Darksiders: The Abomination Vault (19 page)

As they approached the center of a lengthy bridge, where traffic was moderately more condensed because of a passing cart, Semyaza pointed up and ahead. “There. The Argent Spire.”

Death’s eyes were drawn, for only the briefest flicker, in the direction the angel had indicated. And in that moment Semyaza proved that he was, indeed, an impressive foe.

Not all the Horseman’s wary suspicions, his caution, his supernatural reflexes, were sufficient protection. When Semyaza had lifted his arm, the gesture had also, however unobtrusively, raised the Redemption cannon very near to firing position.

The blast was enough to topple Despair, shrieking his pain
and his fury, to the roadway. Death, staggered by the detonation, still managed to land unsteadily on his feet …

Only to be bowled over by the angel, who had taken to the air the instant he squeezed the trigger. He succeeded in shoving the Horseman back only a few more steps, but Semyaza had chosen his moment well, and a few steps was all he needed.

The two combatants, angel and Nephilim, tumbled from the bridge.

Harvester soared to Death’s fist at his call, but by then they’d already fallen too far for him to repeat his stunt from the Crowfather’s domain. Nor could he lash out at his attacker, for Semyaza had once more spread his wings, gliding in circles as Death plunged straight down.

No bridges or protrusions near enough for Death to reach. Nothing he could do but ride it out until he reached the closest level of ground, some five or six full layers down. Oh, yes, Semyaza had chosen his spot
very
well.

No way around it; this was going to hurt.

But Semyaza would hurt a lot worse afterward. If only briefly.

Earth shattered at the impact. A column of dirt and debris roared upward, slowly mushrooming out as wind and gravity reached for the particles that had so briefly escaped their grasp. The stained-glass windows in several nearby walls blew out, scattering the courtyard with glittering shards.

Death crouched in the midst of it all, kneeling in a massive crater, one hand on the ground, the other wrapped around Harvester in a clutch that not even the end of Creation could loosen.

He displayed no
visible
injury, other than a few bloodless lacerations that were almost invisible against his cadaverous skin. From a fall like that, however, not even the eldest Horseman could walk away entirely unscathed. He began, unsteadily, to rise to his feet, trying to focus past the pain and the deep
ringing in his head. He heard the swoop of air behind him, saw the ambient dust swirling—yet his disorientation rendered him just a hair too slow.

Agony ripped through his back, his innards, and it was all Death could do to bite back a scream as the tip of Semyaza’s sword punched through his chest amid a garden of ashen scraps of flesh.

Death was no stranger to pain or injury. The eldest surviving Nephilim had been dealt ostensibly fatal blows from weapons nearly as potent as Harvester or Chaoseater, and scarcely even slowed down. But this … This was something new. This was a torment he’d never known, and it was only the Horseman’s pride and adamant will that kept him silent.

His vision blurred, as though the entire world were an old tattoo that had begun to bleed and fade. Harvester shook with the tremors in his arms, and only by leaning on the haft of that weapon did Death manage to stay on his feet. It felt
wrong
, that wound. Burning, feverish, corrupt, as if it had been left to fester in filth for weeks. He could consciously feel his supernatural essence attempting to knit the injury shut, and some external power that fought his body’s efforts.

Once more he peered down at the weapon protruding obscenely from his flesh, and now he recognized what he saw. The narrow blade, the serpentine filigree that formed a blood groove up the center …

Affliction
.

“This …” Death gasped, “has nothing to do with my brother, does it?” He took a lurching step forward, then a second, slowly pulling himself off the blade. “It was you who attacked the Crowfather’s temple!”

The soft, mocking laughter was all the answer he needed.

As soon as Death felt the last of the eldritch steel slide from his flesh, he allowed himself to topple forward, flopping bonelessly toward the paving stones of the courtyard. The
angel behind was already lunging forward, Affliction raised for another strike.

He found, however, that Death—no matter his injuries—was no helpless victim.

The Horseman’s “stumble” turned into a forward roll, so that he abruptly stood some paces away, beyond Semyaza’s immediate reach. The tumble across the stones only widened the wound in his back, but Death’s posture was steady, and the scythe equally so. Already he felt the first twinges of relief now that the weapon was no longer corrupting his innards. In a relatively short while, the Rider should have recovered fully from the weapon that had permanently maimed even the mighty Abaddon.

Assuming he lived long enough. Injured, pained, in an open arena against a flying foe armed with both a Redemption cannon and Affliction, it wasn’t a sure bet that he would.

Whether Death could, indeed, have found the strength to defeat Semyaza in his current state would, however, have to remain a mystery. Just as the airborne angel spread his wings to the fullest, prepared either to fire or dive down upon his foe, his attention was diverted by a fearsome battle cry from above. He had just enough time to look up and see what was coming before a living, crimson-clad meteor crushed him to earth.

Again the courtyard shook and the golden stones split. Semyaza lay amid a cobweb of cracks and a small puddle of blood, groaning as he forced himself up. And standing before him, great black blade to hand, cloak still billowing with the momentum of the fall …

“War?”

“Well met, Death. With you in just a mo—”

The last of War’s greeting was lost in the roar of the Redemption cannon. The younger Horseman gritted his teeth and stood firm, allowing his armor to absorb the bulk of the blast. By the time he could see clearly once more, Semyaza had
again taken to the skies—skies otherwise empty, as any nearby angel had wisely abandoned the vicinity once the Horsemen drew arms. He never even looked back as he soared up and out of sight, presumably unwilling to take on two of the Riders at once.

“Coward,” War spat, slinging Chaoseater once more across his back. “So, Death, how—”

And again the younger Horseman was cut off, this time by a fearsome two-handed shove to the chest powerful enough to hurl him into the nearest wall. Death was practically on top of him before the building finished shuddering.

“What in the name of the Abyss do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded.

“Saving your worthless hide,” War retorted, brushing broken stone and dust from his shoulders.

“I didn’t need your help!”

“Not how it looked to me from two levels up, Death.”

“Then your sight’s as feeble as your hearing. I gave you very specific orders, War! You were to stay behind until and unless I called for you!”

“I chose not to obey them. And neither,” he added at Death’s hissing inhalation, “do I choose to return now.”

“Don’t you?” The tip of Harvester’s blade slowly intruded itself between the two faces, one hooded, one masked. “We both know that I have the power to
make
you obey, brother!”

“Perhaps,” War said. “But you’d likely not come through the attempt
entirely
unscathed. Do you really think that’s best for your mission?”

Death spat several syllables of a language so ancient, even War didn’t recognize it—but then, he hardly needed fluency to tell that the words weren’t polite.

“What of the others?” he asked finally, retreating a step to allow War breathing room. “Have they disobeyed, too?”

“No, only me. Fury almost accompanied me, but she ultimately
decided that your wishes should be respected—for now, anyway. Strife claimed the same motivation, but I think he’s mostly sulking at how you shamed him.”

“And you, War? You’re neither respectful nor sulking?”

“Not at all. I’m simply quite sure that this undertaking is too important to let your pride get in the way.”

“
My
pride?” Again the space between them vanished, so that Death’s mask was practically pressing against War’s own face. “You arrogant—!”

“Yes, damn you!
Yours
! There’s more to this than you’ve told us. You’ve decided only
you
need to know the entirety of what’s happening around your precious Vault. That mask may hide your face, brother, but it does damn-all to hide your intentions. Not from us. Five centuries may change much, but never
that
.”

“You bastard …” Once more Death fell back, quaking with suppressed fury. “You have
no idea
of ‘what’s happening’! You’re thrusting yourself into affairs that do not—”

“Horsemen! Hold where you stand!”

“Damn,” War muttered into his hood. “I thought I’d lost them.”

Death growled something utterly unintelligible into his mask, and the pair of them craned their heads toward the sound.

Where Semyaza had disappeared into the upper layers of the White City, a circle of roughly two dozen angels now descended. One was a young woman, barely out of adolescence, whom Death had never seen before, but the others were clearly strong and seasoned warriors. All were heavily armored and armed, but it was their leader who instantly arrested Death’s attention. The thick white beard and the gleaming eye patch, sculpted of lustrous new gold, were more than enough to identify him from any distance.

“Do
not
mention the angel who just attacked me!” Death hissed. Then, ignoring War’s bewilderment, he said more loudly, “Hello again, Abaddon. You’re looking better.”

“Begone, Death!” The general landed firmly on solid ground, his brethren following only an eyeblink behind. The swords and pikes they carried practically shone with an enchantment far greater than was typical for angelic blades. “We’ve no dispute with you, unless you interfere. Our business is with your brother.”

“And what business would that be?” They might as well have been discussing menus or fashion, so casual was his tone.

“Justice!” Abaddon bellowed. “War attacked us! He murdered scores of us! He destroyed irreplaceable military secrets that—”

“That you knew you weren’t supposed to have!” War interjected. “That could have ignited—”

“Silence!”
Abaddon’s blade rose, as did those of his soldiers.

Death instantly stepped between the general and his youngest brother. “I’d rather like to hear the specifics, actually.”

“Go ask your precious Council!” Abaddon said. “I haven’t the time or the patience!”

“Oh, good!” The smile hidden by the mask on Death’s face was more than blatant in his tone. “So you acknowledge that my brother’s actions were sanctioned by the Charred Council. That should make this much easier.”

Abaddon’s mouth opened briefly, then clamped tightly shut as a slow flush spread across his cheeks.

Death turned slowly, surveying each of the surrounding angels—and then, in a single leap, impossibly swift, he stood directly before the general. He held Harvester casually, in no obvious pose to strike, but the presence of the blade’s tip a dagger length from Abaddon’s remaining eye sent an unmistakable message.

Every other weapon in the courtyard, Chaoseater included, was now drawn and held in hands that all but shook with eagerness, but the two elders, Horseman and angel, were as still as any of Heaven’s statues.

“An attack on my brothers is an attack on me,” Death told him. “An attack on any of us in retaliation for a sanctioned operation is an attack on the Council. Are you prepared to shatter the pacts, General? To plunge Heaven into war with the Charred Council—and, most likely, with Hell, once the treaties are no longer binding? Make no mistake, that
will
be the result of any further violence here. I explained this to your guards at the gate; I shouldn’t have to explain it to you.

“And even if it’s a war that the White City could win, you won’t be around to see it. Because I assure you, you and your contingent here are
not
enough to defeat two of us side by side, and I will make it my mission, above even survival, to ensure that you are among the first to fall.”

Death took a step back and shrugged. “Besides,” he continued more lightly, “you still need my assistance. Or have you already forgotten that Azrael and I are cooperating against an enemy far more harmful than anything War might have done?”

Abaddon was almost literally seething. His shoulders heaved; his breath came in short squalls from between the slats in a fence of clenched teeth. The Horseman wondered if he’d made one assumption too many, if he’d actually have to carry through on his threat. Unlike those simple sentinels at the White City’s walls, General Abaddon just
might
have the authority to personally declare such a war. That would certainly make Death’s efforts at tracking down this Belisatra—to say nothing of her angelic ally—a lot harder.

Harvester, Chaoseater, and twenty angelic blades all waited, ready, eager …

But Abaddon, for all his pride, knew his duty.

“Go!” he snapped. “Go quickly, before I change my mind!” Then, as the brothers walked past, even though it had been he who exhorted them to hurry, he called out again. “War!”

“General?”

“My hands may be tied now. But I will
not
forget your crimes!”

War nodded and spun on his heel, following his elder brother from the courtyard and into the winding streets beyond.

H
OW DID YOU FIND ME, ANYWAY?
”

Death still sounded sour about the whole thing, but he’d clearly given up on trying to convince—or order—War to depart. They were now some four levels above the courtyard, traveling at an almost leisurely pace. Although they had recovered Ruin from the spot where War had leapt from the precipice, the younger Horseman still walked, his mount’s bridle in one hand, in deference to his brother. Death, in turn, had chosen not to summon Despair to him, but to remain on foot until he’d returned physically to the horse’s side. He knew his mount’s injuries wouldn’t last much longer than his own, but still he felt reluctant to stress the creature unnecessarily.