by Ari Marmell
“How very scintillating,” Strife muttered behind his hand, through a deliberate yawn. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I—”
“Assuming you don’t want your tongue used for raw materials the next time I have to resole one of my boots,” Death said cheerfully, “I suggest you stop moving it.”
Strife’s face went cold at first, then red at Fury’s snicker and the curl of War’s lip, but he did, indeed, shut his mouth.
“Continue.”
“Of course. The point I was coming to is that the Ravaiim had great power—but more than that, great potential. And we … harnessed it.”
His pacing ceased but he remained at one edge of the court, staring out across the fiery landscape.
“We knew the Ravaiim could never stand against us. They would prove an easy first victory, but an important one. A powerful symbol, to the Nephilim and to all those other realms and worlds that we would eventually trample into the dust. But we would also make them a tool of that conquest. We knew, even then, that many would rise against us, and some might succeed in matching our own power. We needed every advantage we could acquire.
“And so, when the Ravaiim were no more, a few select Firstborn gathered all that they had left behind, and used it all for … parts. Raw materials,” he added, with a brief glance back toward Strife.
“What resulted were the Grand Abominations. Tools of slaughter, of genocide. World-killers. The most powerful, most terrible weapons you can conceive.”
War started briefly, as though disturbed by a sudden thought or memory, but Death chose to ignore the reaction.
“Lamentation,” he named them. “Anathema. Black Mercy and White Anguish. Gravesire. Bleak Tranquility. And several dozen more, the weakest of which made any of our prior efforts—Harvester,” he said, with a vague gesture toward the scythe, “Affliction, all of those—look like the first student fumblings of Maker children.”
“I’m not certain I follow,” Fury admitted. “If the Ravaiim had technology to make such devices, why not build them for use against us? I know some of the Firstborn Nephilim were skilled crafters in their own right, but I doubt seriously they could build anything out of the same resources that a society of Makers could not.”
Death nodded. “You’re right. They couldn’t. But they didn’t build the Grand Abominations out of Ravaiim technology alone. That made up only a minor portion of their resources.
“The Nephilim constructed the Grand Abominations from the remains of the Ravaiim themselves.”
Fury looked vaguely sick; War bordering on outrage. Only Strife seemed relatively unperturbed by the announcement.
And Panoptos might actually have giggled, though Death could not be certain above the crackling fires.
“How else do you think we could create relics so potent? We are not Makers—normally our own crafting skills would never have been sufficient—but the peculiar nature of the Ravaiim made the process so much easier … Flesh, bones, organs, all of it went into the forging of those weapons. And with it, an element of the race’s essence. All the magic and strength that they devoted to Making, all the vicissitudes of their own bodies. More than that, even, the strength of purpose and the potential of the Ravaiim—all the power and glory and magnificence that they would have created, had they lived—were funneled into the Abominations. They’re not just organic; in a very real sense, they’re alive.
“Not sentient. They don’t think in any way we recognize. They don’t communicate with their wielders, save through emotion and impression. But they’re capable of a base level of judgment—and more than that, they hate. Oh, they hate, as even the demons of the foulest Hell can only imagine! For everything that was done to them, everything that was denied them, everything they should have been, they find solace in murder, and nothing else.”
“And the Vault?” Strife asked. He sounded far more polite, now, cowed either by Death’s threat or by the enormity of the tale.
“Ah. Right, yes. Even the most bloodthirsty of our brethren knew that such weapons could not be set free in Creation without safeguards. It’s why we never even told the rest of you about them, though I’m sure some of you must have heard rumors of at least a few of the weapons, given how often some of the Firstborn used them.”
War grunted in affirmation, even as Fury nodded. “We suspected some secret,” she said. “Some object or rite of power, but nothing like this …”
“My brothers who created the Abominations included a fail-safe,” Death continued. “Some very specific means without which even the Nephilim themselves could not fully awaken the weapons. Some were completely nonfunctional, some could only be partly roused and a fraction of their power unleashed, but without the proper knowledge, their full potential was utterly inaccessible.
“And even that, we decided, was insufficient. So some of the same Firstborn who forged the weapons set out to create the Abomination Vault—a depository that nobody but us could possibly access. The Vault occupies its own separate dimension; a ‘hollow realm,’ if you will, utterly unconnected to anywhere else save for one single entrance. We moved that entrance over time, as the Nephilim advanced through Creation, so that we had access, but only the Firstborn ever knew where it was, or how to enter.
“And now, only I know.”
“Then it remains only for you to tell us where it stands. From that point, we can ensure—”
“No.”
Never had the flames within the great stone idols burned so hot or so high. The Horsemen each took an involuntary step back, flinching from the raw power—each of them, save Death.
“Remember how many of your gifts are ours, to give—or to reclaim—as we choose! We do not take disobedience lightly, Horseman!”
“I do not disobey lightly. But I will not reveal the location of the Vault, or how to bypass the weapons’ safeguards, not even to you. So long as only I know, I can be sure the secret remains safe. Punish me if you will; sap my strength, strip away my powers. Strike me down if you must. You only ensure my silence all the more.”
The fires roared until Death’s hair and clothes literally smoldered, and the others couldn’t look directly at the visages of the Council. Three godly voices boomed as one, promising the most vile of fates. Yet even the threat of Oblivion itself would not sway Death’s resolve.
The Charred Council finally fell silent, perhaps deliberating the proper penalty for such open defiance. Death, too, said nothing, allowing his masters to come to whatever decision they would.
But not everyone remained so calm.
“Tell them, brother!” Fury appeared beside him, a pale white hand on his arm. The rustle of crimson and the clatter of armor announced War’s arrival on Death’s other side a moment later. “You’ve been gone half a millennium. We’d rather not lose you again.”
“I appreciate that, sister. But if the Charred Council decides that all my potential use to them is not worth the right to keep one secret to myself, then they must act as they see fit.”
“What I fail to understand,” War said, in what was blatantly an attempt to shift the conversation, “is what threat the Grand Abominations could pose. If the Vault remains hidden, and all the Abominations are locked within—”
“That’s just the problem,” Death interrupted. “They aren’t all locked within.”
The eyes of the triple idols filled once more with flame. “Explain!”
“I thought that might get your attention. The bulk of the weapons are indeed within the Vault. Over the many eons of the Nephilim rampage, however, some were lost. Abandoned on scattered battlefields, or perhaps taken by a truly fortunate foe who never knew what he had. We believed that most of those lost had been destroyed, but of course we could never be positive.
“Now I’m fairly certain that our enemy, whoever they are, already have possession of at least one, if not more. Two were lost on the fields of Kothysos, and the pieces that remain there now are insufficient to entirely account for them. And I cannot im
agine that our foe would be so foolish as to tip his hand by attempting to breach Eden—in order, one assumes, to search our fallen brethren for more of the Abominations—if they didn’t already know precisely what trail they were on.”
“Do you think they’ve learned how to awaken the ones they have?” Strife asked from behind the gathered trio.
“I’ve seen no evidence of that level of power,” Death answered. “I have to assume not. But they’re most certainly making every effort.”
“So be it.” It was from the leftmost head that the pronouncement boomed. “You are correct, Horseman. Your usefulness does, for now, outweigh your insolence. Your punishment shall wait for a more opportune time.”
“Thank you so much.”
“For the nonce, you will locate this Maker, Belisatra, and anyone else at the heart of this cabal. You will eradicate them, and any threat they pose. Above all, you will ensure that none outside the purview of the Charred Council locate the Abomination Vault, or obtain the weapons.”
Death offered a shallow bow, only marginally sardonic. “As I’d intended. It will be done. Do you, perchance, know anything about Belisatra? I have nothing but her name to go on.”
“We do not. Whatever her activities, she has never involved herself in anything to threaten the Balance, or otherwise attract our attention, until now. No doubt you’ll come up with something.”
“No doubt,” he muttered as he began to turn away.
“Make use of your brethren in this.”
The eldest of the Horsemen froze. “I’m not certain that—”
“The Grand Abominations might tip the balance throughout Creation in favor of any faction to gain control of them—and you may rest assured that, the longer this takes, the greater the number of factions that will take an interest. You can afford neither to fail, nor to dally.
“Leave one of the Riders available to deal with any other disasters that may arise. Take the others.
“Panoptos!”
Instantly the many-eyed creature swooped down from above. “Yes, my lords?”
“Escort the Horsemen from the court. See to it that they have access to any resources they require.”
“But of course.”
“All of you, then. Go!”
They departed, all five. Death stood rigid, his shoulders tensing further with every step.
“Well,” Strife said, idly spinning his helm in one hand. “This ought to be fun, don’t you think?”
The haft of Harvester creaked in Death’s grip.
He stepped off the stairway, his boots immediately kicking up soot and cinders from the blasted earth. He broke into a long-legged, distance-eating stride, seemingly with no destination in mind. The others, after an exchange of puzzled looks, moved to keep pace.
Columns of fire roared between the motley group and the horizon. Smoke swirled about their heads and feet, stalagmites snapped off at the base as Death refused to veer from his chosen path. Until, when the court of the Charred Council itself was just another distant bulge in the terrain, he halted.
“Panoptos, go away.”
“So sorry to disappoint you, Death, but I have my orders. You heard them yourself. You must have heard them; I’m almost positive you were standing right there, unless it was some other grim, glowering—”
“Then go over there,” Death growled, gesturing with the scythe. Even through the mask, it was clear enough that he spoke through clenched teeth. “The four of us need a moment to talk.”
Apparently well aware that he’d pushed about as far as he dared, Panoptos flitted off to one side.
Death stared at him. “Farther.”
Muttering something unintelligible under his breath—a clever trick, for a creature that seemingly had no orifices through which to breathe—Panoptos darted beyond earshot.
The other three Riders waited as Death froze a moment in obvious concentration. A small patch of smoke, rising through the blazing cracks in the earth, abruptly turned a sickly green. The cloud expanded, rolling outward from some unseen center, and Despair appeared in their midst. Dust—who had his beak tucked under a wing and would have appeared to be asleep, had he not been furtively watching them with a half-lidded eye—was perched atop the saddle horn.
“So,” Fury said, once it became clear that Death was not prepared to start the conversation. “Who goes, and who stays?”
“I go,” Death told them. “The rest of you stay.”
That pronouncement ignited a veritable eruption of protest.
“If you believe for one instant—!”
“Who the hell do you think you—?”
“I’m not sure that—”
“This is not a discussion!”
War, Fury, and Strife fell silent at Death’s bellow, though each wore an expression suggesting that the argument was not, in fact, settled.
“In the absence of Council orders to the contrary,” he said, his voice again calm now that he’d regained their attention, “I still command. And I’ve made my decision. If I require your help, rest assured I’ll call for you. Until then, I need you to remain where I know I can find you.”
“Wasting our time?” Strife demanded. “Accomplishing nothing?”
“Death,” Fury said, “surely we can be more useful out there assisting you than we can waiting for—”
“Traveling in a group would slow me down, and attract far more attention than I will alone. It’s far more efficient for me to track down the enemy on my own, then bring you in. Besides, if Belisatra has managed to awaken one of the Grand Abominations, I’m far more likely to survive contact with it than any of you.”
“Oh, I see,” Fury said scornfully. “This is to protect us, is it?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“I’ve never heard such gall!” Strife was leaning forward, as though it was all he could do not to lunge at his brother. “What are you hiding from us?”
“I’ve told you the plan,” Death said, turning toward his mount. “Accept it.”
“And if we don’t care for your plan?”
“Then please, by all means, consider yourself more than welcome to grumble about it while you follow it anyway.”
Death had reached Despair and placed one hand on the saddle horn, dislodging an irate Dust in the process, when the dull metallic click sounded from behind him. He froze, then slowly craned his neck to look back over his shoulder.
Strife still held his helm in his left hand. In his right, he clutched a dreadful pistol, its quadruple barrels gaping wide, the hammer cocked back and almost quivering in readiness. War and Fury stood rigid, waiting to see if their interference was required—and, perhaps, deciding which of the pair they would support.
“ ‘In the absence of the Council, I command!’ ” Strife parroted. “Says who? A lot’s changed in the five centuries you’ve been away, Death! What makes you think you can just stroll back in after all this time and take over?”
Death’s hand slipped from the horn as he turned. Leaving Harvester to lie across the saddle, he carefully, methodically, crossed the distance separating him from Strife. Each footstep seemed impossibly clear, despite the muffling of the crumbled dirt and the roaring of the distant fires. He halted scarcely an arm’s length from the four gleaming barrels, and when he spoke, his voice was preternaturally calm, almost flat.
“What makes you think,” he asked his brother, “that I can’t?”
Strife’s eyes and his pistol slowly turned downward, weighted down by the weight of Death’s scrutiny, aimed almost meekly at the earth.
Fury unleashed a hiss of breath, not so much in any recognizable emotion as it was the simple release of building pressure. War grunted something deep in his hood. Their elder brother had already turned away, presenting his back to them—Strife included—without apparent concern.
“Did anyone else care to add anything?” he asked as he returned to his horse’s side.
Oddly enough, nobody did.
“Go
od.” Death climbed atop Despair, then held himself still just long enough for Dust to settle upon his shoulder. “Unless the Council assigns you otherwise, I’ll expect to find you either here, or in your homes, if I need call on you.”
Despair broke into a fearsome gallop, pulling swiftly away from the others. They whipped past a startled Panoptos without pause, heralded by Death’s shouted “Keep up if you can, lackey!”
Muttering again, with rather more vehemence than earlier, Panoptos soared after him, wings flapping madly as he struggled to match pace with the rotted horse.
Strife and Fury watched the horizon long after Death had gone, various conflicting emotions warring for control of their expressions. But War, who had remained abnormally silent during the entire affair, gazed instead in an entirely separate direction. His face remained hidden from his companions by the blood-red hood, and his thoughts, whatever they might have been, remained his own.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AND WHERE, PRECISELY, ARE WE GOING?”
Panoptos’s voice lacked its typical mocking lilt, primarily because the creature had to shout to be certain that Death heard him over the cannonade of Despair’s hooves and the ubiquitous crackle of the flames. For all that effort, if the Horseman did hear, he gave no indication of any intent to answer. The monolithic stalagmites and bulging columns drifted gradually past, the only real indication that they were covering any distance at all.
“We’re not just taking the horse out for a run, I trust?” Panoptos tried again, a bit later. “Because I don’t think the Charred Council would consider that to be a profitable use of time. And honestly? The beast can’t really afford to lose any more weight. Already skin and bones, that one …”
Without either slowing or looking back at his fluttering tagalong, Death said, “I’m going to see the Keeper.”
Four of Panoptos’s eyes blinked at once, while the other five swirled around his face in crossing orbits. “What? Why?”
