by Ari Marmell
They were horrifically fast, these new constructs, and the whine of their spinning shafts was the only warning of their approach. You would think that the underbrush would impede them, but they sped along without any obvious difficulty. And they could leap, as many of us learned in our final moments, high enough to bring down even a soaring angel. We soaked in a monsoon of blood and feathers; limbs both flesh and metal crashed to the dirt.
Still, we outnumbered them, they were not much faster than we—and most important, we still had Abaddon. Even with their astounding speed, few could lay a blade on him, and those that did invariably failed to penetrate his armor. His massive sword rose and fell, almost without effort, and the animated warriors died. Through upraised blades and their brass shells, he cut them down, each with a single blow.
We were rallying behind Abaddon when one particular construct appeared, subtly different from the others. Not in build, not in attitude, but in armament. Rather than form its own hands into blades, it carried a peculiar sword, the likes of which I’d never before seen. Something about the weapon disturbed even warriors such as ourselves, and I recall falling back a step as it advanced on our commander.
Abaddon raised his own sword, moving to meet this new threat—
CHAPTER THREE
GET AWAY FROM HIM, DAMN YOU!”
Death’s head snapped around, hunting the source of that voice where no voice should sound. Sarasael’s spirit, unshackled by the abrupt lapse in the Horseman’s concentration, slipped away. The body fell limp once more, and Death could hear the faintest of relieved sighs fading away in an unreal direction he knew but could not name.
When a new angel appeared from between two trees, where before there had been nothing but empty space, Death was already moving. Hanging in the angel’s two-handed grip, a massive cannon of bronze tubing and iron slabs fired burst after burst. Fearsome energies ran wild, crackling and spitting, reducing whole trees to ash. Fragments of blessed metals embedded themselves in the earth, punched holes entirely through the thickest trunks, and the forest trembled with the sound of thunder.
And none of it touched the Horseman.
He was simply never there when the projectiles soared past, never in the radius when they ignited. He moved with a grace the lithest angel couldn’t have matched, guided by an insight that bordered on the precognitive. He swayed from, rolled under, or tumbled over anything that came near, seemed almost to walk up the side of trees and even change direction mid-leap.
The rage that marred the angel’s face twisted his features further still. His body shook with such anger that it began to affect the cannon’s aim, and the weapon spat as swiftly as he could physically pull the trigger.
Still he missed, every time. And he’d have been infinitely more frustrated had he known that his unyielding barrage didn’t even warrant Death’s full attention.
Where in the name of Oblivion had he come from?
Almost nobody should have been able to sneak so close without Death sensing their presence. Certainly not an angel in heavy, clanking armor, lugging heavy artillery!
It was right about the time the second angel appeared, opening fire from high above—this one armed with a rune-encrusted halberd that spat volleys of force so fearsome, the blade itself seemed little more than an afterthought—that the Horseman pinpointed what else was wrong with his surroundings.
The dead Sarasael had described a vast barrage of devastating energies and explosions, tearing down entire thickets. So where was all the damage? Why were the only obvious gaps in the foliage and fallen trees the results of the firepower he currently dodged?
Death twisted aside, letting the hail of bullets sweep past him, but avoiding two separate attackers was proving far more difficult than one alone. “I don’t suppose we can discuss this?” he asked without much hope.
In response, a third angel, wielding a halberd much like the soldier above, stepped from inside a tree trunk—or so it appeared, anyway—and took aim.
“On your heads be it, then.”
Death dropped into an impossibly low crouch, right knee bent, left leg extended out beside him, bent so sharply forward at the waist that his dangling hair brushed the soil. And in that instant, when every one of the angels’ shots arced overhead, before they could even think to adjust their aim, Harvester ripped itself loose from the soil.
The Horseman leapt. Impossibly high, as swiftly as if he himself boasted a pair of the angels’ feathered wings. The scythe met him at the apex of his flight.
And then he was falling, twisting in the air beneath and around the soldiers’ constant fire. He spread his arms, and held not one single weapon any longer, but a pair of scythes—neither nearly as long of haft as Harvester’s unified form, but each with a blade nearly as massive.
He hit the earth, feet embedding themselves in the soil, and both scythes spun. Behind his back, one of them deflected a burst of cannon-fire, slinging it high into the canopy above; he hadn’t even turned to look.
Before him, the other scythe made three complete revolutions. The first sliced the angel’s halberd in half. The second removed both arms at the elbows. And the third cleaved him cleanly from right hip to left shoulder.
Death had come around to face the remaining pair before the top half of the body slid completely free of the lower.
An angel shrieked—Death couldn’t tell, and didn’t care, which one—and both took to the air. They soared straight up, parallel to the trunks, wings snapping branches and showering the Horseman with leaves and twigs. The barrels of both weapons turned inexorably downward, ready to add far deadlier precipitation to the deluge.
Death hurled the scythe from his left hand. It spun, up and out, severing the branches in its path. The cannoneer easily swooped aside, dodging the swift but apparently clumsy attack. He snickered, tightened his grip on the trigger—
And fell, grunting in pain, as a particularly thick branch—Death’s true target—plummeted from above and slammed him back to earth. The scythe followed, retracing its arc and returning to its master.
The half instant in which the other angel was distracted by his brother’s fall was more than long enough for Death to dart aside and duck low, vanishing into the thicket of brambles.
He watched, peering between the thorns, as the angel’s eyes and weapon tracked this way and that, seeking a target. Then, when he found no obvious sign of the foe, the soldier dropped to check on his injured companion.
Just as the angel’s boots touched down, Death lunged from the thorns. When he began the thrust, it was with one of the twin scythes. By the time the blade struck home, he held only one weapon; Harvester had become a long-hafted, broad-bladed spear.
The angel coughed once, and died by the time the sound had faded.
Death yanked back on the spear—only it was no longer a spear, but a scythe once more. The crescent edge sliced through the upper curve of the last angel’s wing, just as he was heaving the branch off his back. He cried out, dropping to his knees. Not a lethal wound, by any means, but he wouldn’t be flying anytime soon.
“Now can we discuss this?” Death asked politely.
“You bastard!” The epithet squeezed through gritted teeth, carried on a spray of enraged spittle. “You just killed two of my brothers!”
“You did attack me first, remember?” Then, “I wouldn’t recommend it. You’re not nearly fast enough.”
The angel jerked back, tearing his eyes away from the cannon lying just out of reach. He huddled down on his knees, fists clenched, his wounded wing drooping. “You were defiling Sarasael’s body! I couldn’t allow that!”
“Defiling? I was only asking him a few questions!”
“Necromancy!” The angel spat. “Defilement enough! And how am I to know you aren’t responsible for the attack on us in the first place?”
Death actually blinked. “If I were responsible, why in Creation would I be questioning the dead about what happened?”
“It could be a
trick,” the angel muttered, his tone obstinate beneath the overt pain.
“A trick. To fool observing angels that I couldn’t even see were here? Apparently, you think me so cunning that I even outsmarted logic and sense.”
“Maybe—”
“Is there someone in command I can speak to? Someone with a brain, if that’s not asking too much?”
“No. I’m alone.”
Death shook his head. “Stupid and a bad liar. Your cannon was actually the thinker in the partnership, wasn’t it?” Then, before the angel could retort, Death turned his face to the canopy and raised his voice.
“I know you’re out there! I know you’ve hidden yourself! I know what I see isn’t real!”
That was, after all, the only possible explanation for how the angels had mysteriously appeared, and why the woods showed so little sign of damage. The Horseman was actually impressed; the illusion had to be a potent magic indeed to have worked on him.
For long moments, nothing happened, no one answered. And then the entire forest … rippled.
Enormous gaps appeared in the trees, swaths of devastation where the soil was melted into solid rock and no living things remained. Twisting helixes of smoke wrestled their way upward, each struggling to be the first to reach the lowering clouds. Flurries of cinders still hovered above the empty places, and Death was suddenly struck by the thick aroma of burnt wood and seared flesh.
A very powerful magic, then.
More of the White City’s soldiers appeared as the phantasmal image retracted, some standing, some hovering on slowly flapping wings. Most bore deep scores in their armor and dried blood on their flesh. All carried weapons of lethal design. And none looked anything less than enraged.
“Don’t be foolish,” Death told them. “I’m not the enemy here. Not yet …”
“And how many of us would you have killed if you were the enemy?”
Death glanced up at the one who spoke. The angel descending to land before him was unlike the others. The same pale hair, yes, the same white eyes. He wore no armor, however, and carried no obvious weapon. His ornate robe, an emerald green with trim and all manner of avian designs in gold, was so long it dragged in the dirt while its wearer yet drifted a spear length above. A semicircle of gold, also engraved and sculpted into winged patterns, formed an arch over his head.
Death bowed his own head in respect—a shallow gesture, to be sure, but one he would have offered to few others in Creation.
“Azrael,” he said in greeting. If Abaddon managed to drag him away from his libraries and the Well of Souls, this must be even worse than the Council suspected …
“Death,” the angel replied.
“Your soldiers attacked me, Azrael, not the other way around. And in answer to your question … All of you.”
“I suppose you might have tried, at that.” The angel touched down a few paces from the Horseman. His robes, despite their previous length, now hung only to the ankles of his supple boots. “Fortunate for you we were some distance away when this little skirmish began. Had we reached you while you were still in battle, I doubt I could have prevented my friends here from attacking you instantly.”
“Someone was fortunate, anyway,” Death retorted. “You’re welcome to believe it was me if that makes you feel better.” He gestured vaguely in the direction from which the soldiers of the White City had appeared. “Your work?”
“Of course. The sorceries I’ve mastered in my millennia would surprise even the Charred Council’s vaunted Riders. If such a time should come, Creator forbid, that I should have need to surprise you.”
“I’ve never heard of angels hiding behind figments and phantasms before.”
The glowers of the soldiers grew even fiercer. Some, the wounded angel included, looked as though they wanted to cast their weapons aside and have at Death with teeth and nails.
More like demons than angels, he couldn’t help but think. But even he was not so uncouth, or so foolish, as to voice such an observation.
Azrael, however, only shrugged. “We have many wounded, Death. Our strength is not what it should be, and we have no means of determining if the enemy plans to return. It made sense to seize whatever tactical advantage we could, and protect our brethren in every way possible.”
“No need to be defensive. I applaud the initiative.” He cast his burning gaze across each angel, slowly, calmly. “If we’ve concluded our efforts to slaughter each other, Azrael, we ought to discuss what comes next.”
One snowy eyebrow rose at that. “But you’ve yet to answer our question, Horseman.”
“Your …” Death thought back a moment. “Azrael, you don’t honestly believe the attack was my doing!”
“It could have been,” the angel said patiently. “The motives of the Council are inscrutable at best.”
“Had I sought your blood, I’d have attacked you myself. Perhaps I might have had one or more of my brothers at my side. But I do not make use of … minions.”
“Your masters might, though, yes?”
“As I’m here at their behest, if they’re responsible for this, I’ll be as surprised as you are. And substantially more confused.”
Azrael’s lip twitched. “All right. Come, Death. We’ll consult with Abaddon and decide our next move.”
“Ah. Yes, I assumed he’d survived, if anyone had. He …” The abrupt stiffness in Azrael’s face gave him pause. “Something I should know?”
“Abaddon survived, but not unscathed. Come. Perhaps you’ll know something of his affliction our healers do not.”
“Hmm. Show me.”
Surrounded by twin columns of angels, they marched from the copses of trees through blasted clearings, smoldering wounds in the primeval woodland, then deeper into the forest once more. None of the angels seemed remotely as comfortable with Death’s presence as Azrael did; Death, for his part, would have had to actually be sleeping to care any less how they felt.
A soft flutter overhead heralded Dust’s reappearance, settling to perch on the dull outer curve of Harvester’s blade.
“Interesting,” Azrael observed.
“Not really. Crows are very poor conversationalists.”
“A good thing you’ve never had any interest in conversation, then.”
Death glanced sidelong at Azrael’s expression, but it remained impassive. He honestly couldn’t tell if the angel had meant that in jest or not.
A few moments more of leaves and sticks crunching under the warriors’ heavy tread, a constant popping as though the forest itself were an arthritic grandparent, and the procession came across the first of the shattered stone soldiers.
They could have stopped to allow a closer examination, but a glance told Death enough for now. He could not quite agree with Sarasael’s description. It seemed, to him, less like a canine with a humanoid torso, and more like a blocky insect, rearing up so that its front legs might rend and grab. Everything else was as the departed soul had portrayed: the graven runes, the carapace of rock, and the utter lack of any unnecessary features—such as, for instance, a head.
“Solid stone, all the way through,” Azrael said without looking around.
“And the others? The stone-and-brass soldiers?”
“Largely hollow, save for some rods providing the outer surface with extra structural support. Part of why they could move so swiftly, I suppose.”
“Hmm.” Death allowed himself a few paces to reflect. Then, “I’m not familiar with either design,” he admitted. “If I’ve ever seen them before, I don’t recall it.”
“Nor were any of us,” Azrael told him. “Which means we have no idea who attacked us. Constructs usually mean a Maker, but …”
“But plenty of others have hired, purchased, or even usurped mastery of constructs before,” Death concluded. “Meaning that, for all your deliberations and all the soldiers you lost, you have nothing of any substance.”
“Your tact, as always, is overwhelmingly appreciated.”
Death chose to let that lie. The next length of their journey passed without conversation, save for the occasional resentful murmur of angels who would much rather be soaring back to their camp than trudging over the dirt like “lesser beings.”
Any spiteful satisfaction Death might have gained from their discomfort vanished utterly, however, beneath a tide of agony that flowed from up ahead.
It wasn’t his pain; he wasn’t suffering in any way. But he was aware of the torment of others, the anguish of creatures unaccustomed to such things. It was rather like the tang of rain in the air, or that first gust of wind announcing the coming of winter, sensed by the spirit rather than the body.
And he felt, too, the recent passing of so very many souls.
“Our camp,” Azrael announced, with just a hint of bitterness.
“How primitive,” Death said blandly.
The so-called camp boasted a surrounding rampart of ivory-white stone, some twenty paces in height and easily three times that, lengthwise, on each side. A portcullis of gleaming silver, its bars serrated into thousands of barbed fangs, provided the only means of entry for earthbound creatures. At each of the four corners, a spindly tower loomed nearly as high above the battlements as the battlements rose above the soil—and atop each tower, a double-barreled siege cannon some four times the size of the portable weapons Death had so recently faced.
“Imagine,” the Horseman continued, “what you could have accomplished with actual time and resources.”
Azrael nodded grimly, apparently oblivious—or perhaps simply naturally immune—to Death’s sarcasm. “Sadly lacking, I know. Still, the best we could manage, given the circumstances.”
The twin columns of angels, along with their guest, approached the lustrous gate at a casual pace. The nearest cannons tracked their every move, swiveling at seemingly impossible angles to maintain a line of fire even as they stood by the wall itself. The portcullis didn’t rise to allow ingress; rather it faded almost completely from sight, leaving only a wavering mirage in its place. As best Death could describe the sensation of passing through those phantom bars, it felt like stepping through a waterfall, without the getting-wet part.
