling of the crumbled dirt and the roaring of the distant fires. He halted scarcely an arm’s length from the four gleaming barrels, and when he spoke, his voice was preternaturally calm, almost flat.

“What makes you think,” he asked his brother, “that I
can’t
?”

Strife’s eyes and his pistol slowly turned downward, weighted down by the weight of Death’s scrutiny, aimed almost meekly at the earth.

Fury unleashed a hiss of breath, not so much in any recognizable emotion as it was the simple release of building pressure. War grunted something deep in his hood. Their elder brother had already turned away, presenting his back to them—Strife included—without apparent concern.

“Did anyone else care to add anything?” he asked as he returned to his horse’s side.

Oddly enough, nobody did.

“Good.” Death climbed atop Despair, then held himself still just long enough for Dust to settle upon his shoulder. “Unless the Council assigns you otherwise, I’ll expect to find you either here, or in your homes, if I need call on you.”

Despair broke into a fearsome gallop, pulling swiftly away from the others. They whipped past a startled Panoptos without pause, heralded by Death’s shouted “Keep up if you can, lackey!”

Muttering again, with rather more vehemence than earlier, Panoptos soared after him, wings flapping madly as he struggled to match pace with the rotted horse.

Strife and Fury watched the horizon long after Death had
gone, various conflicting emotions warring for control of their expressions. But War, who had remained abnormally silent during the entire affair, gazed instead in an entirely separate direction. His face remained hidden from his companions by the blood-red hood, and his thoughts, whatever they might have been, remained his own.

A
ND WHERE, PRECISELY, ARE WE GOING?
”

Panoptos’s voice lacked its typical mocking lilt, primarily because the creature had to shout to be certain that Death heard him over the cannonade of Despair’s hooves and the ubiquitous crackle of the flames. For all that effort, if the Horseman
did
hear, he gave no indication of any intent to answer. The monolithic stalagmites and bulging columns drifted gradually past, the only real indication that they were covering any distance at all.

“We’re not just taking the horse out for a run, I trust?” Panoptos tried again, a bit later. “Because I don’t think the Charred Council would consider that to be a profitable use of time. And honestly? The beast can’t really afford to lose any more weight. Already skin and bones, that one …”

Without either slowing or looking back at his fluttering tagalong, Death said, “I’m going to see the Keeper.”

Four of Panoptos’s eyes blinked at once, while the other five swirled around his face in crossing orbits. “What?
Why?
”

“Because I didn’t think he’d come see me.”

“Ooh, I wish the Council had killed you!”

“Stick around. Anything might happen.”

Death reined Despair to a halt in a mixed cloud of dust and rolling green mists, before a gaping hollow in the rock. This far from the platform where the Council held court, the hellish realm had taken on a slightly more civilized aspect. It was still a pit of blasted badlands, flaming crevices, lava flows, and jagged crags half mountain, half stalagmite. But here, portions of the stone had been worked by the hands and tools of living creatures. Great humanoid figures, their specific features long since worn away by the harsh environs, half emerged from the sides of columns and hills; ancient sentinels, their vigils long ended, left to slowly return to the rock whence they came.

The cave where Death had halted was flanked by two of these vague figures. The floor here was worn smooth by the passage of many feet—or, more accurately, a few feet at a time over the course of centuries. The opening itself gave some sign of having been worked, for it was just a bit too symmetrical, a bit too smooth.

The light gleaming from deep within, a steady yellow-white glow rather than the reddish flicker of fire, might have provided something of a clue, as well.

“So, why are we here?” Panoptos asked again.

“
I’m
here to speak with the Keeper. Alone.”

“Oh, Death, Death … Haven’t we already had this conversation? I’m supposed to escort you while you’re here—”

“And provide me whatever resources I require, as I recall it.”

Something in the creature’s face suggested a smile, despite the lack of anything even resembling lips. “I fear ‘privacy’ doesn’t qualify as a resource.”

“No, but information does.” Death slid from the saddle, landing with a soft
whump
. “Just because Belisatra has never come to the Council’s attention doesn’t mean one of their
agents
hasn’t run across her a time or two. It just means the context wasn’t vital enough to report. Flutter on down to visit
the archivists, will you? See if you can dig up anything on her, then find me and report back.”

“I … you … 
We passed the archive on the way here!
Why didn’t you say something
then
?”

“Oh, did we?” The death’s-head mask did absolutely nothing to conceal his broad grin. “I must have forgotten.
So
sorry to inconvenience you. Haven’t you left yet?”

Spitting curses nearly venomous enough to imprint themselves into the nearby rock, Panoptos shot away into the distance. The petulant snapping of his wings was, Death assumed, the closest he could come in this environment to slamming a door. Snickering, the Horseman entered the passageway, leaving Despair behind. Dust soared in beside him and settled once more atop Harvester’s blade.

“You’re going to cut yourself one of these days.”