by Ari Marmell
“So be it,” War said, then paused to spit a mouthful of blood. “Cripple me. Kill me. Discard your greatest ally in this, to keep your precious secret. Because that’s the only way you will.”
Harvester quivered. Death’s eyes blazed bright enough to reflect in his brother’s armor … And then he began trudging back toward the horses.
A moment’s delay, and War was on his heels.
“You reminded me of me, just then,” Death said softly.
“Well, of course.” War managed a faint grin with his split lips. “Since you were behaving more like me, someone had to be you.”
Death’s chuckle was one of courtesy, not amusement, but at least he managed it. “I do appreciate you keeping Ruin out of it.”
“It was everything I could do. I’d not turn my back on him for a while, were I you.”
“Understood.” He lay Harvester over Despair’s saddle, then gazed over the leather toward the clouded horizon. “War … I did this.”
“It wasn’t you alone, Death. You told us that the Firstborn—”
“I was one of their primary crafters. We certainly could not turn to the Makers for aid with this, so all of us with any skill were involved. You already knew, did you not, that it was I who imbued the power of the Nephilim into Harvester and Affliction, as well as some of our other ancient weapons? I was the nearest thing to a crafter—a ‘maker’—that we had. So of course I was involved in the birth of the Abominations.”
“Even so, that hardly makes it your—”
“It was my idea!”
War, who had held fast against Death’s earlier assault, fell back before the power of that declaration.
“All of it,” he continued more softly. “Using the Ravaiim themselves as a basis for the weapons; feeding not only on the magics and creations they’d achieved, but all the potential they should have achieved, had we not exterminated them … My idea. Oh, I only helped craft a few of the Abominations personally, but that they exist at all is my responsibility.
“I rarely feel guilt for any of the countless lives I’ve taken, brother. I’m not certain I’m even capable of it any longer. But for this obscenity …”
He turned, finally, away from Despair to face his younger brother. “So, yes, I take this personally, War. Because it is personal. And private. I have just trusted you, however reluctantly, with secrets that nobody else knows—not Strife, not Fury, not the Council. I don’t believe even Samael or the Crowfather can possibly have discovered this. And I am asking you, without threat or demand, to keep it that way.”
“And is this everything, then?”
“Everything you do not know about me? Not even a fraction. Everything you did not know about my involvement with the Grand Abominations? Yes.”
War, his features screwed tight in an expression of disgust, still managed to force through the faintest vestige of what might, under other circumstances, have been a smile. “Then I see no reason I should ever need to speak of it, brother.”
Death clapped a hand on his companion’s cloak-covered shoulder, then hauled himself back into Despair’s saddle. “Come on, then. We’ve a way to go yet.”
The decayed beast set off at a brisk trot, War and Ruin swiftly pulling alongside.
For a time they rode in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Eventually, however, when one of the nearby dunes split to reveal a weeping, bloodshot eye that stared at them as they passed, War spoke once more.
“What you’ve not yet explained,” he said, very deliberately not meeting that gruesome gaze, “is why we need ride overland at all. Why did we not just step into this world nearer our destination?”
“You felt that abnormal pressure building around us as we crossed the veil?” Death asked.
“I did.”
“Anywhere other than where we appeared, and a few other specific spots, the resistance is even stronger. The Firstborn warded this world, back when we were first creating the Grand Abominations. We left only a few entry points accessible. It’s possible that this world’s time in the Abyss has weakened some of those barriers—but then, it’s equally possible that it’s made them dangerous and unpredictable. Not a chance I’d care to take.”
“Understandable.”
“I thought you’d find it so.”
Long they rode, ignoring, as best they could, the bizarre horrors of this corrupt realm: the cracked and oozing terrain, smoldering beneath Ruin’s hooves; the ever-present stench of putrefaction; the shifting of the landscape, as veins bulged from beneath the dead soil and boils the size of hills shriveled as they drained.
On occasion, the shifting of the terrain suggested the presence of something else, some separate and distinct creature burrowing through the ground, but whatever it was seemed disinclined to emerge.
Finally, the pair reined in their mounts in unison.
“We’re here,” Death said.
“I’d rather assumed,” his brother replied.
It almost appeared as though the world simply ended. A rough precipice dropped away until it was lost to the ubiquitous haze. It wasn’t precisely jagged so much as torn; it looked less like the edge of an escarpment than the edge of a wound. Indeed, rubble accumulated along the rift revealed itself to be, not rock, but dried and crusted secretions bubbling up from pockets within the cliff face itself.
“On the plains below,” Death said, “the Ravaiim once made their homes. Mostly, though not exclusively, within the shadow of the ridgeline. They mined it for raw materials back when anyone would actually want something dug from this world.
“This region we’re looking over now is where the greatest number of them died. But some of them fell all throughout their territory, and we’re going to have to scour every bit of it for signs of Belisatra’s minions.”
“You’re certain they’ll come?”
“Absolutely. Thanks to my carelessness, they know, now, that they require the blood of the Ravaiim to awaken the Grand Abominations. This is the only sizable source left in Creation.”
War reached down, absently patting Ruin’s neck. “But if they died here eons ago …”
“I have means of drawing the essence from the earth, no matter how long or how widely dispersed, and reconstituting it. We have to assume the enemy can come up with their own methods.”
“Hmm.” War dismounted and stepped to the very edge, struggling and failing to see any sign of the ground so far below. “If the enemy arrives before our own reinforcements do, we may be hard-pressed to locate them in this muck.”
“If your tactical concerns are our biggest problem, War, I’ll be well pleased.” Then, at his brother’s furrowed brow, “My concern is that Hadrimon or Belisatra might have enough historical knowledge to realize that while this is the only substantial source of Ravaiim blood, there are a few others, small but viable. Anywhere the Ravaiim fell in significant numbers—and you may recall that the Nephilim did indeed battle some of them in other realms, before we closed in on their own.
“It would only be enough to awaken a few of them, and only for a short while. Nevertheless, we need to prepare for the possibility that our enemies may arrive with one or more of the Grand Abominations fully empowered.”
War began walking the edge of the escarpment, looking for the best spot to climb down. He said nothing in response to that warning, and Death could hardly blame him.
There was, really, precious little to say.
CHAPTER TWENTY
WHY THE BLOOD?”
The Riders now stood on a thick lip of what might have been stone, or might have been desiccated, rigid flesh, protruding from the face of the cliff. It was part of a large network of ledges and tunnels they had just scouted, and which might as well have been carved specifically for their purposes: defensible, low enough to see the plains below even through the murk, and with as broad a view as one could possibly hope for. They could not have asked for a better base camp from which to launch their wider efforts.
It was also
hideously unpleasant, as the rough contours, leathery surfaces, foul air, and occasional unexplained gusts all combined to suggest that they’d taken shelter in something’s bronchial system, or perhaps its sinuses, but one couldn’t have everything.
“Hmm?” Death tore his attention from the sheer wall, where he’d been contemplating the notion of a ramp that the horses could climb. “What?”
“It would seem to me that you and the other Firstborn could have chosen any manner of safeguards for the Abominations, including constructing them so they’d only work for you and nobody else. Why design the safeguards around Ravaiim blood?”
“Not that simple.” Death resumed his examination of the escarpment. “Building in recognition of who was Firstborn Nephilim and who was not would have proved difficult, at best. And then, what if the time came when we wanted some of the following generations to wield these weapons against our enemies? You wouldn’t be able to, if the weapons only functioned for the Firstborn, but if the weapons functioned for all Nephilim, we’d lose our mastery over them. No, it had to be a resource that we could control, but could be disseminated when we wished.
“Once we’d decided that much, Ravaiim blood was the obvious choice. We’d slain most of the race; we knew where their remains were and had total control over the realm. And since the Grand Abominations themselves were constructed from Ravaiim remains, the use of their blood both was easier to incorporate and enhanced their innate power.”
“I see. Makes sense, I suppose.”
“Is there anything else I can enlighten you on, as long as we’re standing around failing to accomplish anything?”
War either missed the irritated sarcasm in the question or—more likely—had become so inured that ignoring it was now second nature. “Actually, yes, since you’re in such a forthcoming mood. Why hasn’t the world on which you’re building your new home slid into the Abyss? I’ve heard it’s just as dead as any other we left in our wake.”
“It’s anchored,” Death said curtly, and refused to elaborate any further.
War might well have continued his barrage of questions, much to Death’s mounting exasperation, had the conversation not been interrupted by the sudden flutter of feathers. Dust appeared from the cloaking fog with a series of sharp squawks and settled on the elder Horseman’s outstretched arm.
“Well, you certainly took your time. Enjoyed our little journey, did we?”
Squawk!
“So you’ve said.” Then, more loudly, “War, I believe our reinforcements have arrived.”
Precisely on cue, the light—already gray and diffuse—turned black as night. High above but swiftly descending, something blotted the sun from the sky. Dirt and flakes of what might almost have been dried skin swirled around their ankles, dancing in the sudden downdraft, and the world was all but flooded with the sound of wings. Great wings, far larger than Dust’s, numbering a hundred if not more.
For the first time in living memory, angels had come to the realm of the Ravaiim.
Armor of rich silvers and golds, incandescent even in the near darkness, descended on all sides. Some of the White City’s warriors landed on the ledges and trails around the two Horsemen; others descended to the earth below, setting up a perimeter guard before their feet had so much as disturbed the dust. Redemption cannons and halberds—some placed in rotating racks that allowed a single angel to fire six or eight in rapid succession—abruptly sprouted, almost fungus-like, from the corrupt soil.
And from the center of the great winged phalanx, wearing a simple silver breastplate over his traditional robes of green, appeared Azrael.
“Death,” he greeted them as he settled upon the lip of stone. “War.”
“Azrael,” Death returned. Then, after a puzzled look shared with his brother, “Don’t take this amiss, but—”
“What am I doing here?” the angel concluded for him.
The featureless mask dipped in a nod. “I sent Dust to the domain of the Council. I was expecting my brother and sister.”
“Apparently, the Charred Council has decided Fury and Strife are required elsewhere. Word of the Abomination Vault has begun to spread, Death. More than a few factions throughout Creation are preparing to move.”
“We’ve met some of them,” War said blandly.
“Funny, that,” said Death. “Considering that it wasn’t long ago they were telling me that all four of us were assigned to this endeavor.”
“Hell’s interests could be more widespread than we’ve seen,” the younger Horseman suggested.
“It could. Or …”
“Or?”
“Or the Council has decided, now that there’s a real risk of Hadrimon and Belisatra awakening the Abominations, that they want to keep Strife and Fury in reserve to protect them in case we fail.” Death shrugged. “I suppose I can’t blame them, really.”
“I’m sorry,” Azrael interjected, “but did you say Hadrimon? I—”
“In a moment. One issue at a time.” Death leaned over the edge, watching the angels settling in below. “So the Council sent you instead?”
“The Council doesn’t send us anywhere,” Azrael bristled. “They sent Dust to us, along with a message requesting our assistance. Since we’re already allies in this, and none of us wants these weapons awakened, I agreed.”
“Why you?” War asked. “You’re a scholar, not a soldier.”
“I’d be offended if you thought otherwise,” the angel replied. Then, more seriously, “I may not have devoted my life to warfare, but I’ve still seen more of it than most of my people. And my powers are not entirely without use on the battlefield.”
Death snickered. “I imagine not.”
“I felt it to be, um, less than politically expedient to ask Abaddon to lead this particular force.”
It was now War’s turn to laugh softly.
“I could not,” the angel continued, “simply reassign one of the other generals without a long discussion. And I felt that sending a phalanx to serve under your command without a ranking leader might prove equally problematic—again, given recent, shall we say, misunderstandings between the Horsemen and the White City. So that left me. You’re certain the enemy is coming here?”
“They need—something in the earth, here, to awaken the Abominations,” Death said. “Or at least, to awaken them for any great duration. I’ll tell you the rest later, if necessary.”
“I see.” Azrael didn’t sound especially thrilled with the arrangement. “Tell me, can your steeds make the leap to the ground from this high up?”
The Riders both started briefly at the sudden non sequitur. “Um, yes,” War said. “I wouldn’t want to risk it from much higher, but yes. The trouble was getting them down to the ledge and the tunnels in the first place.”
Azrael nodded. “The same wards that prevent us from entering this realm, save at specific points, prevent you from dismissing them and summoning them as you normally would.”
“Precisely.”
“I’ll have some of my angels construct a harness and fly them down. It won’t be the most dignified position—for anyone involved—but we’ll get them there. Just make sure you tell them to cooperate.”
War scowled; Death just snorted once.
“I think,” he said to War, “that we ought to keep our feet out of reach of their hooves for a few hours after this. Thank you, Azrael. We appreciate the assistance.”
“You’re most welcome. Now, if you please, I dislike having to ask multiple times … You said Hadrimon?”
“According to Lilith,” Death told him, “that’s the true name of the angel we’re facing. Apparently he sought her assistance before joining forces with Belisatra.”
“Hadrimon … I can’t believe it …” Now it was Azrael whose attentions seemed focused solely on the activities below.
“You know him.” It was clearly not a question.
Azrael sighed deeply. “Yes.” Then, at the expectant pause, “It’s not a tale I enjoy telling, D
eath. It doesn’t exactly paint the angels of the White City in our finest light.”
“As opposed to my people exterminating whole worlds and creating the obscenities that have gotten us into this whole debacle in the first place?”
“Ah. Yes, I suppose when you put it that way, shame is a relative thing.”
“Then let’s hear it, while we have the time.”
The angel permitted himself a second, lighter sigh, and spoke.
THIS BEGAN, you must understand, quite some centuries ago. It was in the early days of the Charred Council’s reign—that is, the Council had made themselves known to us as guardians of the Balance, but they had not yet succeeded in, ah, let’s say convincing Heaven and Hell to abide by their proffered pacts and treaties. As such, we were in the midst of one of the most brutal warring periods between the forces of the Blessed and the Damned. The bloodshed, the devastation … The worst of it was just as horrible as the devastated worlds that your own people left in their wake, and in our case we weren’t even trying to destroy the realms, just the enemies who had conquered them. A terrible, violent time.
I emphasize this, you understand, because it is the only justification for what came next. Not sufficient justification, I think, but all I have to offer in our defense.
You know of the Codex Bellum? The angels of Heaven have lived by that register of laws, codes, and customs for eons, now. Only those of us who were involved in its creation, or who were born under its aegis, can hope to fully grasp its intricacies. No outsider, however wise, has managed to do so. It is that layered, that complex, that precise.
That restrictive. Too restrictive, I sometimes think.
It includes, among so much else, the rigid conventions of interaction between angels of differing positions, different social castes, different military ranks. What behavior is appropriate, and when—and what behavior is never appropriate. For the most part, we have little difficulty in following those strictures; we angels are, by and large, creatures of thought, not emotion. Still, we have our drives, our desires, our needs, the same as anyone else; and like anyone else, sometimes what we desire and what we should desire fall out of alignment.