Darksiders: The Abomination Vault (7 page)

“Death’s people won that engagement, but at a high cost. If I’m not mistaken, Kothysos represents the largest single loss of Nephilim life before Eden.”

“The corpses were stacked in mountains,” Death said, his mind clearly elsewhere. “The world itself was poisoned by all that had happened. The Nephilim—this is
after
the other Horsemen and I turned from them, just in case either of you plan to waste time accusing me—scoured the battlefield, recovering
the dead and what weapons they could. But much was lost, either destroyed or buried so deep in the carnage and churned earth that it was thought gone forever.”

“Obviously not,” Abaddon snapped.

“Yes. Obviously …”

“So someone found a Nephilim artifact on Kothysos,” Azrael said. “Troublesome, but is it truly so disastrous? It’s just a sword, albeit a potent one.”

“Affliction,” Death said, his voice grimmer even than usual, “was not the only thing lost in that battle.” He whistled, a high sound that the others in the room could only barely hear. From outside, a small commotion erupted among the angels as Despair materialized in a sickly cloud, having stepped through the void so that he might appear once more at his master’s side. “I have to go. I have to
see
.”

“Wait!” Abaddon rose shakily to his feet as the Horseman strode toward the phantom spot in the wall. “You agreed to share what you knew!”

Death looked back over his shoulder. “I
don’t
know. I
suspect
. If I’m wrong, my suspicions don’t matter. If I’m right, I’ll inform you then.” He passed through the wall and hauled himself into the ragged saddle.

“Pray to your Creator for the former.”

The green mist billowed once more, and the Horseman was gone.

T
O THE DOMINION OF THE
C
HARRED
C
OUNCIL, SULLENLY
obeying an abrupt and unwelcome call, came the Horseman War.

He appeared through the clouded borders of the realm, as though birthed anew by the heavy, choking smoke. His long white hair and gleaming eyes could have falsely marked him, from a distance, as an angel—yet even the martial inhabitants of the White City had rarely produced a face so stern and unforgiving, or a frame of such immense and blatant strength.

Thick, angular plates of riveted iron, edged in copper, formed an armor that might well have crushed a weaker wearer. Baroque faces, glowering demons and shrieking skulls, protruded from the shoulders and knees, embossed into the unyielding metal. Atop it all, across shoulders so broad they might just have supported one of Creation’s many worlds on their own, were draped the folds of a cloak as red as the wrath in a soldier’s heart. The deep hood might, in other circumstances, have concealed the wearer’s face in shadow—but here, where the light, though dim, was ubiquitous, no such concealment was possible.

Across his back, held fast by no visible straps or means of
support, was a sword as infamous as the Horseman himself. The leather-wrapped hilt protruded from behind one shoulder, as though trying to see past War’s girth; yet it was the blade itself that boasted an array of screaming faces. Portraits, perhaps, of the damned. The barbed and jagged blade, at its widest, was nearly as broad as its wielder’s chest, and had it stood point-down upon the earth, it would have proved taller than he, as well. It should have been utterly impossible to wield—but
should
and
impossible
were concepts for lesser beings than War.

And lesser weapons than Chaoseater.

Rock and cinders crunched beneath his heavy tread, while the hazy air swirled at his passing. War squinted against the stinging fumes and blistering heat, so intense it would have proved a tangible barrier for most beings, and once more studied the domain of his so-called lords and masters.

It was always the air that hit him first. The searing, sulfur stench of things burning that should never have been able to burn; of gritty soot; of toxins that partook of an almost sentient joy in the ravages they caused, and were best avoided by any sane creature.

Blackened rock spread before him, to every horizon and beyond. Through that stone, like blood from open wounds, ran endless meandering rivers of magma. They poured from cracks in the stone, from the tops of mountains, even occasionally from beyond the ceiling of smoke that obscured whatever might wait above. The lava gathered in pools, or cascaded into gorges so broad and so deep that they might as well have marked the edges of Creation. Spindly crags stood throughout, scattered with no regard for any laws of nature or geography. Some boasted gaping holes running straight through, or protruding ledges that could not possibly support their own weight. A few such peaks narrowed as they neared the thickest layer of haze, then broadened once more before vanishing from
sight—as though they were not mountains at all, but great stalagmites that joined halfway with their stalactite brethren. As though the entire realm boasted no sky at all, but sat instead within a cavern of unimaginable dimensions.

Columns of flame erupted with an even more haphazard disregard for any conceivable pattern, casting their hellish illumination over the broken landscape. They blazed despite an utter lack of fuel, as though the rocks themselves were burning.

It seemed that nothing should be able to live in such a fearsome environment, but every so often a scuttling shadow suggested the presence of some tiny entity, struggling to survive on the blasted plain.

And just as often, something else lashed out from within the magma, or the columns of flame, or just an empty crevice, to feast upon the hapless smaller beasts.

None made any move to attack War, or even appear within his reach. They wouldn’t dare.

For wearying leagues, the Horseman trudged. Eventually, a faint sheen of sweat broke out across his normally impassive brow. He cursed the Charred Council silently, internally, but would not offer the satisfaction even of wiping the perspiration from his forehead. The arrogant bastards could easily have permitted him to appear directly before them when he stepped across the barriers between realms—had done so before, in fact, in certain emergencies. But normally, they kept their wards impenetrable, save at the very edges of their dominion, even when expecting visitors.

War was quite convinced that it was entirely an effort to remind him of his place, to make him walk and work his way to them as some lowly petitioner. A brief snarl, a twitch where his hand longed for the feel of Chaoseater’s hilt, and then he took the only action he conceivably
could
have taken.

He kept walking.

Finally, just like that, he was there.

His destination hadn’t appeared on the horizon and drawn slowly near, as it should. One step, and War saw nothing but more of the same burning landscape. A second step and the stairway was before him, leading up toward the top of a short, thick column of rock. The Horseman didn’t slow at that impossible arrival, didn’t pause, but merely set his feet upon the stair.

Thus did War, not for the first time, enter the court of the Charred Council.

The top of that pillar—broad enough to have been dubbed a hill, had it been less of a perfect cylinder—formed a relatively flat stage, perhaps a few dozen paces wide. It was, in a way, a microcosm of the entire domain. Jagged protrusions of rock around the edges mimicked the great mountains, and from a raised pool, directly across from the stairs, lava bubbled and fires burned. A molten stream, thin and easily crossed, dribbled eternally from that pool to split the platform into uneven halves.

And there, looming over it all from beyond that peculiar font, the Charred Council itself.

Or, at the very least, their façade.

They were a trio of enormous faces, formed of the living rock. Mouths, literally cavernous, gaped open to show the roaring of eternal flames—and, occasionally visible in the flickering of that inferno, what
might
have been a rough and precarious cave leading into depths unknown. Those same fires burned in the unblinking sockets above, pouring yet more smoke into the already thickened air. The visages were subtly different—this one had the curved horns of a ram; that one was slightly more slender than the others—but while the details might differ, the overall effect was the same from each to each. They appeared as though some mad god had begun to sculpt the skulls of demons from the stuff of the mountain, then given up halfway through.

Were the idols themselves living, or were they the masks of more horrific entities in the caves beyond? Was the Charred Council truly three, or merely a single being with multiple faces? Not even the Council’s own Riders could do more than guess.

“War …”
It came from the center effigy, booming enough that even the Horseman almost staggered. The shifting of tectonic plates, given throat and tongue to declare its deepest fury, might have come near to producing such a sound.

He bowed his head within the crimson hood, sufficient to show respect, but never could it be mistaken for submission. “You sent for me?” His own voice was hard, that of a man used to the shouts and calls of battle.

“We find ourselves presented with a rare opportunity. We have chosen you to exploit it.”

“I’m listening.”

“Your eldest brother currently walks the realms at our behest.”
This time, it was the head on the right that spoke, in a voice almost indistinguishable from the first.
“He looks into a matter that may or may not prove a trifle.”

War nodded. “What is it that he—?”

“Irrelevant!”
That from the center head once again.
“Death’s precise purpose has no bearing on you! What matters is this …”

Now the leftmost took its turn.
“Our informants have alerted us that, in the midst of the event that we sent Death to investigate, the angel Abaddon was grievously injured. His recovery progresses slowly, and it may be some time before he returns to the White City—or to his fullest strength.”

Those rugged features now curled in a fearsome scowl. “If you are about to ask me to slaughter an injured foe—”

“We do not ask, Horseman! We never
ask
.
You would be wise to remember that.”

“However”
—now the rightmost head—
“as it happens,
you misunderstand our purpose. It is not Abaddon’s weakness, but his absence from the White City, of which you will take advantage
.

“The pacts and treaties that we have enforced between Heaven and Hell are young still. Factions on both sides probe at their limits, seeing how far they can test us. A war between Above and Below is never far from igniting—a war in which we would have to intervene, and which would obliterate worlds and threaten the Balance before its end.”

I wonder, sometimes, if Creation is worthy of our efforts to save it
. But War was wise enough not to speak such thoughts aloud before the Council. What he said, instead, was, “Yes, I understand.”

“Many on both sides hold that such a war is inevitable, even desirable, and take steps to prepare. Abaddon is such a one. He has constructed a weapon of terrific power, an explosive device that harms
only
demons! It emits hallowed energies, and even its fragments and shrapnel are specially blessed
.

“A ‘sacrament bomb,’ if you will.”

War was nodding. “And you worry that Abaddon will use this bomb to start a war.”

“His emissaries have offered endless assurances that the weapon is to be a deterrent only. Yet we cannot trust the angels’ word, not when the device would prove utterly devastating against an unprepared foe.”

Yet again the heads traded off; the one on the left now spoke.
“Too, there is the likelihood that, should Hell become aware of the sacrament bomb, they would launch a strike of their own, in an effort to capture or eliminate the weapon before it could be turned against them.”

“You want it destroyed.”

“Yes. Given time, we can work magics through the ethers
of Creation to prevent Abaddon from re-creating the device, but the one he has already built would still pose a threat.”

War drew himself up, arms crossed over his massive chest. “Stealth and sabotage?” he spat. “Surely any one of my brethren would be more appropriate for that than I. Even if Death is occupied, Fury or—”

“Again you misunderstand us! There is to be no stealth. We desire to send a message, one that neither Heaven nor Hell can possibly misconstrue. The lords and generals of both armies must know that further research in these directions is unacceptable, and will be met with the most dire consequences!

“Do not sneak, Horseman. Do not hide. Your mandate is to travel directly and openly to the stronghold in which Abaddon has hidden the sacrament bomb; our spies have provided its location
.

“And you are to go through anything and anyone that stands in your way!”

For the first time since he’d arrived in the Charred Council’s domain—indeed, for the first time in years—War felt himself smile.

S
TUPID
. U
NBELIEVABLY STUPID.
”

Though her words were accusatory, even petulant, Belisatra’s tone was flat and cold as a frozen lake. Only the fingers of her left hand, drumming a chiming beat on her armored thigh, gave any further indication of her exasperation.

They left smears of semi-congealed blood, those fingertips—the only remaining trace of recent, distasteful experimentations.

Her companion sat by the worktable, slumped bonelessly in a rickety chair that was clearly not long for this world, and old enough that it probably looked forward to going. In his lap, Black Mercy lay like a sodden lump of flesh—too grotesque to keep, too morbidly fascinating to throw away.