Darksiders: The Abomination Vault (20 page)

Dust, once the Horsemen had left the angels behind and it became clear that no further violence was in the offing, had fluttered down to Death’s shoulder without waiting for a summons.

“Great help you were,” Death had accused him. The crow seemed about as properly chastised as ever.

They were still surrounded by streets full of angels, as well as the occasional Old One or other visitor to Heaven, but word
of them had clearly spread. While Death and War each received their fair share of hostile frowns—the latter receiving rather more than the former—nobody seemed at all interested in harassing them any further.

“It wasn’t difficult,” War explained, grimacing as his shoulder collided with an armored angel who hadn’t stepped far enough aside. “You
did
report to the Charred Council again before you left. You told them the Argent Spire was your next destination.”

“Yes, but
you
weren’t there. I’m quite sure I’d have seen you. You tend to stand out from the scenery.”

War ignored the jibe. “I wasn’t there. But the Council had no cause not to tell me when I asked.”

Death halted in the middle of the roadway, if only briefly. “You went before the Council without being summoned first?
You?
Have things changed so much while I’ve been away?”

“It was necessary, brother.”

“Oh, of course. That sound I hear is the weeping of your pride, then.”

“Don’t push me!”

Death felt his own temper flare once more, then forced it down.
Nothing to be gained in bickering …
“All right,” he said. “So you knew I was heading for the library.”

“Right. I thought, as you’d had a reasonable head start, that you were likely almost there. So I stepped through the realms to appear at the Spire itself, rather than taking the long way around. I’d hoped that, by the time anyone hostile to my presence had responded to the triggering of the wards, we’d already be inside and, with luck, speaking with Azrael.”

“I suppose there’s good reason you chose the epithet War and not Tact.”

Again War’s lip twisted, but otherwise he didn’t react. “When it became clear that you hadn’t yet arrived,” he said,
determined not to be sidetracked, “I decided to come looking for you. Given how near you were, it wasn’t hard to detect the commotion when that angel threw you over the ledge. You pretty well know what happened after that.”

“I remember it as though it had just happened.”

Ruin snorted something, to which War nodded in apparent agreement. “I didn’t see your attacker among Abaddon’s retinue,” he said in a blatant change of topic. “Why did you want me to avoid mentioning him? Even if the general had tried to cover for him, I don’t see that it would have made our position any worse.”

Death took a moment to trade glares with a passing pedestrian, one who came across as a bit too openly antagonistic for his liking. Only when the angel, cowed by the Horseman’s implacable stare, had scurried away with as much dignity as scurrying could actually permit did Death return to the companion walking beside him.

“That little ambush,” he said, “had nothing whatsoever to do with your prior antics, War. That wasn’t retribution for dead angels. That was our enemy in the … other matter we’re dealing with.”

War’s head snapped around quickly enough to dislodge his hood, which fell in several folds to lie back with the rest of the crimson cloak. “What? How do you know? Did you recognize him from the Crowfather’s vision?”

“The Council really did tell you everything, didn’t they? No, I couldn’t make out any features in that vision. I was seeing a thirdhand image, taken from the memories of a crow who only caught a glimpse of the angel in the midst of battle. I think it’s understandable that his recollections were a bit lacking in detail.”

“How, then?”

Death touched a finger to his chest, beside the puckered
wound that had still only partly closed. “Affliction” was his only answer.

“Ah.” And then, “I had wondered why being run through only a single time had slowed you down so. I’ve seen you shrug off far worse. Makes me wonder …”

“Hmm?”

“How you’d do against Chaoseater.”

Even without the shadows of the hood, War’s expression was so flat, so bland, that even Death couldn’t tell if this was a jest, some idle musing, or something more.

“I suggest,” he said, “that you make an effort never to find out. I can’t imagine either of us being happy with the outcome.”

“No, probably not. Well, rest assured that if I ever run you through, it won’t be from the back.”

“I feel better already. Thank you so much.”

Another hundred paces passed without conversation.

“So if your attacker wasn’t one of Abaddon’s,” War eventually asked, “then why did you care if I mentioned him?”

“I don’t know who he is. I’ve never heard the name Semyaza—if that’s even his true name. I’ve no idea what influence he holds, or what allies he might have in the White City. Probably none of any consequence, given that he’s partnered himself with a Maker and relies on her constructs for his army. But until I’m
certain
, I’d rather not risk saying the wrong thing to someone who might be more knowledgeable, and less trustworthy, than we believe.”

“And our search? We have to trust
someone
here, brother.”

“Azrael can be trusted, at least where our interests overlap. And I’m prepared to rely on anyone
he
trusts—to an extent. Otherwise, it’s mouth shut and eyes open.”

“What if we should—?”

But Death had broken into a rapid, long-legged walk that
swiftly carried him farther ahead than War and Ruin. “Mouth shut starting
now
,” he called over his shoulder.

Had War not already seen what had attracted his brother’s attention, being addressed in such a manner might well have soured any chance of the pair working together. But
this
was something that any of the Riders would understand. War absently placed a hand on Ruin’s neck.

Despair stood before them, and it was to his side that Death had rushed. The partially decayed creature had planted himself only a few strides from where he’d fallen, blocking a good half of the bridge in the process, and had refused to budge despite everything the irritated angels could do. He didn’t
seem
particularly worse the wear from the assault, but then Despair’s flesh gaped open, showing muscle and bone, when the beast was
healthy
. Not even Death, tightly as they were bound to each other, could be entirely certain of his mount’s condition.

Still, Despair had at least recovered sufficiently to greet his master with a sepulchral whinny, and to travel without sign of hitch or discomfort. That, for now, would do.

The Horsemen mounted, letting the animals proceed at a lackadaisical pace in deference to Despair’s potential injuries, but drawing inexorably nearer their goal. Behind them, a throng of bewildered, resentful angels, and twin trails of hoofprints—one seared into the roadway, the other marked by fading wisps of bilious green vapor—and before them, visible on the horizon long before they’d come anywhere close, the imposing steeple of the Argent Spire.

Even for angelic architecture, the place was colossal; the other great cathedral-like structures of the White City were as humble shanties by any comparison. Hundreds of levels of gradually sloping walls, etched columns, and stained-glass windows in deep alcoves rose majestically from one of the city’s floating islands. A handful of winding stairways linked the
Spire’s foundation to the “mainland,” as well as to several smaller isles drifting nearby.

Other than the Spire itself, the only notable feature of the island it occupied was a copse of trees. The leaves were the brilliant reds and golds of an eternal autumn; the great boles appeared little more than a flower garden against the grand structure’s walls.

The surrounding airspace was surprisingly free of angels. The Argent Spire might well be renowned as one of the wonders and most vital installations of the White City, but that didn’t make it popular. The majority of that warrior race, for all that their laws required meticulous records, looked down upon sages and archivists as their inferiors.

Without any overt signal, Ruin and Despair broke into a gallop as they neared the edges of the terrain. Great leaps carried them, surely and steadily, up the curved stairs—and with startling rapidity the Library of the Argent Spire drew ever nearer.

H
E HURLED
A
FFLICTION
across the chamber, howling his disdain. The weapon sparked and screeched off walls of raw, pitted ore before finally clattering sullenly to the floor. He’d hoped, prayed, that separating himself from the touch of that diseased blade might mitigate at least
some
of what he felt.

It did not, and he’d known it wouldn’t. It wasn’t Affliction that harrowed him in mind, body, and soul. It was, in part, frustrated rage at the interference of the second Horseman, the loss of opportunity that would likely never come around again.

In part. The rest …

The angel hugged himself tight with arms and wings, as though he might physically hold himself from flying apart. Feverish. Sickened. Somehow impure, unclean, as though a
thousand slime-encrusted parasites squirmed between his muscle and bone, wrapped themselves about his organs, insinuated themselves in every thought. His memories were fire; his ambitions goads of leather and barbs. The last iota of his self-control, he devoted to preventing every word from becoming a scream; every gesture from becoming a blow.

He never forgot his true purpose, never swayed from his course. But oh, how he wanted to! Most of the emotional drive was gone, and all he felt now was a roiling, swelling urge to kill.

No—
almost
all he felt. Still, in the depths of his soul, clinging to the reins that kept his newfound mania in check, there remained his love. For her. For her, he would check these urges. For her, he would tolerate the spiritual worms eating slowly through his core.

For her, he could stand firm against even the pernicious influence of the ancient horrors he would unleash upon creation; against the endless, implacable loathing of the Grand Abominations. For her, he would shed only what blood need be shed, and no more.

No more …

For now.

I
T’S JUST …
A
N ANGEL?
A
RE YOU
CERTAIN?
”

“Just as certain as I was the last time you asked, Azrael,” Death said. “And the time before that. I don’t see the answer changing anytime soon, either.”

The trio of speakers—the grim Riders and the learned angel, in his traditional robes of verdant greens and blinding golds—stood gathered on a walkway not terribly far below the absolute peak of the Argent Spire. Everything was dyed in discordant blots of color, cast by the ambient light of the White City streaming through the panes of stained glass across walls of polished silver. It was oddly disorienting, on initial exposure, but more than sufficient to find one’s way around.

Or to read.

Beyond the platinum guardrail by which the Horsemen stood, the entire center of the spire dropped hollowly away, so that the uppermost third of the edifice formed a single extended chamber. All throughout that chamber, awash in preservative and defensive magics, stood the treasures of the library itself.

Everything from scrolls to bound books to graven tablets could be found upon those shelves, numbering not in the thousands but the
hundreds
of thousands. Cases that were effectively
freestanding walls spiraled their way up, stretching floor to ceiling. They seemed almost winding columns of smoke, or intertwining serpents, petrified and put to practical use.

Numbering in their dozens, but still few and far between against the sheer length and height of shelves, the librarians and scribes of the Argent Spire went about their endless tasks. Some spent decades on end without ever leaving this chamber, cataloging, recording, altering, transcribing, protecting, repairing—and always studying, studying, studying.

Most simply flew to whatever section of shelving they required, but for the occasional guest, or for the rare angel who preferred to walk, the library offered a system of balconies and suspended walkways. These corkscrewed alongside the shelves, offering a path both twisted and awkward. For even the most clever outsider, the question was not
if
one would get lost trying to traverse these walkways, but
when
and
how badly
. Neither Death nor War believed the fairy tales of researchers who became so disoriented centuries ago that they walked the library still, desperately seeking a way out—but now that they’d seen the place, they could, at least, understand why such stories had spread.

That the library had some rigid, meticulous system to catalog and properly place every text, Death knew the nature of angels too well to doubt. So, too, did he know them well enough to know that only those who had been educated their entire life in that system would ever prove able to master it.

Thankfully, he’d been correct in assuming that Azrael would be here, attempting to discern the identity of Eden’s attackers. If he hadn’t been, the Horseman would have been utterly helpless to glean anything useful from the archives of millennia.

And this, according to what Azrael had proudly told them
when they’d first arrived, was not even the angels’ greatest archive. “It’s tiny,” he’d said, “compared with its new sister installation. In one of our most distant outposts, where we watch over Creation from beyond the gates of the White City, we’re currently constructing another library—the Ivory Citadel—even more magnificent. My own
personal
collection will reside there eventually!”

The angel’s mood, however, had swiftly soured while the Horsemen spoke. “I’m sorry,” Azrael told them softly. “I have a difficult time imagining any angel willing to slaughter so many of his own, no matter what prize he thought Eden might offer. Is there
no
possibility that this was one of Abaddon’s faithful, seeking vengeance for War’s actions?”