by Ari Marmell
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.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HOW 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.
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 archi
vists 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.
HE HURLED AFFLICTION 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.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN