Darksiders: The Abomination Vault (33 page)

Probably War. If anyone was going to fire the shot that would both shelter and sting Death at once, it would have been War.

He was close, now, close enough to see the ledges and the caves through the haze. The shots from above had ceased; Hadrimon was probably waiting for Death to begin climbing, where the angel could pick him off at leisure. Not even the Horseman was fast enough to make such an ascent without providing a tempting target.

Except that Death had no
intention
of climbing the cliff face.

Drawing deep within, Death put on a burst of speed, sprinting faster than he ever had—and at the same moment, he uttered a piercing mental cry.

The mists swirling about one of the cave mouths suddenly thickened, taking on a soggy olive hue. Despair bolted from the shelter in answer to its master’s call, charging at speed despite the precarious footing.

Death took a final few steps, tensing as his foot came down. At the precise instant Despair hit the edge of the shelf, they both leapt.

Despair arced downward, a grotesque comet trailing a toxic tail of fumes. Death soared up, carried by a bound that few entities in Creation could have rivaled.

A dismayed shout sounded from behind and Black Mercy began to cough once more, but the lethal barrage passed clear beneath the Horseman’s feet.

Almost halfway between the protruding lip of stone and the rocky, scaly earth, their paths crossed.

Death lashed out, snagged the saddle horn with his left hand, and swung himself bodily over and around. His boots slipped into the stirrups almost with a mind of their own. A massive jolt and they were down, Rider and steed reunited once more.

The horse uttered a single, sepulchral cry that might, just might, have rung with exultation, and
ran
.

In mere heartbeats they had once again crossed the expanse, drawing a thick line of flying soil and ocher fumes across the face of the realm. An easy jump, almost casual, carried them over the ravine in which the angels had sheltered. Death heard, faintly, the constant fire of Black Mercy, the raving screams of the maddened Hadrimon, but none of them came anywhere near.

Give Despair his head and open ground, and not even an angel on the wing could hope to keep up.

He would try, though. Blinded by wounded pride and worry as to what Death had planned, Hadrimon would follow, allowing War and the others to reach the caves.

Crevices and slow rivers of viscous humors passed beneath Despair’s hooves. The world grew darker, the air grittier and far, far hotter, as they again approached the scene of the hopeless battle and the roaring volcano.

Once, as he neared a cluster of angels and demons who had slaughtered one another early in the struggle, he slipped a foot free of the stirrups and leaned down from the horse’s back, so that his fingers nearly dragged the ground. He snagged one of the demon corpses, hauling it with him as he righted himself. He casually ripped the head from its shoulders and tied it to his belt by the hair, letting the rest of the body fall away. He had a few questions to ask, once things had calmed down.

And finally, there it was: Earth Reaver. The construct army had been forced to scatter, to pass around the lava flows the Grand Abomination had unleashed, but not the weapon itself. On its massive legs of bone, it trudged through the roiling sludge, utterly untouched by the heat. Death couldn’t see Belisatra, though he knew she had to be near. That leash of hair was lengthy—could, in fact, grow or shrink based on the needs of the wielder—but not indefinite.

No matter. She was not his target.

The weapon lumbered forward, splashing through the shallow pool, and Death realized he could not have asked for a better location. Just ahead, Earth Reaver would have to stretch its legs to step across one of the crevices, now flowing with lava. Not much, not at its size, but enough.

Death reined Despair to a halt; the horse reared, pawing at the air, eager to keep moving. “Easy,” the Rider whispered. “Easy. Just for a moment …”

The Horseman still saw no sign of Hadrimon, but he knew the angel would be coming up fast from behind. If the damn thing would just
move
!

Slowly, with an almost mocking languor, the platform raised a leg, reached, began to set it down across the ravine in a step Death could almost have called
dainty
.

Just before the leg settled, when the platform’s balance was at its worst, Death hefted the bag in which his angelic errand boy had gathered the Redemption ammunition. He whipped it around his head once, twice, and let it fly in a high arc.

Even before the sack had reached its target, Harvester had split into twin smaller scythes, and Death hurled one of them as well.

Just before the bag completed its fall, Harvester whipped past, slicing open not only the fabric but several of the clips within, exposing the warheads. Earth Reaver’s leg came down on top of the bag, crushing it and driving it deep into the lava in a single step.

The resulting explosion wasn’t enough to actually harm the Abomination, but it was more than sufficient to send it toppling. Scrambling in a comic dance, the platform teetered and fell, splashing a torrent of lava into the air. At least one of its legs dangled into the ravine, robbing it of vital leverage.

Death reached out, snatched the returning scythe from the
air, and wheeled Despair around. He’d take the long way, so as not to pass back through Hadrimon’s field of fire.

He’d likely bought himself several additional hours, before Earth Reaver could right itself and reach the escarpment. Maybe,
maybe
, time enough.

Y
OU UNDERSTAND, DO YOU NOT, THAT WHILE
I
HAVE
mastered multiple styles of magic, I know very little in the way of necromancy? I have no truck with the dead.” The peculiar pair, the angel and the Horseman, currently occupied the deepest cavern in that cliff-face network of tunnels. The only illumination came from a small fire against the far wall and the blazing intensity of the Rider’s eyes. Across the floor of the cave—dirt, soil, and that peculiar skin-like crust—Death had sketched an array of glyphs and sigils. They were spidery, squiggly little things, almost dizzying to look at, from a time before writing itself had fully decided how it should work, or what it ought to be.

Between Death and the fire sat a small cylinder of gold and crystal, one of several containers he’d borrowed from the angels’ supplies. Dust perched atop it, head cocked as he studied the dancing flame. When the Horseman had returned from the battle and his mad ride, the crow had peered up at him with a look that seemed almost to scream,
Oh, were you gone? I hadn’t noticed
. He’d then fluttered to Death’s shoulder, where he’d remained until a few moments ago.

Other than the crackling fire and the occasional scrape of
Azrael’s wings against a low-hanging stalactite, the only sounds in the cave were occasional hints of War and the angels in the passageways beyond, making preparations for the assault to come.

“I’m aware,” Death said finally, his answer to Azrael so long in coming that the angel had been opening his mouth to repeat himself. “You won’t need any necromantic acumen for this. I have another purpose in mind for you.”

The Horseman plunged Harvester, tip-first, into one of the stone walls and left it hanging until he might need it. Over it he draped Mortis; the thing was
probably
too lifeless to react to what was coming, but why chance it? Then, with infinite care, so as not to disturb even one of the symbols in the dirt, he lowered himself to sit cross-legged before the fire.

“What I plan to do,” he continued, “is simple enough in concept—only a minor manipulation of the essence of dead things. No more complicated than anything else I’ve done a thousand times before.

“The problem is the
magnitude
. I’ve never attempted necromancies on a realm-wide scale before.”

“You require power,” Azrael guessed.

“Precisely. I need you to gather your energies, as though to cast your greatest spells, and then channel them to me—or at least into my own incantations, if that’s easier. Can you do it?”

The angel paused, his expression thoughtful. “I’ve never attempted anything exactly like it,” he admitted, “but I have cooperated with other angels in the casting of a particularly difficult invocation. I imagine the mental effort should be similar enough. Death?”

“Hmm?”

“With all respect to you and what you do, I am not entirely comfortable with this—with necromancy in general. You’re certain this is necessary?”

“Hadrimon and Belisatra—and Earth Reaver—will be here in a matter of hours. Have you any other ideas for keeping the blood of the Ravaiim away from them?”

“Let’s begin, then,” Azrael said with a sigh.

“I’ll need to remain focused on the incantation once it’s started,” Death told him. “Dust will alert you when I need you to start channeling your reserves to me.”

“I’m taking instruction from a crow now, am I?”

“Have no worries, Azrael. Dust is absolutely one of the smartest birds I know.”

Death would have been hard-pressed to say which of his winged companions gave him the dirtier look. He straightened, placed both palms against the earth, and began.

The Horseman felt as though he were sinking through the dirt, submerged in the vile effluvium beneath the diseased crust. A wet, wretched heat beset him from all sides; he actually tasted the pestilence on his tongue.

Ignore it. Press on
.

Deeper, following the beating of hearts long dead. Back, farther back, before the illness, before the rot, before the Abyss …

Before the genocide.

And he found it. A single weak voice in a deafening chorus; a single drop in the pounding surf. The essence of the Ravaiim.

From a great distance, he thought he heard the rough cry of a crow.

Power surged around him, through him. It didn’t feel like an upwelling of strength, precisely, so much as a swelling of
motivation
. Willpower. The chance to perform miracles, not because he suddenly could, but because he suddenly knew he
would
.

He was back in his body, sitting stiffly on the cavern floor.
Before him, the flames burned low, snapping like some enraged hound. Dust shifted foot to foot atop the canister, struggling to look in all directions at once. Azrael appeared frozen, save for the beading perspiration on his forehead. An odd breeze, one that seemed to blow upward from the floor, through the scattered runes, ebbed and flowed without disturbing the dirt or the cinders thrown from the fire.

In the dirt, beneath his open palms, blood began to pool.

Thin at first, watery and black, almost more ink than blood, it seeped in fits and starts from the earth. Slowly, as the pools expanded, it coalesced further, growing thicker, the black fading to a rich crimson. From the soil into which it had soaked and evaporated thousands of years before, the dark magics and iron will of the Horseman summoned it back. Literally distilled from the essence of the world, the blood of the Ravaiim flowed once more.

Again Death reached out, mystically, spiritually, beyond his body, beyond the cave. Riding the flow of Azrael’s magic as he would have ridden Despair, he spread his influence throughout the realm, stretching his necromancies, the call of the dead, farther than he ever had before. Farther than he ever
could
, without the angel’s assistance.

An hour passed, then two. The twin puddles swelled, joined together, become a pool of blood that fully occupied the center of the chamber. Death sat in its center, soaked in crimson from the waist down. At the very edge of the fire, the creeping blood began to sizzle and spit.

The chant emerging endlessly from Death’s throat shifted tone. The blood continued to pool, but now it also began to swirl, to fold in on itself in a way that liquid should never have moved. It thickened, darkened, as the Horseman condensed the true essence of the Ravaiim, keeping what he needed, allowing the extraneous compounds to seep back into the soil.

Finally, he ceased his incantation and rose unsteadily to his feet. The blood that had caked his legs, soaked into his clothing, was gone, absorbed back into the gelatinous mass. Azrael, almost shaking with exertion, staggered to Death’s side.

“Are we through?” the angel asked.

“We are.”

“That … doesn’t appear to be enough.”

“That’s why I concentrated it, drawing forth only the purest components, the substances in the blood containing the Ravaiim’s echoes. Otherwise, there wouldn’t have been sufficient room in the cave, let alone any container we could carry. But I assure you, this is the entirety. All the blood of the Ravaiim, from this entire realm.

“And I thank you. This would not have been possible without your help.”

Azrael offered a shallow bow in acknowledgment. “It still will not fit in that cylinder,” he pointed out.

“No. After a brief rest, I’m going to condense it again. When I’m done, it’ll scarcely qualify as a liquid, and it will be so concentrated that a single smear could awaken one of the Grand Abominations for years on end, but we’ll be able to transport it.”

The angel stretched, arms, neck, wings—the latter so wide that they nearly bridged the cave from wall to wall. “Very well. What do you need from me?”

“Nothing. Now that the blood’s gathered, I can handle the rest on my own. Go, regain your strength. We may need your magics again before we’re done.”

Shoulders drooping, wings now practically dragging across the floor, Azrael shuffled from the cavern. The mere fact that he chose not to protest was sign enough of his exhaustion.

Death had been relying on that, actually.

As soon as his companion had departed, Death crossed the cave, his steps far more sure than they’d appeared only moments
before. In one shadowed corner, near the mouth of the cave, lay several more of the crystal-and-gold cylinders. He and Azrael had brought several extras, as the Horseman had claimed he wasn’t certain he could concentrate the blood sufficiently for just one.