Darksiders: The Abomination Vault (11 page)

Nor did his attention remain on those for long, for it was only moments later that the ramparts themselves hove into view.

The lines and angles—windows and cannon ports, embossed emblems, and of course the gate itself—gleamed in the light, though not so brightly as the bridge. These looked more brass than gold, due to that contrast, but War knew well that they were far sturdier than either metal. The walls themselves were of some pale stone; not quite like marble but, at least in War’s personal experience, even less like anything else. These, too, were carved and inlaid into sharp panels and inset layers, so that the entire bastion was a work of art. The ramparts were too high for War to see if any guards stood atop the wall, just as the cannon ports were too narrow to expose anyone within, but he felt certain they were present. The angels might leave the bridge unwatched, but never the gate itself.

The light, War could not help but notice, was purely ambient, radiating from all directions at once. Although the world was noon-bright around him, he saw no sun in the sky, nor any shadows falling across the luminous roadway. It was almost uncomfortable, in a way. The wall stood several dozen paces in height, the ornately sculpted barbican more than twice that. The approach
should
have been cloaked in deepest shade, yet there was none.

The portcullis was raised, presenting a long and seemingly empty corridor that cut straight through the impossibly thick
wall. As Ruin approached, however, hooves ringing metallically on the bridge, War heard the blast of a great trumpet. Almost instantly his path was blocked by a small phalanx of angels, all heavily armored and clutching the race’s infamous halberds. Wings flapped above, as other soldiers appeared from over the wall, and though he couldn’t see them War could somehow
feel
the barrels of a multitude of cannons gaping his way.

That’s more like it, then
.

The guardpost’s commander—War knew him to be the commander, as he was the only angel whose face and platinum hair were unconstrained by any helm, and who carried a great axe rather than a halberd—marched ahead of the others. He planted himself directly in Ruin’s way, and War couldn’t quite restrain a nod of respect. Not only did the angel handle his bardiche easily, never mind that the weapon was twice his height with a blade broader across than the warhorse’s girth, but he showed no qualms about standing before a potential adversary whom he
knew
was far deadlier than he.

The portcullis remained up, but War knew well that it could be dropped in the blink of an eye, if necessary.

“Horseman,” the angel greeted him with a cold courtesy.

“Commander.”

“What business has a Rider of the Charred Council in the White City?”

“I’m to deliver a message.”

Silence, then. Clearly, the answer didn’t strike the angel as a likely one, not with War, yet he had no formal standing that would allow him to question the Horseman’s word.

“To whom?” he finally asked.

“Not your concern.”

Again, a moment of silence. The angel seemed at a loss. Heaven and the Council were not at war. The Rider had offered
a legitimate purpose, and he wasn’t legally
required
to tell the gate guards who the recipient might be. So, no formal cause existed to deny him entrance. On the other hand, the presence of a Horseman rarely, if ever, boded well for either the inhabitants or even the property unfortunate enough to find themselves in his vicinity.

In the end, however, angels were creatures of law, and the law was clear. With an obvious reluctance that bordered on the offensive, he stepped aside and waved for his warriors to do the same.

“Welcome to the White City, then, Horseman. May your sojourn be fruitful and blessedly free of any unnecessary delay.”

War didn’t even need to flick the reins, as Ruin clearly recognized the meaning in the corridor that abruptly sprouted between the armored figures. Mount and Rider passed beneath the portcullis, heads held high, and it would have been difficult to say which of the two more effectively conveyed the impression that far more magnificent sights than these had, in the past, failed utterly to dazzle them.

It was, for all that, an act, performed for the sake of the watching angels. Not even War could gaze upon the White City and not find himself a
little
bit awed.

The city was constructed in layers, as high as the clouds and deeper than the eye could see. Some of those layers consisted of the floating isles War had noted on his approach. Others were wholly artificial: entire neighborhoods, structures and roadways, built atop ornate pillars and graceful arches. Bridges and winding stairs connected one to another, though a few had crumbled from disuse, leaving several of the older isles and buildings isolated from the rest.

Courtyards, paved in geometric patterns, were surrounded by statues as tall as those on the bridge outside. The buildings … By Oblivion, the buildings! Towers that stabbed the sky, great
cathedrals as broad and as tall as small mountains. All were made up of sharp angles or elegant archways, and all were of the same stone-and-gold construction as the outer wall. Only trees sprouting in the courtyards and the stained glass of the many windows provided any real color to the tableau.

Or rather, those—and the outfits of the angels who did
not
wander the White City in full armor.

Most of these were clad in flowing robes of deep reds and violets, though a handful wore green and a great many wore white—these last failing to stand out from the background as much as the others. Gold belts and ostentatious headdresses were common, as were slightly more subtle circlets.

War found it peculiar, contemplating non-warrior angels. Angel craftsmen? Angel couriers? Angel merchants? It was difficult to picture—but then, the race had the same needs as any other, did they not? The Horseman briefly found himself wondering what they used as currency, before deciding he didn’t care enough to give it any real attention.

Even the
sounds
of the city were magnificent. Where the amalgamation of labors and voices in most communities formed an ugly, cacophonic drone, the conversations of the angels and the blare of distant trumpets produced an almost orchestral tenor.

Ruin marched along at a stately pace, War taking it all in, though he was careful never to be caught staring. The same could not be said of the angels. All those who passed him by, on foot or on the wing, stared until it seemed their eyes must burst. Most either took a couple of steps away or made a deliberate show of
not
doing so, but few showed any inclination toward approaching him.

Few, save the flight of five circling high above, who had been with him since the gate. Guards, doubtless, watching to be sure he started no trouble. Well, let them watch!

It occurred to War that he must be passing all manner of establishments: workshops and warehouses, shops and homes. Yet he could see no way of telling one from another. Every structure was grand and imposing, more magnificent than temples or palaces in most other worlds. Some boasted sigils in angelic script above or near the doors, and War assumed that these were sufficient to tell the angels what they needed to know. Other than those, he could find no pattern, nor any hint of what purpose any given building served.

And he had plenty of time to examine them, for his route could generously be called circuitous. Even though he’d chosen the most efficient and straightforward path to the structure that the Council’s agents had dubbed his objective, he would be long in reaching his objective—because the most efficient that
he
could manage was still not efficient at all.

The angels had to transport goods and building materials, and they often played host to Makers or other Old Ones, so the vast majority of their structures were indeed accessible by bridge and by road. For their own part, however, the angels were creatures of the air as much as the ground, and the most direct path between this building and that, this district and that, was often open sky. War and Ruin, bound as they were by gravity, had to wend their way around entire neighborhoods, up and down multiple levels, for hours on end, to reach a destination that, for an angel, was only a few moments away.

Finally, just as War was growing truly irritated, and the wonders of Heaven had ceased to hold any appeal, he recognized the landmark for which he’d been searching. Recessed into a niche in the side of a great cathedral-like hall stood a particular statue. It, like nearly all the others, was the effigy of an angel, nearly three times War’s height. Where most either crouched, as though kneeling to some higher power, or stood rigid in an attitude of endless vigilance, this one leaned forward
as though just beginning to swing the massive sword it clutched in both hands.

Once he’d spotted that statue, he was to continue on, past the next intersecting bridge, to the first building on the right. There, if the Charred Council’s informants had not deceived them, he would find Abaddon’s hidden arsenal.

If the spies
had
deceived them … Well, War had no idea who the informants were, or what influence the Council held over them to command their assistance, but if he’d been lied to, the Horseman was quite prepared to spend decades tracking them down.

War was now several levels deeper than the gate. The web-work of bridges and platforms above were sure to give his “escorts” some difficulty in keeping an eye on him, though he knew they were still above, trying their best. He was certain, as well, that many of the passersby on the roadway were actually guards, watching over the covert installation. So, although he’d much have preferred an open and comprehensive reconnaissance of his target, he settled for halting Ruin in the midst of the intersection, glancing about as though trying to remember his way. From here, he could at least study his objective from the corner of his eye. Several angels grumbled as they were forced to detour around the massive beast, but none seemed inclined to challenge him directly.

It was unimpressive, so far as White City architecture was concerned. It was less than two hundred paces across; the sweeping walls and minarets were “only” the height of a great castle. It was, for an angelic structure, downright humble.

Its walls were of that same white stone, however, and the shuttered windows far too narrow to allow entrance.

The Horseman dismissed the gold-edged front door the instant he spotted it. Abaddon might not rely much on eldritch defenses, according to the spies—a high concentration
of magic would be too easily detected by rival White City factions—but he’d be an utter fool if the main entrance wasn’t warded by
something
. It could be as simple as an alarm, or a trap of flame or cannon-fire; or as complex as a teleportation portal designed to transport visitors somewhere other than the building’s interior. Those who had proper business doubtless had some means of deactivating the wards, or some hidden entrance elsewhere on the property. War didn’t know, and hardly had the time to go searching. So if the door wasn’t an option …

The Rider twisted in the saddle to look back at the way he had come, and his teeth gleamed in a vicious grin.

A
T THE TERMINUS OF THE TWISTED STAIR, BEYOND A
smattering of additional chambers, Death finally found what he sought.

A hazy cavern of equal parts ice and stone sprawled out before him, itself large enough to hold a small village. The wall gaped open at the far end, revealing an endless vista of snowcapped peaks. Rune-carved rings and crescents of metal, many of them hundreds of paces across, glowed with an inner light and rumbled with the grinding of metal on stone as they slowly rotated in and around each other across that gap. Some sort of orrery or timepiece, Death assumed, though any hint of its ultimate purpose escaped him.

From atop an array of columns, tiny against the creaking mechanism but still massive enough, more crow sculptures loomed, glaring down with eyes of gleaming scarlet.

And what they gazed upon was utter chaos. The ice-coated chamber swarmed with figures of brass and stone. Scores of them pressed forward, advancing on a single goal. Death couldn’t see their objective, not from where he stood, but he knew full well who it must be.

Death hit the back of the formation, a veritable cyclone of blades. Harvester spun, metal parted, limbs and torsos and
spindles fell. He moved constantly, dancing through gaps in the line through which he should never have fit. Each time one of the constructs spun to strike back at whoever had just obliterated the soldier next to it, their enemy was already gone, turning someone else into so much scrap.

The sheer press of numbers, however, meant Death could only push so far before he was hemmed in. When a formidable contingent of the automatons spun on their bases, turning to focus on the new danger from behind, he had no choice but to fall back several steps and reassess.

“Go away, Horseman!” The words were as rough and pitted as the stone of the walls, carried on an ancient and ill-used voice, yet they crossed the great chamber clearly. “I neither desire nor require your assistance!”

“You’re welcome!” Death shouted back. The resulting grumble, though audible,
was
impossible to interpret.

Death warily surveyed the ranks of the enemy, drawing almost experimentally upon the necromancies at his beck and call. Three skeletal hands rose from the floor, which rippled like water around them rather than cracking like ice, and grabbed viciously at the constructs. The whirling spindles, however, proved too much for them; powdered bone flew, accompanied by a high-pitched whine, and then the hands exploded into fragments.

Summon the ghouls once more? The shambling corpses might occupy a few of the brass soldiers, but they’d be far too hemmed in to provide more than a mild distraction, and far too slow to compete with the flashing blades.

And while he had plenty of other magics on which to draw, he found himself reluctant to call upon them here. He wasn’t entirely certain that they wouldn’t harm the Crowfather himself, or at least do substantial damage to his abode, and if they should fail to end the battle, he might find himself too exhausted to continue.