Darksiders: The Abomination Vault

by Ari Marmell

  The body twitched. Once only, so slightly that Death almost missed it, but it happened.

  He had War’s soul. He had the last fading ember of War’s life. The first he could infuse into the body without difficulty, but the second? How to coax that last flare of power from the conduit linking his brother with …?

  Ah.

  Ensuring that War’s hand remained tightly wrapped about the hilt, Death leaned over, lifted Chaoseater by the blade, and rammed it deep into his own chest.

  Agony bloomed through him, a flowering vine of poison and thorns. He grunted once but otherwise held himself still, refusing to let the pain overwhelm him.

  Which, given how much worse Affliction had hurt him back in the White City, wasn’t actually all that hard.

  Chaoseater fed on the injury, the violence, albeit self-inflicted. Fed, and passed that strength on to its wielder, carrying the lingering embers of life along with it.

  War’s body rocked in a violent spasm. A worm-like plug of old clots wiggled obscenely from the open wound, followed by a brief spurt of fresh blood and jagged fragments of what might have been Black Mercy’s projectile. He groaned, a deep and juddering sound, attempted to sit up, and collapsed back onto the dirt.

  “Steady,” Death said, sliding off Chaoseater and sitting next to his brother. “You were close enough to have studied your reflection in the Well of Souls. Go easy.”

  Again War struggled to sit up. This time, he managed it, though he appeared as though he’d keel over at any moment. “Perhaps …” It came out as a feeble croak. He coughed once, spat a gobbet of clotted blood and dirt, and tried again. “Perhaps you should have left me dead.”

  Sorrow and despondency were not emotions to which any of the Horsemen were particularly susceptible, yet Death couldn’t possibly fail to note that his brother seemed as miserable as he’d ever appeared—and not, Death was certain, from the pain of his wounds.

  “Why would you—?”

  War actually snarled. “Don’t patronize me, brother! I failed. I failed you, the Council, everyone. Death was the least I deserve.”

  Protestations rose in Death’s throat, clung to the base of his tongue, and froze into an unbreakable chunk of ice.

  “They have the Ravaiim blood now,” the younger continued morosely, “because I wasn’t strong enough to keep them from taking it.”

  “War …” Tell him. “This is not your fault.” He deserves the truth. “The plan—” Tell him! “—didn’t go as we discussed. Against Hadrimon and Black Mercy, what more could you have done?”

  Coward.

  “Excuses don’t change—”

  “And Hadrimon doesn’t have the Ravaiim blood.”

  For the first time, War looked up. “What?”

  “I …” The truth, now. “… was able to get hold of the cylinder before Hadrimon could escape with it. It’s gone. Permanently.”

  “I don’t understand. How …?”

  “Later. For now, we have to move. Do you need any assistance mounting Ruin?”

  War snarled again, though with less apparent anger. Using Chaoseater as a crutch, he struggled up and shuffled toward the horse. Death watched until he was certain his brother had the strength to climb into the saddle.

  Ruin stared back at him the entire time, and though Death knew he must be imagining it, the beast’s expression seemed accusing.

  So, too, did the crooked glance that Dust directed his way as he hauled himself, favoring the fresh wound in his chest, atop Despair.

  “I don’t know.” Death spoke in a whisper; perhaps to Dust, perhaps to himself, perhaps to a Creator in which the Horseman only partly believed. “I don’t know why not. But I can’t.”

  The guilt when he’d betrayed War, potentially to his death, had gnawed at him. This was almost worse; he had never, in all his eons, felt so craven. In the face of danger, of battles that drowned entire worlds in blood, the eldest Horseman had never known the touch of fear. Now, for the first time, it had seized him in a grip he could not break.

  “He doesn’t need to know,” he said finally, glancing back to ensure War and Ruin had not fallen behind. “I know. I do not forget.

  “And though it take until the Apocalypse itself, I will find a way to make it up to him.”

  It didn’t feel like enough, not remotely, but for now it would have to do.

  Still, at least he’d succeeded. The Charred Council doubtless had nothing pleasant in mind for him; he wasn’t certain who had sent the demons after them, though a suspicion had begun to churn in the recesses of his mind; Hadrimon and Belisatra would have to be dealt with, and Black Mercy and Earth Reaver might yet remain active for a short time.

  But if nothing else, he could rest assured that the greater threat posed by the Abomination Vault was finally over.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  WHAT DO YOU MEAN,” DEATH GROWLED, “IT’S NOT over?”

  “Precisely what it sounds like, Horseman.” Despite the import of his announcement, Panoptos sounded delighted, almost giggly, as he hovered in the baking air at the edge of the Council’s domain.

  Death and War traded suspicious glares, uncertain what the aggravating creature was up to. They’d taken it casually, the long ride from the plains of the Ravaiim homeworld to the nearest spot where they could step between realms. Casually enough that what should have required only the better part of a day had actually required three. The respite had done wonders for the both of them—as had their little side trip afterward, to hunt down a flock of minor demonic entities on the borders of Hell, during which they fed gleefully on the death and the chaos of battle.

  Still …

  “Panoptos,” War said, “we’re tired, and neither of us is in the mood for games. We already know that we’re late in reporting to the Council. Your jibes are unnecessary and unwanted.”

  “Ah, you two.” The messenger began shifting side to side, as though standing atop a rocking ship. “Always so certain of yourselves. Listen very carefully to what I’m saying. Pretend I have lips, and watch them.

  “I did not say, The Council expects your report. I did not say, They’re angry enough to spit fire. Though they are,” he added with a sidelong glance at the elder Horseman.

  “The Council always spits fire,” Death retorted.

  “Fair point. But my point, Death, is that it’s really not over. Your act of disobedience, your little tantrum? It doesn’t seem to have worked.”

  Death jolted upright in the saddle with enough force to send Despair staggering back a few steps. “That’s not possible!”

  “I suggest,” Panoptos said, his tone so smug it was clearly slumming just being there, “that you get moving. The Council’s not known for patience at the best of times.”

  Ruin and Despair both launched into a steady gallop, leaving the winged creature struggling to catch up.

  They reached the steps, dropped from their saddles in unison, and raced upward, brushing past several Watchers in the process. They found themselves once more standing before the burbling pool of magma, the faint stream that trickled from its borders, and the trio of blazing stone effigies that supposedly represented Creation’s last hope for Balance.

  “Death!” It was, initially, the leftmost idol that spoke. “We are not well pleased! Observe.”

  Lava erupted from the pool, raining down in a thin sheet of drops and particles, almost but not quite a mist. As the geyser roared, streaks of color began wending through the torrent, as though some pocket of gems and minerals had abruptly dissolved in the boiling flow.

  When those dribbles of color reached the apex of the spout and started to fall as part of the lighter mist, they also spread, reshaping themselves—streams into blots, blots into recognizable images. Another moment, and an entire vista spread before them, crisp and clear save for a bit of liquid wobbling around the edges.

  What the Horsemen saw was less a battlefield than a killing field; a charnel ruin of heaped corpses and shattered structures. T
he tattered wings, mangled armor, and singed white hair of the dead was more than sufficient indicator as to who they’d once been. The cracked marble, shattered glass, and hollow, smoking spires was equally strong indication as to where this might have happened.

  “You are looking at Silverwall.” The voice came from behind; clearly, Panoptos had caught up with them at some point. “Or rather, what used to be Silverwall. You know it?”

  “An outpost on the very borders of Heaven,” War said. “Of relatively little importance since they’ve begun building their new one, though it remains the best vantage point for a few of the minor rifts between Above and Below.”

  “But this,” said Death, “was no demonic offensive.”

  “No.”

  At that simple utterance by all three of the Charred Council, as if awaiting precisely that cue, figures appeared at the edges of the vista: four or five angels, as well as the pale-and-purple dervish that was his sister, Fury. A pocket of Belisatra’s brass myrmidons retreated before them, steadily shredded to bits by halberds and Fury’s devastating whips.

  War’s cloak folded and rippled as he shook his head, in puzzlement rather than denial. “There’s no sense to this. They should have needed longer to regroup, to recover from their loss of the Ravaiim blood, before they could once again pose any real threat. We should have had time to hunt them down.”

  Death had taken a step nearer the wavering image, oblivious to the occasional splatter of magma sizzling across his skin. “Those toy soldiers didn’t slaughter so many angels, certainly not in their own bastion.” He faced the Council, waiting for an answer to the question he had not asked.

  “Yes. Black Mercy.”

  “Fury confirmed it the moment she arrived,” Panoptos added from above. “Angels slain by the dozens, showing signs of only the most minor injuries.”

  “Any sign of Earth Reaver?” War asked.

  “None.” This from the central column. “This was a surprise assault. Perhaps the larger Abomination proved too ponderous for their needs.”

  “I don’t understand.” Death continued watching the flickering images, apparently hoping to alter their meaning by sheer force of disbelief. “This shouldn’t be possible.”

  “You did say,” Panoptos offered, “that they might have access to other, smaller sources of the blood. Perhaps one of those …?”

  “No,” from both Horsemen at once. War alone continued, “Silverwall holds no strategic value for anyone except a few small communities in Hell. Destroying it—especially openly, without hiding their responsibility—accomplishes nothing for Belisatra or Hadrimon. If they are relying on a limited source of Ravaiim blood to awaken the Grand Abominations, an attack like this is a foolish, even asinine waste of resources.

  “Unless,” War added thoughtfully, “the angels have kept something from us? Something hidden there, like Abaddon’s sacrament bomb?”

  “No. We have kept an eye on Silverwall since the assault began. The enemy has killed and destroyed indiscriminately. They looted nothing; they search nothing.”

  “Then I am at a loss to suggest any other—”

  “It’s a test.”

  It felt, to Death, as though all of them—not only War and Panoptos, but the Charred Council as well, despite the utter immobility of the effigies—were now fixated solely on him.

  “Explain, Horseman.”

  “A small outpost, one that wouldn’t be exceptionally difficult to overrun but where it also wouldn’t matter if they failed … Hadrimon and Belisatra have found some other source, something none of us anticipated. This was a test, to ensure that it worked as planned—that it would, indeed, empower the Abominations.”

  “Then your failure and disobedience are compounded further still! Your destruction of the Ravaiim blood, in blatant disregard of our orders, has not even succeeded in depriving the enemy of the Abominations! It has only ensured that we now lack the weapons with which to face them!”

  “It had to be done.”

  “And this is all you offer in your own defense?” the rightmost column demanded in a torrent of flame.

  “It’s all I require.”

  “You will turn the Abomination Vault over to us—or, if it cannot be moved, you will reveal to us its location and means of entry. You will provide Panoptos with the locations of every battlefield that might yet yield any useful quantity of Ravaiim blood. We must be prepared for—”

  “No.”

  Even Panoptos gasped at that.

  “Death …”

  “I am as horrified as you—more so, in fact—that the Grand Abominations still pose a threat. I will do everything within my power to end that threat. But I will not do it by loosing yet more of the damn things on Creation!”

  “This has gone far enough, Horseman! We overlooked your insolence once; it will not happen again. You will do as we command!”

  “No. I will not.”

  The pain, when it hit him, was like nothing Death had ever known. Chaoseater, Affliction, the fires of Hell, every injury he’d suffered in the Nephilim’s final battle, none of it could compare. It seared through him, utterly bypassing the well of strength and stoicism with which he held the agonies of reality at bay. Every iota of his body burned; his soul felt like it was being skinned by a dozen ragged blades.

  He was on his knees, though he’d no memory of falling. The hand he’d thrown out to break his fall was submerged past the wrist in the stream of magma, and he’d never so much as noticed. He heard Dust fluttering around his head, squawking and screeching; heard Harvester clatter to the floor; heard War’s steps on the stone.

  Above it all, he heard the voice of the Charred Council.

  “This can end immediately, Horseman. Or it can persist so long that it must seem eternal even to an immortal. The choice is yours!”

  “You … you will not kill … kill me. Will not … keep me like … like this.” Even his voice seemed to have ignited, for every word seared his throat as it passed. “You need … need me too much.”

  “We need only servants willing to obey! You are the eldest and most experienced of our Riders, Death, but there is little you can accomplish that the other three cannot match. They—”

  “Two,” War growled softly.

  “What?”

  “Two, not three. Kill Death over this, and you will have to do the same to me.”

  For just an instant, a new swell of shame swamped Death’s mind so utterly that the pain actually lessened.

  “A noble gesture, War,” the middle effigy said, “But unconvincing. You do not truly mean to die here today.”

  “Try me.”

  The flames dancing in the eyes and mouths of the Charred Council abruptly went dark, showing only the faintest glow of fading cinders. Death sat up with a gasp he could not quite repress, yanking his hand from the searing magma and lifting Harvester with the other.

  “Brother?” War asked.

  “The pain is gone. Thank you. War, why …?”

  “You stood beside me as we faced not one but two of the Grand Abominations. You understand them better than the Council possibly can. If you say that we are better off keeping the others locked away, I trust your judgment.”

  Trust. The word was a blade in Death’s stomach; he wondered, briefly, how much more pain he could endure.

  “War, you—”

  The fires within the idols roared anew, heralding the Council’s return.

  “We have decided,” the center effigy told them. Was it Death’s imagination, or did the rumbling voice sound vaguely sullen? “Owing to your personal history with the Grand Abominations, we will excuse your continued lapse in propriety. This time. Do not try our patience again, Horseman!”

  “I understand.” Death bowed his head as he spoke, but inside he exulted. He’d faced down the Council; they could be made to yield.

  Good to know … for the future.

  “Death …,” the totem continued as though reading his thoughts, “you possess your
greatest strengths at our sufferance. You walk the worlds at our whim. These gifts can be stripped from you. Not every consequence for disobedience is a matter of simple pain.”

  All he could do was repeat himself. “I understand.”

  “You will not be further punished, but neither can we trust you further with this endeavor. Your judgment is compromised, and you both remain weakened by your recent travails. Fury and Strife will hunt down these enemies. You will stand guard over the Abomination Vault itself, lest Hadrimon and Belisatra locate it before Strife and Fury locate them.”

  “It is, in fact, already defended,” Death said. “Some additional precautions wouldn’t hurt, though.”

  War frowned darkly at this lesser assignment, but said nothing.

  “Panoptos! Dispatch your Watchers. Contact Fury, locate Strife, and summon them both before us.”

  “Of course, my lords.” The wispy creature circled twice, then swooped from the platform.

  “Horsemen … Begone.”

  Both brothers bowed their heads shallowly, Death stretched out an arm for Dust to perch on, and they departed as swiftly as dignity would permit. They’d remounted Despair and Ruin, and traveled some moments across the shattered earth, before Death spoke again. “You’re grumbling.”

  War straightened in his saddle. “Sentry duty? All we’ve done, all we’ve endured, and the Council won’t even let us see this all through!”

  “Calm yourself, brother.” The elder Rider gently shooed Dust off his shoulder so he could see War without a mass of feathers blocking half his view. “I can assure you, we’ll absolutely be seeing this through.”

  War started, then groaned aloud. “You’re not seriously considering disobeying the Council again!”

  “No.” He almost—almost—shuddered. “No, I’ve no urge to do that again anytime soon.”

  Hooves smacked on soot-caked rock. The angry roar of flames drifted from over the horizon. The mounts drifted apart from one another, passed to each side of a monolithic stalagmite, drew together once more. Then …

  “So what did you mean, if not that you planned to go after Hadrimon and Belisatra yourself?”