by Ari Marmell
“Hmm. I have Panoptos searching the archives for any knowledge of our enemy that the Council’s agents may have picked up over time, but I don’t have high hopes. Odds are, if there was anything important written there, the Council would know of it.
“I think my best option is the Library of the Argent Spire. You know what sort of sticklers the angels are for record keeping. They’re mostly devoted to writing about their own kind, but they should still have quite a bit about Makers in … Something funny, Keeper?”
“Only,” the other said, once he was able to catch his breath, “that you might want to tread lightly in the White City. I fear they may take a dim view of a Horseman’s presence just now.”
Death actually sighed. “Which one this time?”
“War. It was official Council business, if that helps at all.”
“Oddly, it doesn’t. Why in the name of the Abyss can’t anything ever be—”
As he had done on the fields of Kothysos, Dust went berserk. It wasn’t nearly so extreme this time, consisting primarily of an array of loud screeches, a violent fluttering of the wings that resembled some sort of fit, and a clenching of the talons. On the other hand, last time he hadn’t been sitting on Death’s shoulder when it happened.
The Horseman, wincing in discomfort, reached out to remove the bird’s claws from his flesh. Holding Dust in his cupped palms, he lifted the beast to eye level.
The mental link forged itself almost instantly, the voice of the Crowfather cracking through his skull. “Death!”
“More accurately, ‘Deaf,’ if you keep shouting like that.”
“Oh, be silent and pay attention! I’ve discovered something in my children’s memories that you need to know.”
Images buffeted Death’s vision, though not nearly as chaotically as they had before.
Soaring over the mesa and the surrounding lands of the Crowfather’s domain …
Fields overrun with strange creatures, shining rather than fleshy, utterly beyond the ken of avian minds …
Blood and pain and feathers as the flock fell upon the enemy, every instinct overridden by the need to defend the Father …
There! At the very edge of the gleaming stampede, a spread of snowy wings cocooned in light …
Death blinked as the contact was severed. He glanced down at Dust, who peered around nervously before beginning to preen the underside of his left wing.
“Well,” Death said to the Keeper, “apparently it’s a good thing I’ve already worked the White City into my itinerary.”
“Oh? And why might that be?”
“Because the man who led the attack on the Crowfather’s realm,” the Horseman said, scooping up Harvester from where it leaned against the wall, “and who is presumably Belisatra’s partner in all of this …
“Is an angel.”
“Perhaps,” the Keeper said softly, “you had best start at the beginning …”
CHAPTER TWELVE
AS WAR HAD DONE EARLIER, DEATH DECIDED ON A diplomatic and formal approach to the White City, rather than simply materializing in the midst of the ivory towers and gleaming architecture. And so Despair, as Ruin had done earlier, trod the nearly blinding expanse of the angels’ golden bridge.
The hooves of this unnatural creature echoed hollowly with every step, in a manner that even Ruin’s had not. The glow emanating upward from the span was warped and muted by the ugly vapors clouding those hooves, until it appeared that the light itself had grown vaguely nauseated.
Horseman and horse ignored it, as they ignored the magnificent falls, the imposing outcroppings of ancient stone, the sculpted sentries who watched their progress with eyes made partly blind by the erosion of ages. Dust circled overhead, alert for any danger, but Death himself had eyes only for the gate, which rose slowly, ever higher, as the horizon drew near.
When the crow swooped low to screech a warning, and certainly when the Rider drew near enough to the wall to observe the abnormally large contingent of guards—all of whom were pointing halberds, Redemption cannons, and other weapons his way—Death finally allowed his attentions to be drawn from that gate itself.
A second phalanx circled above, just as heavily armed. Death reined Despair to a halt some dozen paces before the gate, and spoke.
Briefly. “Hello.”
“How dare you?” The phalanx commander, carrying a naked blade taller than he was, and just as broad, took a single step forward. “How dare you show your face here, Horseman?”
“I am not my brother. I bear no responsibility for whatever occurred during his visit.”
“Visit? Rampage would be a more accurate term!”
“Perhaps. He was going about the business of the Charred Council. As am I.” Then, as an afterthought, “I’m also working on the same problem as Azrael. In the interests of etiquette, I’d be happy to wait here long enough for one of you to check with him.”
The commander seemed disinclined to follow that particular suggestion. “You can turn around, is what you can do, Rider! While we still remember ourselves well enough to let you live at all!”
“Would Heaven declare war on the Charred Council, then?”
Several of the soldiers muttered and whispered behind their leader’s back. “The Council did that when they sent your brother to attack us!” he shouted, but even he didn’t sound quite as certain as he had.
“Did we? Odd that we’ve heard nothing from the leaders and generals of the White City. I wasn’t aware that your laws granted every solider in your army the discretion to declare acts of war.” Death waited for no answer, but set Despair to moving ahead at a slow, inexorable walk.
“You can admit me,” the Horseman told them as he approached, “because you have no legal or wartime standing to stop me. Or you can admit me because I am allied with Azrael in my current endeavor. Or you can admit me because you’re all dead, and therefore unable to prevent it.
“I leave the choice entirely in your hands, but I do suggest you make it quickly.”
The untempered rage and simmering resentment of the angels were very nearly a palpable force. It actually felt as though Despair was struggling to wade through a clinging mire of Creation’s fiercest emotions. Fists tightened on weapons, jaws clenched with force enough to bruise the bone beneath, fingers twitched on triggers almost of their own accord. The loathing these angels felt for him now might have given even one of the Grand Abominations a contest in hatred.
But each of them stepped aside, however grudgingly. They knew, as Death knew, that the laws they held so sacred would allow nothing else.
He did draw Despair to a halt once more, only briefly, just before passing beneath the barbican. Ignoring the fuming angels around him, he directed his attention instead to those hovering above.
“If even one of you takes so much as a single shot at that crow,” he told them, his tone matter-of-fact, “then after you are dead, I will summon your spirits to provide me with the names of your siblings, your parents, and your children. And I will animate your corpses to murder them with your own cold hands.”
The eyes that watched the horse and Rider as they passed beneath the gate remained impossibly wide, but it was no longer rage alone that shone within.
DEATH EMERGED ONTO THE STREETS of the White City, the artificial valleys that wound between the equally artificial bluffs of angelic architecture. The glowers that swirled around him in a tempest of hostility, coming from every angel in every direction, were ample evidence that the city’s anger was not limited to the guardians of the wall.
He raised an arm, along with a mental call. Dust landed hard upon his wrist an instant later.
“I’m thinking,” Death said to the crow, “that perhaps I should have questioned War on the details of his little sojourn here before I left the Council’s realm.”
Dust croaked at him and hopped over to the saddle horn.
“Pride,” he said in answer to the bird’s unasked question. “I’d already dismissed them, told th
em I was leaving them behind. To go back after that and ask his counsel …” Death shrugged, then stood briefly in the saddle so that he might get his bearings. Satisfied, he directed Despair to the next intersection and began up a shallowly inclined road to the city’s higher layers.
His gradual ascent had carried him through three levels of the White City, with roughly four or five more to go, when he found his progress hindered.
An angel, not markedly different from any of the hundreds of others Death had seen, dropped from above to land, kneeling, in Despair’s path. His armor, though massive and imposing, was perhaps a bit plainer than the norm for his people. It lacked most of the ornate edges and fluting, though what adornment it did have glinted as brightly as any other. He carried a Redemption cannon—the weight distributed between his right hand and a heavy strap looped over his shoulder—and the hilt of a sword jutted from behind his back.
“Welcome, Lord Death.” He bowed his head so low, his snowy hair nearly brushed the roadway.
“Um … thank you. And you would be?”
“I am called Semyaza, Lord.”
“Don’t call me that. And stand up!”
The angel obeyed, finally meeting the Horseman’s gaze. He appeared … Well, he appeared pretty much like most of the other angels currently fluttering about. “Of course. I was merely being respectful.”
“That would make you the first,” Death noted.
Semyaza smiled shallowly. “Yes, I’ll beg your pardon for the others’ behavior. War brought down an entire building while he was here, to say nothing of killing a few score of us.”
Behind the mask, Death blinked. What in the name of Oblivion were you doing here, brother?
Aloud, he said, “I see. And why, then, have you chosen to play gracious host, Semyaza?”
“Azrael sent me. He felt that an escort would help ensure that none of our more short-tempered brethren cause you any difficulty. Not that he was in any particular fear for you, you understand, but he wished to avoid the shedding of any further angelic blood.”
“I see,” Death said again. The stirrups creaked as he shifted his weight. “And I know that you’re not leading me into an ambush how, exactly?”
The angel’s smile grew wider. “I’d have thought ill of you if you weren’t suspicious. But I’m not ‘leading’ you anywhere. My duty is to accompany you. There are several routes from here to the Argent Spire, where Azrael awaits. You’re welcome to choose whichever you wish, and to stay as near or far from the more populated streets as you prefer.”
“All right. This way, then. And Semyaza?”
“Yes?”
“Stay where I can see you. Slip behind me, even for an instant, and I might get the wrong idea.”
So they went, Despair keeping his pace moderate, less for the sake of their new companion than because of the angelic traffic around them. Semyaza walked several paces to the left and a few in front. Death watched him as carefully as he watched their surroundings, and the angel clearly knew Death watched him.
So long as we understand each other, the Horseman mused.
Up they marched, and over, and up some more, following the rising roads and suspended bridges that brought them ever nearer their goal. Angels swooped overhead in numbers at least as great as those who chose the roads, the steady beat of their wings creating a constant downdraft between the monolithic structures. Death regretted the White City’s ambient light—or, more accurately, the resulting lack of shade. The appearance of a sudden shadow would have made it easier to spot any potential attack from above.
Still, the Horseman’s attention never wavered, and both Dust and Despair were equally alert. Any enemy who could catch them unawares now, whether in league with Semyaza or not, would be an impressive foe, indeed!
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 behin
d 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—”