Darksiders: The Abomination Vault

by Ari Marmell

  “Now can we call a retreat?” Death asked.

  Azrael waved a hand at one of the angels accompanying him. She, in turn, produced what appeared to be a small golden trumpet and raised it to her lips. The sound, when it came, reverberated from all directions, in the mind as much as the ears. The surviving angels reacted instantly, assembling from all corners. They were a sorrowful lot, battered and filthy, but their backs and wings remained straight, their heads unbowed.

  “What good is a withdrawal against that?” The question came from Ezgati, who had come in response to the summons. Her left arm dangled uselessly, bone and blackened meat strapped to her side by what appeared to be the reins off a Knight of Perdition’s mount, but her right—and the warhammer clutched in that hand—appeared as steady as ever.

  “They’ll have to move Earth Reaver to a new location before firing again,” Death said, shouting to be heard over the ongoing, frighteningly close eruption. “It can’t affect the same area twice; all the region’s faults and magma have already been channeled into the first volcano. And it’s slow. If we regroup at the cliff, we ought to have at least a short while to strategize.”

  “Squads of five!” Azrael barked. “Keep moving, but maintain some distance between each group. Each flight is responsible for covering the one behind. Move!”

  They moved. Death and War watched as the angels gathered, guided by either instinct or prior training into organized groups. “They’ll need to stay low,” War pointed out. “With everything in the air, it would be too easy to get lost, disoriented.”

  “That works in our favor.” Death stepped out from behind cover, leading his brother toward a nearby ravine with several dead angels sprawled within. Kneeling at the edge of the crevice, he scooped up two of the fallen Redemption cannons, heaving one over to War. “It means Hadrimon can’t easily pick us off with Black Mercy.”

  War snapped the heavy clip from the front of the weapon, checked the ammunition, and shoved it back into place. “Be easier on horseback …”

  Death merely grunted, and then they were running, keeping some few score paces behind the last of the angels.

  Unseen things crunched, slid, burst, and squelched beneath their feet; they hurtled narrow but seemingly bottomless gaps, through rising curtains of steam and other, fouler vapors. Despite its difficulties, Death welcomed the terrain. Between the generally flat plains and the thick fog—volcanic and otherwise—it was all that provided them any sense of travel, no matter how fast they moved.

  Belisatra’s soldiers appeared sporadically through the fog, as did the occasional lingering demon, but none posed much of a threat. Among Harvester, Chaoseater, and the pair of cannons, the Horsemen faced precisely no difficulty whatsoever in covering the angels’ retreat.

  Not, at least, until they neared the escarpment. In the final crevice before the flatland leading up to the cliff face—a crevice far enough from the nascent volcano that it was not yet filling with boiling fluids—Azrael and several angelic squadrons had taken shelter. More angels crouched nearby, or circled low in the air above.

  And several lay sprawled in the dust farther ahead, strewn across the plains like flowers after a storm.

  “Hadrimon is somewhere overhead,” Azrael told them as they neared. “With all the fumes, I doubt he can make out more than vague shapes and movement, but with that weapon at hand, that appears to be all he needs. He’s picking us off as we attempt to cross over to the cliffs. I thought you said that the enemy needed to take this realm before they could awaken the Abominations.” From anyone else, it would have been accusing, almost sullen. From Azrael, it just sounded curious.

  The time for dissembling and half-truths had clearly passed. “Awakening the Grand Abominations requires the blood of an extinct race called the Ravaiim,” Death said. “Most of them died here, making this the only reliable source. But some fell in battle on other worlds, and if Hadrimon or Belisatra learned where, they could have distilled a small amount of blood from the earth there. Not much, but enough to awaken Black Mercy and Earth Reaver for a short while.”

  “Not short enough, I fear. If you’ve any further plan in mind, now would be an auspicious time to share.”

  It was War, not Death, who answered. “We don’t actually have to defeat the enemy here. If we just keep them from acquiring what they need, we can wipe them out later.”

  “Easier said than done,” one of the nearby soldiers pointed out.

  “True. But it does, if nothing else, alter our strategy.”

  Death was already nodding. “I do have a thought, but we need shelter and we need time. A lot more time than … Azrael, Ezgati? Have you much in the way of explosives? Preferably large ones?”

  “No,” Ezgati called from farther down the line. “Firearms only.”

  “I’ve had some luck using the ammunition clips from Redemption cannons as explosives,” War said blandly. Through masks of filth and soot, several nearby angels glared at him.

  “Good enough.” Death gestured at the nearest soldier. “Go up and down the line, gather one clip from everyone who has spares.”

  “But we might—”

  “You appear to have mistaken me for someone who’s asking.”

  A beseeching glance at Azrael, a subtle nod from the scholar, and the angel was off to do as he had been … “asked.”

  “I’ll draw Hadrimon off,” the Horseman continued, “and slow Earth Reaver a bit as well. Once that’s done, Azrael, I may have a way to end this, but I’ll require your assistance.”

  “Of course.”

  “Brother, I’ll need you and the cannoneers to cover me. Once I’m away, get everyone into the caves and establish the best perimeter you can. I’ll trust you to—”

  “I should go.”

  “—come up with … What?”

  War squared his shoulders. “Tell me what you have in mind, and I’ll go. You must survive to enact your plan with Azrael, whatever it may be. And,” he added, his voice dropping, “I’m not certain our current allies would be all that pleased working beside me alone. Seems they hold a grudge.”

  “They’ll get over it. I’m going.”

  “But—”

  “No. You’ve a better grasp of tactics than I; you’ll be more useful in planning the defenses.”

  “The angels are more than capable—”

  “And I’m faster than you are. And I’m done arguing.”

  War was far too disciplined—and certainly too proud—to protest or complain further, but his expression and his posture were more than loud enough to convey everything he wouldn’t say.

  But then, Death hadn’t said everything, either. If Black Mercy does shoot one of us, he hadn’t told War, I’m more likely to survive it than you are.

  A little.

  “You need to move the injured,” he said, returning to Azrael. “Get them as far to the other end of the crevice as you can.”

  “If I may ask …?”

  “The plan is for Hadrimon to follow me. He may come in low, in order to see me through the fumes, and that could bring him within range.”

  “Range of what?”

  “Black Mercy doesn’t need to fire in order to kill. Any wound it delivers is fatal, yes—but so is any wound at all if it’s suffered by an enemy of the wielder, and if it’s still bleeding in the Abomination’s proximity. This weapon has slaughtered entire armies, Azrael.”

  The angel recoiled, ashen. “And how far does this power extend?”

  “Depends on how many it’s killed since it awoke. I’ll lead him past as far from the wounded as I can, but I make no promises.”

  “Every time I think I’ve finally begun to understand how depraved the Nephilim actually were …”

  “Trust me, angel. If you live until the last star burns out, until the Creator Himself has died and putrefied away to nothing, you still won’t even begin to understand how depraved we were.

  “Be grateful.”

  DEATH VAULTED FROM THE CREVICE an
d broke into a dust-churning run across the open expanse. He swerved randomly, never quite breaking his course for the escarpment, but doing what he could to avoid making himself an easy target. From behind, War and the White City’s surviving cannoneers opened fire, saturating the sky in a blanket of detonations—less concerned with actually hitting anything than with ensuring Hadrimon himself never had a moment to aim.

  Still it was close. Black Mercy’s teeth tore into the ground uncomfortably near the sprinting figure. Bits of rock and soil flew, some rotting away before they could fall back to earth. At one point, Death sensed a line of impacts stitching its way toward him and could only crouch, Mortis held high. His entire arm went numb as the bullet plunged into the shield, and he could swear he heard a faint moan from the bestial maw. Again he saw the wavering and shifting as Mortis lashed out against one of Hadrimon’s allies—likely a random construct closing in from the plains beyond the angels—but he couldn’t even begin to see the results.

  One of the cannons blasted the air directly above him, showering him with flaming bits of debris. Death winced, but rose and ran once more. The near miss, uncomfortable as it was, had probably also forced Hadrimon out of position.

  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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  YOU 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.”