Darksiders: The Abomination Vault

by Ari Marmell

  “I had my own laboratory, hidden in the wilds just beyond Gulbannan’s domain. It was there that I practiced and perfected the arts I won from him. I hosted her there a time or two, after she murdered her master. I took everything of value with me when I abandoned it, but the laboratory itself may remain. That, my dear Rider, is most probably where you’ll find her. Even if she is no longer present, I would wager a great deal that she was.”

  “The Makers’ Realm is a large place, Lilith. How—?”

  “Oh, don’t be tiresome! Of course I’ve thought of that. Have your little pet flap up here. I’ll implant the location in his mind, and you can then draw it from his. You’ll be able to travel right to it.”

  Death and Dust somehow mirrored each other, studying her with the precise same tilt of their heads.

  Lilith allowed herself a lusty sigh, one that anyone but Death might well have found fascinating in its own right. “I’m not going to harm the revolting little creature. I just want this done with so you can go away.”

  “If you do,” the Horseman told her, “you’ll be dead before any of your guardians or any of your magics can save you.”

  And Lilith, for all she strove to hide it, flinched. Had his voice boomed or lowered, had he shouted or threatened, she might have found him easier to dismiss. It was the calm, almost explanatory tone that chilled even the Mother of Monsters.

  Dust was obviously less than happy with the idea; he sidled across the outer curve of Harvester, wings and beak spread, screeching an almost painful protest. In the end, of course, he went anyway, as Death wanted.

  He appeared even less happy when he returned, and he had a wild, almost feral look about him, but he was indeed unharmed.

  “Now, Death, kindly be somewhere else. I’ve grown irritated at humoring you.”

  The Horseman merely nodded and began back down the steps, toward the distant hallway of flesh. Need to report to the Council first; Lilith’s involvement, peripheral as it is, is something they need to know. Then maybe we can end this …

  Lost in thought, Death paused only once, as though having just remembered some token left behind.

  “Lilith? The angel who came to you … Did he happen to give his name?”

  “Hadrimon,” she called back after another moment’s thought. “His name was Hadrimon.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  DEATH AND WAR, DESPAIR AND RUIN, HAD APPEARED from the paths and the mists between worlds onto a grassy plain baked golden brown by a summer-bright sun. Sporadic trees, too few to qualify as woodland, cast pennants of shade across the landscape; sporadic hills, too few to qualify as a range, provided that landscape with contours of its own. A few of those hills, mounds of rock rather than hummocks of earth and soil, were barren save for the occasional bit of scrub. Their slopes offered no shelter; their rocky carapace was too brittle and flaking to be worked. In other words, nothing about them could conceivably interest any of the Makers who occupied the sundry regions and communities of this realm.

  Which, of course, was the point.

  Dust, having shaken off the worst of his discomfort but still behaving in a vague, almost fugue-like manner, had swooped from Despair’s saddle as soon as they arrived. Without once stopping to get his bearings, he’d made a rapid flight toward one of those austere outcroppings and begun to circle.

  Even with Dust’s guidance—Lilith’s guidance—it took Death and War long hours of searching to locate the entrance, so cunningly was it concealed. It blended perfectly into the rock, with layers of illusion stacked atop even its mundane camouflage. Without the crow’s vehemence, even the highly attuned senses of the Horsemen would have been fooled into thinking this was nothing but a normal hillock.

  That the mechanism for opening that door was equally well hidden, doubtless fiendishly complex, and possibly even trapped, War and Death had found themselves in complete agreement.

  So they would not use the mechanism.

  Death had dropped from Despair and knelt, hands held just above the sun-dried earth, whispering words that were not words at all. The temperature dropped, and even War felt a chill across the back of his neck.

  Bones burst from the soil at the Horseman’s bidding, but these were not the skeletal hands he had attempted to wield against Belisatra’s constructs. They danced in a veritable cyclone, a sandstorm of jagged edges and heavy knobs. The noise as they whirled across the stone, blasting away layer after layer, was terrible; the lust-spawned bastard of the earthquake and the tempest.

  The Riders could only hope that the thick stone itself would, at least for a time, prevent those within from detecting their arrival.

  The bone storm, however, exhausted Death’s energies as few of his other necromancies did, and normally served to rend flesh rather than rock. After only a few moments, when the osseous deluge had blasted only partway through, the elder brother rose to his feet and dropped his arms to his sides. Instantly the cloud scattered, leaving few traces of itself behind.

  He stepped forward, placed an ear to the roughened stone, and rapped with a knuckle. “Still fairly solid. If anyone was just on the other side, I’m sure they heard us coming, but should they be farther within, we could still have the advantage of surprise.” The scowl, unseen on Death’s face, was obvious in his voice. “If I try much more of that, though, I may not be all that useful within. I’m not sure how—”

  “Step aside, brother,” War said, “and allow me to offer you a small sample of just what had the angels so furious at me.”

  So Death had done, remounting Despair, calling to Dust, and waiting to see what his younger brother had in mind.

  It was impressive, to say the least.

  As in the White City, War wheeled his horse about and broke into a furious charge. He stood in the saddle, Chaoseater thrust forward to become a devastating prow. The summer-dry grass ignited beneath Ruin’s hooves, leaving twin tails of flame in his wake.

  Ruin leapt. War bellowed. Chaoseater met weakened stone, and the stone kindly got out of their way.

  Anyone within must have been shocked almost unto paralysis by the unheralded explosion of rock into their midst, and the fearsome emergence of the crimson-cloaked War and his smoldering steed from the dust cloud.

  I suppose War’s brute-force approach does have its merits. Though Death would never admit that to his brother aloud, of course.

  Several of the six-limbed stone constructs Death had battled on the fields of Kothysos lay crushed by the explosion of the hillside. A few twitched feebly, but none would ever again prove a threat. Whether they had come to investigate something they’d heard from farther away, or whether they’d been positioned by the door and had simply proved too stupid to recognize the threat when they heard it, the Horsemen neither knew nor cared. They rode over them, trampling the few that had survived, and shot along the passageway revealed by War’s violent arrival. Ruin in the lead, Despair only paces behind, they filled the corridor with the fusillade of hooves.

  It wasn’t long, that tunnel. It led not only onward but slightly down, suggesting that the hollow hill served only as the uppermost portion of Lilith’s hidden laboratory. Between the length of the hall and the speed of their supernatural steeds, Death and War had reached their destination before the rubble at the entrance had finished settling.

  In a small way, the laboratory was similar to the Argent Spire. Not remotely in size or magnificence, but simply in that it consisted largely of a single chamber, far greater in height than in width. Roughly fifteen paces across, it was more than three times that in depth. Balconies, bridges, and retractable gantries protruded from the walls at seemingly random heights, presumably so that whoever was working here could examine and manipulate their creations from every possible angle. Open archways led from those protrusions into the rocky walls, allowing access to whatever small rooms and passages made up the remainder of the facility.

  The Horsemen reined in their mounts—Ruin and Despair could not possibly navigate those narr
ow halls and multi-leveled balconies, at least not with any alacrity. For a dramatic instant, pregnant with all manner of possibilities, they stared down into the farthest reaches of that chamber.

  And from below, their horrified foes returned those stares.

  The angel was familiar enough, for they both had seen him in Heaven not long ago, attempting to strike Death down. The dusky-skinned, heavily armored giant who loomed a head taller than the angel they had not seen before, but neither had any doubt as to who she must be.

  As synchronized as if they’d practiced the maneuver, Death and War heaved themselves from the saddles and plummeted into the abyss.

  Hadrimon and Belisatra, shaken from their astonishment, dived in opposite directions—the angel taking to the air, hands reaching for the weapons at either hip, while the Maker lunged for something that lay atop a slab of stone in the enclosure’s center. A worktable, most likely, especially judging by the fire pit and anvil both positioned nearby, but neither Horseman chose to waste the time contemplating it.

  Harvester had split in two, a scythe for each hand, and Death sent both razor-edged missiles hurtling downward before his own fall had covered even half the chamber’s height.

  The first slashed across Belisatra’s arm even as she reached for her prize. Metal screamed, sparks flew, and though the armor held—truly she must be a skilled Maker indeed, to craft protections that could stand against Harvester!—it was enough to force her back, recoiling from the attack and abandoning whatever she’d meant to grab.

  Death’s second blade proved even less effective. Hadrimon, encumbered only by the weaker but far lighter angelic armor, reacted faster than his companion. Affliction swept from its scabbard to parry its sister weapon. That scythe, too, rebounded from enchanted steel, and then both swept back through open air. They arrived in the Horseman’s waiting hands at the same instant his boots touched stone—the stone of the worktable, rather than the ground.

  The chamber shook, and War stood some way to his left, cracks radiating through the floor around him.

  Belisatra took one more step back, just beyond reach of the twinned scythes, and crossed her arms. Great chains, their heavy links bristling with barbs and blades, slid from the underside of the vambraces that covered her forearms. Longer than Ruin from nose to tail, almost as thick around as Belisatra’s own arms, they could not possibly have fit concealed within her armor—but then, such was the wonder of the Maker’s art. The chains rose and coiled of their own accord, as though Belisatra had as much control over them as over the arms from which they sprouted.

  Above, the wide-winged angel hovered. Hadrimon held Affliction in his right hand. In his left, a triple-barreled pistol of iron, flesh, and bone. Death, of course, knew the weapon at once, and his rage at those who would stir up the memories and sins of a dead race flared hotter than the fires of Hell.

  Black Mercy had not yet awoken; that much he could feel from clear across the chamber. Still, even at a fraction of its potential power, a shot from that profane gun wasn’t something he could afford to take lightly. He hefted Harvester, which was once again a single scythe, and readied himself.

  Chaoseater seemed almost to hum with impatience. The chains swayed like angry cobras. The bone-whittled hammers on Black Mercy clicked back, ready to fall.

  And that was when everything really went to Hell.

  Or, rather, the other way around.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THEY ALL FELT IT. TO DEATH, AT LEAST, IT BEGAN AS A peculiar prickling on the skin, almost like immersion in a fluid just slightly caustic. Frost formed in the surrounding corridors, only a few feet from the main chamber—yet the temperature in that chamber spiked, rising until shimmers of heat visibly rose from the stone slab on which Death stood.

  The air grew thick, heavy, not as though it were choked with some sort of fume, but rather with a growing pressure. Something loomed from a direction that had nothing at all to do with north or south, east or west, depth or breadth or height. Something pressed against the walls through which the Horsemen so easily stepped, and it, too, wanted in.

  Something ripped in the air above them—no, it was the air itself that tore!—revealing a ragged hole, black as matricide, reeking of brimstone. It fell away, a tunnel of nothing that led to a pit of liquid fire.

  Hell, it seemed, had followed the Council’s Riders, and now it disgorged a fine selection of the horrors it had to offer.

  Squawking, shrieking, shouting, gibbering; running, flying, slithering, flopping; they tumbled into the laboratory. On and on, until it seemed even the huge chamber could not contain them all. Those that could clung to the walls, skulking overheard, while others mounted the balconies and gantries. Blades and guns of a blackened, twisted nature, formed from the desiccated secretions that were the heart of demonic craftsmanship, protruded from the occasional fist or tendril. Most of the hellish beasts seemed more than content, however, with tooth and talon.

  For the length of several breaths they held, pausing in their cries and howls. The tableau grew silent, save for the skittering of limbs, the occasional splatter of dangling drool …

  And Death’s muttered, “Well, that was unexpected.”

  A single demon roared a command—Death could not, in the crowd, tell which it had been, but the voice was wet, burbling, like someone speaking through the scum congealed atop an old stew—and the horde fell upon them.

  Hadrimon soared, twisting between flying horrors. Affliction licked out at any who dared come too near, and Black Mercy spoke in rapid bursts. Demons howled in pain as the teeth launched by the ancient weapon ripped through flesh and spirit alike.

  The jagged chains stretched even farther from Belisatra’s wrists, then shot up and around, shredding flesh from every demon they passed. They wrapped around some targets—a limb if it was all they could catch, a torso or head when possible—and either crushed the creature within to pulp or unwound so fast they sawed the thing in half.

  War stamped and thrust, spitting demon after demon on Chaoseater’s black edge. He had little room to maneuver, trapped in the center of the workshop, surrounded by more foes than any of the others—and that was fine by him. Claws and blades screeched harmlessly off his armor, his blade fed on the chaos and carnage, and the grin on his face was almost, itself, demonic.

  Behind his mask, Death smiled—and leapt.

  He could have reached any of the lower bridges or balconies with that leap, so high did it carry him, but that would have meant coming up in the midst of a demon cluster. He’d be delivering himself into their hands before he could bring his own weapon to bear.

  So instead, he leapt toward the wall opposite his goal.

  The Horseman swung his legs forward so that they struck the stone first. His knees folded, absorbing the impact, and thrust out again in a second jump straight from the wall itself. Once more across the chamber, and he plummeted down onto his target from above. The startled demons thrashed about on the balcony, moving to reorient themselves to face the unexpected attack, and succeeded mostly in getting in one another’s way.

  Stupid move. You thought to intimidate us, and all you did was crowd yourself so badly your numbers scarcely matter.

  Death tucked his legs tightly under him as he fell, so that they would not present the demons with potential targets before he could strike back with Harvester. The weapon now boasted two blades, one on each end of the haft. It was already whirling with impossible speed, nothing but a razored blur. Death’s wrists passed over and around each other, and he himself was spinning when his feet finally struck stone.

  Blood and various ichors spattered in a series of short, swift geysers, followed by limbs and larger gobbets. And just that swiftly, the small balcony was empty of any living being but Death himself. Harvester’s twin blades had proved long enough to reach to all edges of the platform, and the tightly packed demons had left themselves no room to run.

  A trio of duskwings—bat-like, venomous horrors of frighte
ning speed—swooped down on the blood-slick balcony from above, their high voices screeching in fury. Leather wings battered the air, casting the stench of clinging, caustic guano before them. They descended in a simple but effective formation, the two on each side a bit lower and farther back to ensure their target couldn’t dive aside from the central duskwing’s strike.

  Death let them come, and then dived forward into a tight roll.

  Harvester split before he was back on his feet, becoming a pair of long, narrow javelins. The Horseman rose and stabbed. The lead bat-demon was behind him now, still trying to recover from the dive he’d avoided. The other two flopped, screaming, on Harvester’s twin points.

  But not for long.

  The surviving member of the trio swung back around, but Death was already in the air. Harvester, again a single scythe, he held in one hand. The other snagged the creature by the throat, leaving them both dangling high above the floor.

  The duskwing, not strong enough to maintain flight for long with a passenger, began to descend in a broad spiral. It lashed its barbed tail at Death, hellish poisons glistening in the light. It was the obvious move, however, and a simple flick of Harvester removed the threat. The demon shrieked once more as its severed tail tumbled into the massed demons below.

  “War! Clear me some room to work!”

  Below, Death’s younger brother was almost laughing, his entire body quivering with the energies Chaoseater absorbed from the battle. The creatures around him were humanoid, bursting with obscenely oversized muscles. Stunted wings, vestigial and useless, dangled morosely from their back. Their heads were horned, their mouths fanged; they were, in purpose and nature, not even individuals but weapons, no less so than the axes they carried.

  These were the Phantom Guard, the core of almost every hellish army, feared throughout Creation.