Darksiders: The Abomination Vault (3 page)

With surprising rapidity, guided by Death’s magic and servants both, a low building began to form over and around the smaller structure. Every so often, faces appeared briefly in the ash to study him as he worked his necromancies—phantoms, perhaps, of the world before, or maybe just tricks of the light.

He sensed the sudden surge of life, a creature appearing nearby where there had been none, at the same moment he heard a warning squawk from above. Wings beating rapidly against the wind, shedding mangy feathers, a hefty crow circled twice and settled on his shoulder.

“Yes, Dust.” Death’s voice was low, sonorous, a stale draft from a yawning sepulcher. “I feel it, too.”

He raised a hand, and the weapon he’d casually laid aside heaved itself into his waiting grip. The scythe was enormous, taller than its wielder. Its blade was a hideous thing, jagged and crafted like the wing of some great beast, longer than Death’s outstretched arms fingertip-to-fingertip. The ghouls ceased their labors and turned in unison, ready to march at the slightest thought.

Dust emitted a second piercing call and took to the air once more—partly to scout for enemies, yes, but also in part to remove himself from possible danger.

“Coward,” Death said, though his tone was not unkind.

He squinted, peering into the soot-thickened wind, and made a swift decision. As quickly as he could think it, his scythe flowed, fluid for less than the blink of an eye. Death was now holding two weapons where there had only been one: two crescent blades, thick and heavy, shaped like knives but larger than most swords. Blades that would be easier to swing and thrust through the violent gusts than the longer, broader scythe.

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

Death had never heard that voice, high and sneering, before. But between the sound and the silhouette appearing through the cloud, he recognized his visitor all the same.

“I am Death,” he said simply, without pomp or vanity, “and Harvester is bound to me. Whatever tools I require to serve my function, it can emulate. Hello, Panoptos.”

“You’ve heard of me! I’m flattered.”

The dusky figure that finally materialized was peculiar even by the Horseman’s standards. Gaunt, almost spindly, humanoid from the waist up, tapering off into semi-solid vapors below. Its arms and fingers were stretched and distended, its wings serrated and broad. Its oblong face, like Death’s mask, lacked anything resembling a mouth, though this didn’t stop it from speaking. Instead, it boasted an array of emerald eyes, shifting and flowing across a vaguely gelatinous surface. Nine of them, usually; though between the constant motion, and the fact that one or two would occasionally disappear, only to sprout anew, the number varied moment by moment.

“Don’t be. The Charred Council told me about you,” Death said. “My brothers told me
more
about you. Care to guess who I’m most likely to believe?”

“Aww …” The creature sniggered softly. “Surely you know better than to listen to rumor and gossip!”

“Depends who’s spreading the rumors.” Death allowed Harvester to return to its innate form, that of the single great scythe, and leaned it against the partial wall of bone. At his silent command, the ghouls resumed their labors.

“So,” Panoptos said, flitting this way and that, untouched by the wailing winds. “Welcome back. Such a lovely home you’ve chosen. Very … you.” Already concealed beneath the newer walls of bone, the older, inner structure had apparently escaped his notice.

It wasn’t an oversight Death felt compelled to correct. “I enjoy the view.”

“Heh. Strife
said
you were a sarcastic bastard.”

“What do you want, Panoptos?”

Clearly, the creature had no interest in answering Death’s question, at least not yet. “Where have you been these past centuries, anyway?”

“I wouldn’t tell the Charred Council when they asked. What makes you think I’ll tell you?”

Again that irritating little laugh. “Why, as a gesture of friendship! I
so
want us to be friends.”

“It’s good to have goals. Keeps us motivated,” Death told him. “But I wouldn’t wager anything you can’t do without, were I you.”

“How unkind! We’ve only just met!”

“And I already despise you. Imagine how much greater my loathing will become when I
have
gotten to know you.”

Panoptos might have had a retort for that, or not, but Dust chose that moment to decide the newcomer was safe after all. He dropped from above to settle comfortably on Death’s shoulder, puffing out his feathers and shaking off the worst of the soot.

Every one of Panoptos’s eyes blinked in unison. “Where did the bird come from?” he screeched.

“His name is Dust,” the Horseman said.

“That is
not
what I asked!”

“And yet, it’s the answer you got. The universe works in mysterious ways.”

“Hmph!” Panoptos darted upward, apparently for no other reason than so he could look down on Death. “Does the Crowfather know you’ve absconded with one of his creatures?” he asked petulantly.

The Council’s errand boy doesn’t care for surprises. Could be a useful thing to know
. “What do you
want
, Panoptos?” he repeated. “I have work to do.”

“Indeed you do. I’m here on behalf of the Council.”

Death just looked at him.

“Ah, well … Yes, I suppose you guessed as much. Listen well, then. A phalanx of the White City’s finest soldiers was ambushed recently, by an unknown enemy. The Charred Council wishes you to learn who and why, and to—”

“No.”

Four or five of the creature’s eyes threatened to pop from his face. “What do you mean,
no
?”

“I wasn’t aware the word had multiple meanings,” Death said.

“When you returned,” Panoptos growled, “after
half a millennium
, you told the Council you were finally ready to assume your duties!”

“And I am, when necessary. But I’m not required for this. Angels under attack? That’s hardly the Council’s affair at all, unless it represents a violation of the treaties with Hell. Assign one of the others; War and Fury are always eager to—”

“The Council sent for
you
,” Panoptos said. His voice had gone so cold, frost practically formed along the edges of the words.

“I’m busy trying to make a home for myself.” Death began to turn back to his endeavors.

“You’ll want to look into this yourself, Death.”

“Oddly, I don’t.”

“Oh. Did I neglect to mention that this happened at the borders of Eden?”

Death spun back quickly enough to dislodge Dust from his shoulder. The crow offered an offended caw and fluttered over to perch, sulking, on the half-built structure.

Even without a mouth, Panoptos gave the impression of a sly grin. “I suppose I probably ought to have mentioned that first thing, shouldn’t I?”

The Horseman’s fist were clenched around the haft of Harvester; he didn’t even remember summoning it back to him. Had Panoptos been nearer, it might well have been his throat in the weapon’s place.

“What were the angels doing
there
? Did anyone breach the garden? Did the assailants get in?”

“I don’t know.” Perhaps realizing he’d pushed a bit further
than was safe, Panoptos rose even higher, and his tone softened a touch. “Honestly, I don’t. The Council’s only now hearing first reports of the engagement.”

“Anything else you’ve
neglected
to mention?” Death rasped up at him.

“Only that the Council wants your report the instant you have an idea of what’s happening. They need to know if this is just another random skirmish at the edges of the treaty, or if something larger is underway.”

Without another word, Death began striding across the desert of ash, leaving the ghouls to finish the work on his home-to-be. A whistle pierced the air, shrill and painful, one as much spiritual as physical.

And something both spiritual and physical answered the call.

If the reek of decay and the crushing weight of hopelessness took physical form, they would have been the same putrid green as the mist that billowed out of nothing a dozen paces distant. A growing staccato beating resolved itself into the sound of hooves.

Other than the grubby mane and tail, the horse that finally appeared was hairless. Its skin was nearly the same corpse gray as Death’s, and hung open in ragged tears, displaying bone and rotting muscle. From those wounds, from its nostrils and between its broken teeth, and from cracks in its hooves, that mist seeped in constant clouds. The saddle was black leather, worn and tattered; the bridle, a rusted chain.

Death hauled himself into that saddle with a single smooth motion. Harvester, despite its length, never once impeded him. Scarcely had he settled when Dust landed once more on his shoulder. Death nodded once to the crow, a second time to his mount. The horse broke into a gallop that should have been impossible on the soft and shifting surface.

For the first time in five hundred years, the eldest of the Horsemen rode out into Creation to do the bidding of the Charred Council.

B
EFORE THEM
, the walls of reality parted, as ephemeral as cobweb and just as readily swept aside. The barren world on which Death had made his home fell away, less palpable than a forgotten dream, and they were elsewhere. Or, more accurately, nowhere.

Above and all around them were swirling currents of white. Not white mist, or cloud, or haze; just
white
. Calling it “nothing” lacked accuracy, as this was no absence, but a
presence
. It just happened to be the presence of emptiness made manifest.

The only real substance wound below them, a snaking trail of reality on which the beast’s hooves trod without sound. Held steady and solid by the power of the Horseman’s will alone, it was quite literally a path between worlds. The rolling whiteness around them muffled sound, offered little sensation of motion—but here, distance had no meaning anyway. The journey from one reality to the next would take as long as it took, and not even Death truly knew why.

The tedium afforded him the opportunity to think on what had happened. It wasn’t necessarily an advantage.

Eden
. He could have gladly gone until the end of time without ever again hearing the name Eden.

A garden realm of wonder and beauty, peace and plenty. Set aside ages ago for the sole use of a people not yet born—by the express command of the Creator Himself, in an earlier age when He still occasionally deigned to speak with His creations—Eden was quite possibly the nearest thing in any reality to a true paradise.

Perhaps it should have been no surprise to anyone, then,
that the Nephilim—caught forever between demon and angel while belonging to neither; a lost and vicious race—had attempted to annex it for their own. It was the last world they ever invaded, the end of their reality-spanning rampage. Many of their corpses still rotted beneath the surface, feeding all manner of ancient power into the soil.

It was a past that Death would have been quite content to leave buried, and gradually forgotten. Apparently, someone out there didn’t feel the same.

The horse abruptly tossed its rotting head, uttering a spectral call somewhere between a whinny and a moan.

“Yes, Despair.” Death flicked the reins idly. “I
am
paying attention, and I know precisely where we are. I’m not about to get us lost.”

The creature—Despair—whickered with blatant skepticism.

“If we’re not there shortly,” the Horseman offered, “I promise I’ll let
you
take the lead.”

A final ghostly snort, then silence once more.

Briefly. It was only a few moments later that the billowing pallor surrounding them began to waft away, thinning to reveal the first signs of an actual realm. Despair’s hooves began, once more, to make muted
thumps
in the dirt.

Dull patterns of shape and color, very much like blots of dyes and paints not yet dried, slowly resolved themselves into towering trees and heavy brushwood. The light forest stretched from its bed of gently waving grasses toward an azure sky so bright, it was almost painful. The gentle gusts of wind were practically unnoticeable, at least as compared with the world he’d just left, and high, piping birdsong filled the air.

Only for a heartbeat or two, of course. The wildlife fell unnaturally silent at the approach of the Horseman and his half-dead mount—presumably because they were busy scrambling to fit themselves into the tiniest of hiding spots.

Beautiful and bucolic, but certainly
not
Eden. Nor had Death expected it to be. The garden was isolated from the boundaries of Creation as defined by the Tree of Life. Not even the Horsemen could simply enter at will. No, like any other traveler, Death had to wend his way through ancient forests on unclaimed worlds near the heart of reality, until he located the single trail that allowed ingress to that most precious domain.

The first signs of unrest, when he finally came across them, were not difficult to spot.

Entire swaths of trees had fallen, cut down by potent magics and brutal weaponry. Splintered wood and tattered leaves, churned soil and scorched earth, stretched as far as Death could see. He could smell the blood, still wet and seeping into the dirt, but he didn’t need to; he
felt
the deaths imprinted on the landscape, sensed the newly freed souls slowly fading from the air.

“Dust.”

The crow squawked an acknowledgment and took wing, spiraling high and far, watching for any hint as to what had occurred—or for any imminent danger. Death dropped lightly to his feet, leaving Harvester lashed to the saddle in the full knowledge that it would answer his call should he need it. He crouched, studying the soil, but all he could tell was that a fearsome struggle had taken place.

That much, I knew already
.

He pressed his fingers into the rich loam, then raised them to his mask. The blood was angelic, as he’d anticipated. What he
hadn’t
expected was to find
only
angel blood. Whoever their opponents might have been, either they did not bleed, or the soldiers of the White City had not managed to injure a single one.