by Ari Marmell
“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.
It wasn’t the only lie he would tell today, nor the worst.
For a long time he stood, turning the cylinder around and around in his hands. He still had time to turn back, to come up with some other plan …
No. Hadrimon and Belisatra were already nigh unstoppable, with only two of the Grand Abominations. They must be kept from obtaining the blood of the Ravaiim, no matter what it cost.
No matter who it cost.
Eyelids squinting in fatigue—or was it something else?—Death turned, squared his shoulders, and moved back toward the congealing blood on the floor.
THE VOLCANO BELLOWED STILL, though it had settled into a somewhat duller roar. Torrents of lava spilled over the earth, draining away, forming the slopes of what would become a brand-new mountain. No traces remained, here at the center, of the angels, demons, or constructs who were lost in the initial conflagration. Any parts of them that had not burned to nothing had been carried away and entombed in the liquid rock.
On the far edge of that molten lake, dozens of constructs hauled heavy chains through a makeshift system of pulleys hammered into the surrounding terrain. It had cost them hours, and more than a score of workers swallowed by the lava, but finally Earth Reaver had risen far enough to push itself up under its own power. Soon, very soon, they would finally be ready to march.
Circling above, Hadrimon observed the proceedings from as high as the smoke and the cinders in the air would permit. He clutched Black Mercy close to his chest, almost as a child might cradle a favorite toy. His impatience seethed hotter than the lava, and it was all he could do not to shoot at those constructs moving too slow for his liking.
And there was something else as well, something more than the ravaged landscape and his tools of vengeance. Something picking at the edges of his soul, a nascent entity trying to hatch. Something familiar, something like the faintest echo of the Grand Abominations …
Something that felt just a bit like Death, and the last time the Nephilim had accidentally touched his mind through the conduit of the Abominations.
Hadrimon closed his eyes, allowed himself to glide on the warm updrafts of volcanic air, and waited.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
NOW IN ANOTHER OF THE CAVES, THIS ONE OPEN TO the ledge outside so they could see if the enemy approached, Death and Azrael had gathered along with War, Ezgati, and half a dozen other angels, representing all the ranking—and surviving—officers. They clustered around a crystal cylinder, now full of a tarry substance of red so dark it might as well, in all but the brightest light, have been black.
“The plan is this,” Death was telling them. The others had to lean in to hear him, so softly was he speaking. His head drooped with obvious fatigue. Yet he seemed oblivious, both to his own apparent weakness and to the concern radiating from the others—particularly from War, who had never once seen, or even imagined, his brother in such a state.
“Azr
ael,” he continued, “I’ve prepared a second canister, one filled with blood I drained from several summoned ghouls. Until and unless it’s examined closely, it should appear very much like the real thing. You, and the bulk of your forces, will take the false blood and travel, as swiftly as you can, to the nearest hole in the realm’s wards. With luck, it should appear to Belisatra and Hadrimon that you’re attempting to flee this world with their prize. It puts you and your soldiers in harm’s way, and I apologize for that, but less so than if we remained here and fought a hopeless holding action.”
“None of us fears battle, Horseman,” Azrael replied. “We’d not be here, otherwise.”
“Of course. I, and a smaller contingent of angels, will remain here, holding the caves. It’s a tricky proposition, but I intend to allow the enemy to detect us, while making it appear that we’re trying to avoid detection.”
The intertwining lines of puzzled looks between War and the various angels practically formed a latticework around Death, almost enough to hem him in.
“I’m not entirely certain—” Azrael began tentatively.
“The idea,” the Horseman interrupted, “is that if the enemy does not pursue the larger angelic force—if they recognize it as a feint—they will instead waste their time attacking those of us who have dug in here.”
“But you’ll not have the Ravaiim blood, either!” War ventured in sudden understanding.
“Precisely, brother. It’s a double feint. You, and a minuscule handful of angels, will have taken this cylinder—” Here he tapped the golden end cap of the vessel in front of him. “—and ridden for another hole in the wards, in a different direction from Azrael’s contingent. Given the low visibility, I have hopes that so small a party can depart completely undetected. By the time Hadrimon and Belisatra realize that neither Azrael’s group nor mine has the blood, you should have reached a point where you and Ruin can depart this world. You’ll make the delivery to the Charred Council, then—”
“Wait just one damn moment!” War’s face had flushed a deeper hue than his cloak. “This whole scheme is desperate at best—and I will not abandon the field of battle while you remain behind!”
“Besides which,” Ezgati chimed in from beside Azrael, “I’m not entirely sanguine about the notion of the Charred Council taking custody of this stuff. You already control access to the Abomination Vault itself. We ought to take the blood to the White City; that way, we can be certain that nobody can awaken the weapons!”
The other angels, Azrael included, were nodding their agreement.
“We’re desperate, so of course the plan is desperate,” Death retorted. “It’s also all we have. War, one of us must be involved in the escaping party, in order to deliver the canister.
“And as for the rest of you … The blood will go to the Charred Council. It cannot be allowed to tip the Balance toward either side. If any of you feel strongly opposed to that, I hope you’re prepared for us to kill each other until the enemy arrives to finish us both.” Harvester flew from the corner in which it leaned to smack loudly into Death’s palm, punctuating his proclamation with an unmistakable clarity.
“We’ve been allies in this thus far,” the Horseman said. “We’d all be better off to remain so. But either way, decide now!”
Angels shifted and weapons quivered, but Azrael raised both hands, gesturing for calm. “We remain allies.” Then, as Ezgati and several of the others drew breath to protest, “Hadrimon must not succeed. All else is secondary for the time being.”
Death chose not to comment on that last little addendum.
“All well and good,” said War. “I’ll remain. You take the blood to the Charred Council.”
“Brother—”
“You’re exhausted! You can barely stand, after your magics; you’ll do the defenders no good at all.”
“But I can race headlong across the plains for hours on end? Be reasonable.”
“It’s far more believable that I would be the one responsible for maintaining the defenses. As you said earlier, I outmatch you in tactical acumen. Besides which, everyone knows that I do not abandon the field.”
“War …” Death actually reached out to grip his brother’s shoulder. “If Hadrimon and Belisatra attack us here, I can survive them longer than you. We both know that. And the longer they delay here, the better the odds of everyone else getting out alive. I need you to do this.”
The younger Horseman appeared to have no answer for that. Angrily, he shrugged away Death’s hand and stalked across to the ledge where he could stare out into the rolling banks of smoke. But he uttered no further words of argument.
Death almost wished he had. War’s acquiescence, however necessary, only made him feel worse. Head bowed once more, he disappeared into the darkness of the innermost caves.
HADRIMON’S HEAD JERKED upward as if he’d been punched, his entire body spasming so violently that he lost half his altitude before he could once again flap his wings. Through it all, scenes and images flashed through his mind, cutting across his own thoughts in a rushing torrent. It even, however briefly, cooled the fires of hatred and bloodthirst that were now as integral a part of him as his own heart.
It was all he could do not to laugh aloud, and only the presence of the pistol in one hand prevented him from actually clapping.
He’d made his mistake! The vaunted Death, eldest of the Horseman, last surviving Firstborn of the Nephilim, had made his mistake.
He thought he was so clever, absconding with the blood drained from the realm itself. And it was creative; Hadrimon certainly hadn’t seen that coming.
But he’d also exhausted himself. He was on edge, careless.
Too much so to keep his guard up against Mortis. The angel had, indeed, sensed the half-dead Abomination pressing at the borders of Death’s mind earlier—and now, finally, it had broken through. The “double feint” was a clever move, but it could be countered easily enough.
The mad angel swooped from the clouds and went hunting for Belisatra. Now that he understood the entirety of Death’s plan, they’d need to come up with their own.
“… DO NOT KNOW who might have engaged our services, or why. Can’t begin to guess how they knew to send us here, either. We go where our mistress commands, kill whomever she commands; she doesn’t tell us more than that. And a good thing, because it means you cannot make me tell you any more than that! Are we done?”
The head of the demon—Death had been careful to select one of the more intelligent varieties, rather than the mindless and ineloquent brutes who made up so great a portion of Hell’s hordes—sat impaled on a stalagmite, looking very much like some nightmarish puppet. Death stood to one side, questioning the spirit he had called back from the void. Had anyone other than Dust accompanied him, they might have been surprised at just how swiftly the Horseman seemed to shed the fatigue he’d previously shown.
He hadn’t expected an answer to that first question, not really; asking who sent the demons had been little more than a formality, just in case. The meat of this brief conversation was question two.
“No, we’re not done. The name of this mistress of yours?”
The head muttered something that might have been described as “under its breath” if it still had any breath.
“Louder,” Death ordered.
“Raciel,” it all but spat.
Death flicked his fingers as though freeing them of clinging dust, dismissing the lingering spirit to resume its journey. The answer could hardly be called a surprise—the suspicion had simmered in the back of his mind since he’d first seen the demonic angel at the rear of the horde—yet he still needed a moment to wrap his mind around it.
“Not a coincidence,” he said to Dust. “The odds that someone would happen to employ the one demon to whom Hadrimon is connected … No. This was deliberate.”
The crow hopped from Harvester to sit atop the dead demon’s head, and began idly gulping down scraps of putrid scalp.
“T
actical advantage against Hadrimon—to say nothing of emotional and psychological—would be the best reason to choose Raciel specifically.” The Horseman continued his musing; the bird continued his buffet. “That would mean, though, that whoever’s employing these demons, whoever else is seeking the Abomination Vault, would have to know that Hadrimon was involved. And they knew, somehow, to send the demons here.
“Raciel could be acting on her own, I suppose. Still, someone would at least have had to provide the necessary intelligence.
“Either way,” he concluded, kneeling to meet Dust’s eyes, “someone out there—someone who is neither on our side nor Hadrimon’s—knows far more about all this than I’m comfortable with.”
Dust blinked languidly, perhaps wondering what all of this could possibly have to do with his dinner.
“Horseman?”
Death didn’t bother to turn toward the angel now standing in the cave mouth. “Yes?”
“Both contingents have departed, Azrael’s and your brother’s. Still no sign of the enemy.”
“All right. I’ll be along shortly.”
The soldier’s wings rustled against the stone as he departed.
With a surprisingly gentle touch, Death lifted Dust from the head, heedless of the tantrum that followed. “Hush. Now’s not the time.”
The crow quieted instantly and allowed itself to be placed on the Horseman’s shoulder. For some time, they simply stood, Death idly examining the horrid, half-dead thing he wore on his left arm.
It had been difficult indeed, one of the fiercest mental efforts he had ever made. To keep his true thoughts shielded from Mortis and the other Abominations to which it was linked, while making them think he’d dropped his guard—feeding them only what he wanted them to know—had almost proved too much, even for him. That, and not the necromantic labors from which he’d swiftly recovered, had been the true cause of his earlier exhaustion.
Yet he’d pulled it off. He’d deceived the damn thing before shutting it out once more, and through Mortis, Hadrimon. The enemy truly believed that he’d sent the blood of the Ravaiim with War in a desperate race to escape this gangrenous world.
