A:N—Back from the dead! Nah not really, this chapter just took WAY too long, and ended up being much bigger than I thought it would be. I'm not too satisfied with it and I think the interactions between the horseman and Cherubim are a little uncreative on my part (and somewhat shallow).
**No I don't own Darksiders I or II or any other references to other lore
Let's crack on shall we?
Flashback:
Mana, Wrath, Arcana… Throughout the realms of the universe it's been tagged with many different names, but its definition remains one and the same.
Impossibility given form…
The ultimate source of all magic in creation…
Each individual realm had its fair share of the raw substance within its terrains. In its purest form its value was priceless. Merchants scoured the worlds to buy and sell for its power and its abundant usefulness.
Some beings in creation were lucky, though (if one could truly say that). They were born with a source of mana within their very bodies, and thus had an inherent talent for magical arts. It was these individuals that would rise to become true Magi.
Never had the White Rider anticipated finding such creatures within the Third Kingdom. When the Creator banned the first ones from Eden he sealed off the mana of this realm. Never again were humans to tap into the sacred power of magic again. Yet here he stood on the canyons of judgment overlooking the unnatural lush valleys of the Arbiter's Grounds.
Tasked to hunt the same human magi that weren't even supposed to exist…
He was over thinking things. It wasn't an outright impossibility that these Nine Eternal Divine Scales of World Order were in fact receiving help from some angel or demon looking to manipulate humanity for their own purposes. It wouldn't be a first. Humans were just so gullible when it came to affairs that extended beyond their own world.
The horseman mentally reprimanded himself from getting so divergent from the task at hand.
Sleepless gold eyes repeatedly scanned over the entirety of the area; assessing every aspect he could find from enemy territory. The sheer amount of mana flowing from the valley was incredible. It poured not from the magi whom resided within the land, but from the land itself. He was briefly reminded of the forge lands. The realm of the makers that from border to border was rich with mana. The raw magic was so potent in that realm, it had brimmed with life. There was neither a dessert nor piece of earth in that world without lush vegetation and wildlife who fed from it. Such places were scarcely found throughout the rest of creation; especially within the Third Kingdom.
Not since Eden anyway.
However the White Rider was neither awed nor deceived by the beauty of the jungle before him that stretched on for leagues and leagues. Mana created jungles beheld some of creation's rarest and deadliest creatures. Animals and plants alike that harvested the surplus of mana from the environment lie deep within. That was excluding whatever traps the human magi had in waiting for any intruders.
Strife jumped high off the canyon's edge and into the waiting chaos below.
Cherubim were Vagabonds. Whereas most of humanity nowadays scarcely called more than one country or region home, they had no such luxury. Maybe it was because a Cherub could live long enough to travel the entire world. Or maybe it was because of their agelessness that they could never stay in one place for too long.
Even so Nathaniel Reever had never set foot into the terrains of the Sahara Dessert, until now that is…
He hated the Middle East for a variety of reasons. He had been through the region once when traveling upon the Silk Road some decades ago and that was more than enough. The heat was hell, and the sand got in everything. As an albino his skin and eyes were highly sensitive to the sun so he had to cover up to avoid its heated glare.
The sensation of sweat running down the many slopes and crevices along his body was hardly pleasing to the boy. He felt as though a multitude of tiny insects were roaming over his figure. The only time when he didn't mind the feeling was when he was with Sonia. He paid little mind to it in favor of the girl below or atop him…
The heat on his cheeks intensified as his train of thought began its journey down a more dangerous track. He shook his head to rid himself of such thoughts before they affected him further.
Damn you woman, slithering into my head when I'm traveling with two of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
His gaze slid over to the two horsemen not but a few paces in front of him who paid him little mind. Since their arrival they've had to travel upon foot. Ancient and powerful wards had prevented the riders from calling their otherworldly mounts. Use of mana or any form of magic was greatly inhibited within this forsaken wasteland.
Still they had walked two days from sunrise to sunset and unlike their companion, they hardly broke a sweat over the arid terrain.
Damn they really are something else. Even with all that armor and gear on, they can walk around in a place like this with no issues for days.
He though, had no such luck. A few more hours into the early night would they have to stop so he could catch his breath and regain some strength. A notion that hardly pleased them but it couldn't be helped…
Flashback:
"That will not be necessary Cherub. I have been to Arbiter's grounds before. Even though the years have passed since I last set foot within that terrain, I still know the way to the inner sanctum of the prison."
The White Rider had spoken to Stark with an air of disdain in his voice that conveyed insult at the very notion of a Cherub accompanying him and his brother. Nathaniel hardly empathized, but he didn't like the idea of having to split up at such a dire time. Sonia was still recovering from her fatigue and wounds, the horsewoman needed rest all the same, and Violet was still useless at the time.
With the other two horsemen on their way, most of the protection would fall to Stark and Nathaniel. That was at least until the other two could regain their strength. Could they afford to stay in one place for two to three days when God knows what could be after them all?
And now there was this development…
"Ah my lord horseman, since your last visit millennia ago Arbiter's Grounds has much changed. It is not the rich valley you once knew. Aside from that, the magics that veil the area are ancient sorceries not seen in Creation for eons. The unrestricted spell used to lift the Orgel upon the portal is the same spell that will open up a path to the heart of the prison. It is of Cherub origin thus the only beings capable of casting the spell would be one of us."
"Figures," came the sardonic reply of the horseman Strife.
"I trust you'll be able to defend yourself properly then, should we encounter trouble on our way there, Cherub?"
It was War who spoke up this time from the corner of the room by the door. Stark sighed and shook his head.
"Sadly my skills in direct combat are lacking, hence I will be unable to assist you. Besides I must maintain the wards here upon my home, at least until Sonia and the Horsewoman have recovered. I will get you into the edge of the Grounds and from there the two of you and Nate over there should be able to use the spell to get into the prison where the portal is."
Had Nathaniel not made prior arrangements with Stark beforehand he would've no doubt protested the decision. He could not afford to leave them at a time like this. But between him and Sonia he had no choice. Sonia was out of the question for various reasons.
"So be it then. It's his life after all. Neither my brother or I will be responsible for the fate of the boy."
Nathaniel twitched at that; figures the horseman of Strife would be the more irritating of the two.
"I am a Cherub rider. We fight to protect our flame with our lives as collateral. While I'm truly honored to have your concern please know it is quite unnecessary."
Nathaniel replied with a heavy dosage of sarcasm present within the tone of his voice and a patronizing smirk on his face. From the corner of his eye he saw Strife's hand twitch for his gun. War snorted and Stark rolled his eyes, but it was Sonia who broke the ridiculous tension in the room with a comment that had Nate fighting to keep the flush off of his expression.
"Nate quit clowning around and behave will you? This is hardly the time for a pissing contest."
Strife snickered, and Stark was quick to cut in before the white haired Cherub could puff up a storm.
"Well gentlemen the sun has risen and with that I shall open up a way to the Grounds. The sooner we get this started the sooner we get our answers, no?"
End Flashback
It was late at night when they made their camp within the Ahhagar Mountains deep within the dessert. They were a little less than a day away from the prison. War wished to keep pushing but understood that their guide would need rest. It didn't irk him too greatly as they had proceeded this far with little complication. The boy seemed to know what he was doing. Conversation during the journey was sparse as each individual was deeply immersed in his own thoughts.
Uncharacteristically, it was War who broke the silence.
"Something troubles you brother."
He had noticed Strife acting on edge and more guarded than usual. Even now his brother stared intently off into the barren terrain, not looking back to him in his response.
"This world is strange. I've always thought so. This place especially, still puzzles me. It carried a presence I've only ever felt once when you and I fought side by side within the gardens of Eden. Even now when it's a barren wasteland it still holds that stifling charisma. The Third Kingdom is by far the youngest of worlds in all of Creation. Yet with places like these scattered throughout its lands, and the emergence of the Cherubim, I can almost perceive the shadow of a bi-gone age looming over this realm."
Strife's observation reminded War of the blade singing within the space of his gauntlet in a diabolical language he couldn't fathom…
Flashback:
"Christ Sonia, you look like hell."
"…I'm flattered Nathaniel."
The child's attempt at sarcasm backfired completely in the wake of her exhaustion. Not a few minutes prior was she almost beginning to regain her strength, and now she could hardly keep her eyes open. Sweat evident on her brow, glued her hair to her face which was lit with an unhealthy pallor. The bruises under her eyelids looked none less menacing.
She was being helped onto an empty bed by the boy while the other Cherub, Stark, had walked over to a small study within the same room and collapsed on the chair. Pulling a cloth from within his pocket he dabbled at the small beads of sweat on his face before leaning forward in his chair to regard the two horsemen who were checking on their extremely worn sister.
"She'll be fine lord Horsemen. Granted she'll be in need of serious rest for a few days, I can say with certainty that her life is no longer in danger."
Strife turned to regard the Cherub with an unfriendly look.
"You've got a world of explaining to do Cherub. Now I might add."
War turned his gaze from his sister in waiting for the Cherub to answer back. Stark sighed roughly squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose.
"It would be easier if I showed you first."
Once again he summoned that Grimmore to his side. But instead of opening it, he pulled out one of the paper tabs sticking out from the book. Looking closer War could see the seal and runes upon the paper that identified it as a talisman. The Cherub brought it eye level to his face before closing his eyes and muttering a firm:
"Abeat"
The seal in the middle of the talisman dissipated and the entire object burst into flames before reforming into a long black blade that, hilt aside, would stretch from War's palm to forearm. Ancient runes glowed an angry red against the obsidian of the blade and pulsed as though it were a living entity. It was crafted in the shape of a dagger but big and long enough to be considered a short sword.
The reaction from the room was instantaneous. Fury awoke and flinched violently (not bothering to hide it). Strife's hand was clutched tight on Mercy as though the firearm could offer some comfort. The fatigued Cherub lying on the mattress snapped her eyes open and made a feral sound in the back of her throat. Stark regarded the weapon in his hand as he would a living breathing pandemic. War could only stare at the weapon in puzzled fascination. Whatever tension had been gathering in the room was effectively shattered when one white-haired Cherub boy deigned to comment:
"What in the seven circles of hell is wrong with you people? Getting so damned jumpy over a god-forsaken hunk of metal."
War be damned himself if he didn't see everyone in the room heave a sigh and roll their eyes at the child's ignorance. Still, he couldn't deny some small voice in his head mirrored the boy's confusion on a more subtle level. If it had both his siblings slightly on edge then chances were it wasn't a mere weapon. But then again they had never bit the literal bullet from a Grand Abomination.
"Correction kid, there are nine hells and while we're on the subject of being sorely mistaken, an arcane blade is hardly just a 'hunk of metal' as you put it."
"Arcane blade, brother..?"
"Blades that aren't truly blades horseman; they pierce on an entirely different level. Whereas most blades were forged to rent flesh from bone this particular weapon was crafted to rent soul from mind and body. Wouldn't you agree, White Rider?"
Strife's eyes went impossibly narrow at that last line and War could feel a slight spike in his sister's weak aura from behind him.
"As good an explanation as any Cherub. Arcane blades are forbidden weapons and the knowledge of how to craft one has been long since destroyed. Nevertheless that doesn't stop some from trying. Forgeries have been made at a terrible price from their smiths, but aren't even a pale shadow of their legitimate counterparts."
"From the way you speak I'd guess this isn't the first one you've seen brother?"
Strife snorted at his brother's statement.
"Contrary to what you may believe War, Death isn't the only one with knowledge of old and extremely powerful weapons."
The White Rider stretched out an armored hand, palm up towards the Cherub. Stark set the weapon in his hand with an almost exaggerated caution.
"To further answer your question, brother, the council had dispatched Fury and I to recover what we could of these weapons and those whom tried to craft them. It was quite a painstakingly slow mission, to say the least. I fail to see where you could've obtained such knowledge as this mission took place before the first of man took sanctuary within Eden, Cherub."
Strife looked up from the blade to glare at Stark with a dangerous expression in his eyes to which the Cherub countered with one of his own.
"I have my ways White Rider. I am an informant. Knowledge of events not written in texts is of the highest currencies. And rest assured I've been guarding such knowledge for a long time from those who'd seek to use it for contemptible means."
"Hmph, you're certainly as silver-tongued as any informant I've ever encountered."
"Were you able to divulge any information on the blade, then," War queried the Cherub who sighed and shook his head.
"Not a damn thing. Whoever crafted that weapon is a mage of considerable skill. I've tried twice to worm past the enchantments and wards that protect its core, and the most I've gotten from it was its name: Tenebrae."
"Thankfully you had received the medical attention when you did Horsewoman. Given a few more hours and you would have been beyond our help."
"Will she be alright," Fury gestured to the sleeping Cherub girl next to Nathaniel.
"Trust me; she's dealt with far worse."
"Is this why you wanted me to bring her here, Stark," Queried a weary Nathaniel Reever. His expression was somewhat shrewd in faint disapproval.
"Truthfully I would've preferred Eclipse. Her abilities, though similar to Sonia's, are more suited for healing purposes, but alas I've got no idea where she might be in this world right now, or if she's in a situation of her own. So I had to make due. She didn't do too badly for someone who's generally a complete dunce at any spell she's unfamiliar with. Then again, she did have me to help her every step of the way. "
"…Seriously Stark? I'm still somewhat awake you know… Are you going to continue insulting me when I'm dead and in my grave?"
"You don't seriously want me to answer that do you..?"
Strife tossed the diabolical blade to War.
"Keep it safe brother. It's a valuable piece of evidence and we may yet find someone in Creation who can wring some piece of knowledge from that thing, yet. That is, if we don't find any from this little side trip."
He swept from the room before War could respond and the horseman quickly followed suit only stopping to regard his sister whom was now soundly asleep. He turned his gaze to the Cherub within the room.
"On behalf of my sister I thank you for saving her. Though he may not show it, know that my brother mirrors this gratitude as well."
End Flashback
War wasn't much attuned to magic, which was unsurprising. He was a warrior and a swordsman, after all. However that didn't mean he was unfamiliar with it. Not long after carrying the blade in his gauntlet did he start to hear its voice: talking to him, no one, or anyone that could hear it in a language so ancient, the horseman could not comprehend the words. Nor did he want to.
The weapon wasn't alive, like the abominations were, in their own way; nor was it as vile. But it was powerful, and ancient. The longer he listened to the unfathomable words , the more he felt as though it wasn't the blade itself that was speaking, but the one who forged it. He had no way of following through with that notion, though. However, he knew someone who could, and it wasn't Strife.
It was the boy's next words that broke him out of whatever daze his serious train of thought had kept him locked in.
"Eden eh? Not that I should be surprised, but you both have been around for awhile. What are you guys, truly?"
"We are the Horsemen of the Apocalypse," Strife responded with his back to the curious child.
"Well yeah but I also know there's more to you guys than that. Stark called you Nephilim once before. What exactly is Nephilim?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Just curious. Our Scripture describes you lot as fallen angles who descended to Earth to harass human women."
War scowled and Strife groaned in exasperation.
Only a human could come up with such outlandish conjectures…
"Who in the nine hells devised that load of bull?"
The boy shrugged.
"Beats me. Take it up with whoever wrote the Book of Enoch. It says you were beings of great evil and one of the prime reasons 'God' flooded the earth. Of course I can guess from your reactions that depiction isn't accurate."
Really now?
"…You are correct to assume so, Cherub. Nephilim are a union of angel and demon. Your book of Enoch was correct to assume that the Nephilim were beings of great evil though. But that was eons ago before the first seeds of your kind were even sown. All you need know of us now is that we are of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse."
"That may be so Horseman, but no matter how much you wish, you can never escape from what you are. Take it from someone who knows."
Something in the child's tone reminded War of a previous conversation Strife had with that Cherub, Stark.
"Some may believe the vast energies of the Seraphim are squandered on the likes of us-"
"And so they try to take it by force."
"It was your choice to accept the power and the risk it carries, boy."
"Ah! Don't misunderstand rider, I only meant to point out a fact. I've never regretted my decision to form a contract with the White Flame."
War knew precious little behind the history of the Cherubim. But what he did know (courtesy of the Council and Strife) roused a small curiosity from under his stoic disposition. Humans, who became Cherubim and had obtained a source of mana to call their own, stopped aging. They were forced to live outside of their former, mortal society. Additionally they would have to contend with those who would hunt them and forever covet their power, even if it be one of their own. Such was the price of that immense power. Was it worth the risk to them, to cast aside the simplicity of their former lives only to jump into a game played by titans?
What sort of events could push a mere boy, like the one before him, to desire power so much that he would willingly choose to walk down this path of thorns?
"Hey kid, did you know the Azure flame?"
Strife's sudden question broke War out of his thoughts. Both horsemen turned to regard the boy whose face had gone blank at the question.
"As an acquaintance yes. We've had similar dealings in the past."
Spoken more like an elusive merchant avoiding a discussion on his less than reputable clientele.
War wouldn't voice that thought and call the boy out on his response because he knew he didn't have to. Strife would beat him to it. And surely enough, his brother didn't disappoint.
"Hmm, that's an interesting answer for one whose here to clear her name."
"Who said anything about clearing her name? I'm just looking for the truth like you guys. Though I'll seriously be damned if she really is the mastermind behind all this. Don't get me wrong, people can surprise the hell outta you, when it comes to their true colors, but this whole thing seems beyond even her."
"True enough, but I never insinuated she was the mastermind behind it all. Innocent or not even you can't deny she played a key role in triggering whatever chaos in ensuing now."
"Ugh, you're right on that one. Even so, I highly doubt she did this intentionally."
"Heh, you're quick to defend someone you claim to only know as an acquaintance. What kind of dealings did you have with her anyway? Did they ever extend beyond formality, if you catch my drift?"
"Oh hell no. I'd rather throw myself off a tall building than partake of that pretty piece of poison."
War watched the exchange between his brother and the Cherub in mild amusement. Strife could go on about how silver-tongued that Stark was, but War knew his brother well. Strife could very well walk that tightrope between observation and implication as easily as any silver tongue could. He could hardly resist driving people into corners and goading them into conflict. Much the same way Death could never pass up a chance to be a smart ass with his sarcasm. That was probably one of many reasons why the two would butt heads at almost every encounter.
Normally War would have said something to divert his brother from this irksome habit, but this conversation divulged interesting insight on the Cherub guiding them through the dessert. The boy so far held up well against his brother's onslaught. His expression betrayed no underlying emotions of irritation or anxiety. At Strife's implication he merely sighed and took a decent minute to think before responding.
"I really don't know her that well, but someone close to me does. That person doesn't believe the Sharp Shooter willingly had a hand in all of this mess. And I trust her judgment."
Neither War nor his brother expected that answer.
"You're not serious are you? You're willing to risk your life on a blind faith in the reasoning of another, and for a woman you claim to barely know. Is this bravery, stupidity, or some of both?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. Seriously though, you can't tell me that you wouldn't defend one of your own if they were stuck in the same quagmire?"
The kid had a point there. Somehow that brought an end to the conversation and the boy moved to get some rest. Though War could've sworn he heard a grouchy Strife murmur from his perch "this is why humans don't work."
"Oh yeah, there was something else I wanted to ask you two."
"What now," War asked the boy whom already looked half asleep.
"What happened to the rest of the Nephilim? I'm pretty sure there were more than four of you at one point."
"Judgment."
"That's the best answer I'm getting isn't it."
"That's the best there is. Now rest. The whole reason we've halted our journey is so you could regain your strength. We move out at dawn."
"Yeah, yeah."
ACK-CHOOO!
A wet and most obnoxious sound had jostled the horsewoman from her sleep at the bedside. She was always a light sleeper when she even needed to sleep. So needless to say she was extremely annoyed to be woken up for the third blasted time by this fool. Apparently she wasn't the only one.
"Dios mia, Jesus and Maria Stark cover up your damn mouth before you sneeze! Some of us are trying for a little shut eye over here!"
That blue haired woman from before Fury had only got a passing glimpse of in her previous haze had returned sometime tonight to kick the raven haired Cherub off the bed. (A:N—yes Dust is not with her for obvious reasons he's still cooped up in the closet with a ward that makes it sound proof. I'm too lazy to properly work this in and this chapter's big enough as is) Said raven haired Cherub cracked one blue eye open in confusion.
"Don't tell me you've caught cold Stark."
"Nah just some beauty out there talking up a pretty storm about me."
Fury snorted in amusement at that.
"A pretty storm no doubt involving a stream of curses along with stories of your nasty little gifts that nip and maw at the apex in between the legs."
At the horsewoman's jibe the woman who had previously been napping snickered and Sonia burst into full blown laughter.
"That…would imply he could actually get something!"
Temporarily was the room filled to the brim with the sounds of female laughter. Out of the entire horsemen most found Fury to be the most amiable, for some odd reason. However different she may have been from her brothers in that regard, she certainly shared their sense of humor. Namely, cracking jokes at the expense of others.
But if Stark was at all affected by their jibes and jesting he did little to show it. Fury couldn't deny how it sort of put a damper on her humor. She could recall a red-faced flustered Strife contending (or trying to) with Death and his masterful use of sarcasm. Now that was funny. But this human merely rolled his eyes before speaking up once more.
"God I don't believe in save me from this gang of gaggling geese. And to you Mrs. Belmond, at least when I walk down the street with a companion on arm people won't generally mistake me for the pretentious street hustler looking to overcompensate with way too much clothing."
Not missing a beat after his comment did Stark move to the side to avoid the book tossed his way by a red-faced Sonia Belmond. Her irritation complete with half lidded halcyon eyes and a twitching raven brow. The woman was wide awake now in favor of watching this most amusing scene unfold. Fury on the other hand was stuck between irritation at being referred to as a goose, and curiosity behind Stark's comment toward the younger Cherub with yet another book in hand.
"It's not very ladylike to throw things, love. Seriously, this is how you resolve conflicts? I can't help but feel even sorrier for Nate."
"I can't believe I'm getting a lecture about scandal from you of all people. At least I don't scamper after the opposite sex like a dog in heat. And speaking of I'm pretty sure the dog in heat has had more fun than you as of late."
Perhaps it was the tension of their current fix or maybe it was commonplace for these two to squabble at their every encounter. Fury suspected it to be the latter. Vaguely, they reminded her of Strife and Death with the way they sometimes seemed to bicker for the sake of bickering.
Or to see who's the better smart ass…
"My god you know the situation is shitty when you've got all of us holed up in the same bunk with nothing better to pass the time than poking fun at our many virtues and vices," the woman idly commented beside Fury as they watched the other two.
"Hmm I fail to see where the virtues configure into the conversation," Fury replied and the other looked at her with a glint of amusement in her cloudy jade eyes.
"Well as they say one man's virtue is another's vice."
"So I've heard." Cherubim were of human origin, if her memory served her. She had remembered Strife telling her that humans could pretty witty for such otherwise lacking creatures.
"By the way, what is a 'Street hustler'?"
The woman blinked two foggy eyes at her question before responding.
"That would be someone who sells themselves on the street for money. Nowadays they tend to be around Sonia's age group which is why Stark had made that comment."
"That young," both of the horsewoman's eyebrows were raised in a morbid surprise.
"Sometimes younger. It's pretty shocking to think you've never really heard of this kind of thing before."
Fury had no words for that. While she had heard her fair share of prostitution and other pleasures of the flesh throughout the realms of Creation, this was sort of unheard of. Child prostitution was abhorred in the angelic realms, though she wouldn't put demons past anything. The clarification the woman offered her seemed to take the humor out of Stark's comment and induce a darker, more sobering observation in its place.
"Funny isn't it? Most ordinary humans believe the truest of evils to be of demonic origins, even today. Back when I was mortal I never believed that sack of shit from the get-go. We're all more than capable of horrifying deeds ourselves without help from outside entities, thank you very much. That's especially true with those who have power. I don't know too much about the societies of heaven or hell, but it's a dog eat dog's life down here. Unless you're born into wealth, you live however you can or you don't. Children don't stand a ghost of a chance on their own. If they're too young to work in the mines or the factories then unless they can find an orphanage that isn't overcrowded as is, they don't have too much a choice. Too many men will pay a fancy price for the terrified screams of young virgins."
If the atmosphere in the room wasn't sullen by then it was now. What had earlier been little more than a light jest had developed into something darker and less innocent in nature. Even Stark and Sonia seemed to have stopped their arguing to listen to their conversation. Fury had almost wished she had never asked.
"Ugh aren't you all just a lovely spot of afternoon sun. Seriously, I think I need a drink now," Stark spoke up making his way to a small kitchen in the other room.
"Make that two," the woman yelled after him.
"Make it three," Sonia spoke up from deep thought.
"I'm not serving alcohol to children!"
"Asshole! You know damn well I'm over ten times the age of any child! Besides this is England! If you're old enough to hustle you're old enough to drink!"
Not a moment later did an oddly shaped bottle fly across the room and into Sonia's unexpectant hands.
"Ack! I can't drink all of this! I can't even drink half!"
"Whoops I meant to toss that to the alcoholic sleeping beauty on the bed. But by all means feel free to indulge."
"Just wine please", was her reply as she passed the container of dark amber liquid to the other.
"Lightweight," she muttered accusingly while removing the cap.
"Drunkard," Sonia shot back.
Fury was never one to drink. The way the alcohol dulled one's senses was most vexing to her.
"Is it really wise to drink so liberally when we could be attacked at any minute?"
"Relax, Horsewoman," Came Stark's response as he returned with two glasses of a dark red substance. One of which he gave to Sonia.
"Stark's right. I would hardly call this drinking liberally. Besides, if we were about to be attacked you'd know it. Stark's wards would take care of that much."
Fury raised an eyebrow to the woman who had nearly finished off the bottle of drink.
"Riiiight. Clearly we've got two definitions of 'liberal' if you can tell me that while downing an entire bottle of that rotgut poison. And I'm more worried about dealing with the attack when it comes rather than just sensing it."
Fury knew full well how alcohol could affect senses and motor functions in the wake of excessive consumption. Demons, angels, even the old ones, were quite different when compared to humans in alcohol tolerance. Makers brew would probably knock all three of them flat…Hell, it could probably mess her up to some degree.
The woman sat the mostly empty bottle on the nightstand Fury rested upon before regarding the horsewoman with a shrewd expression.
"I'll have you know rider, I'm a helluva lot older than I look and I have been drinking for quite some time. It takes more than a bottle of whiskey to plaster me. On that subject I actually have gotten into quite a nasty scuffle with some cheapskate mage merchant completely hammered and I'm still here today. Not that I'm ever having a repeat of that experience again. The hangover that following morning was hell."
Fury highly doubted she would have to worry about any hangovers the morning after were she to even try to take on these 'Black Riders' drunk. There would be no morning after, for her anyway.
Black Riders eh…
Just thinking of them made her blood boil hot in her veins. She hated how she had to wait around with these Cherubim, biding her time for her brothers to come back with some answers. The wound in her chest still ached from where the two Cherubim before had purified it. She was regaining her strength though it was a painfully slow process. Arcane weapons like that which she had been stabbed with were the worst. Wounds to the spirit were completely different than wounds to the flesh.
Even as she searched the realms of Creation with her brother in what felt like an impossible amount of time, she doubted there ever were true arcane blades in existence. As their search turned up falsely, it seemed more and more likely that these weapons were merely fireside tales creatures told in an attempt to scare one another.
She knew she was sorely mistaken on that fact when the blade cut through her skin, flesh, sinew, and bone, like butter, straight into her soul. There was something else about the blade only she understood; something clearly that Cherub and her brothers had missed.
The curse wasn't trying to kill her. Its evil magic didn't run that simple, or merciful. The purpose of an arcane blade wasn't to kill, but to corrupt; to twist and bend its very victim to the whim of its master. Whatever blight that had been spreading through her system, was corroding her slowly from the inside out.
But there was more than that…
So much more…
There are forces in this world even we, the horsemen, are venerable to.
If there was one whom could defy that thought then it was Death…
There was pain. So much pain, then…nothingness. It was a silent reprieve the fallen creature had been so grateful for. But alas it was not meant to last, for it would seem that as soon as he'd been free he had returned by that damned voice…
Can you remember who you are?
Out of spite he wanted to ignore the question, but something he could not control compelled him otherwise.
I haven't had a name in ages. I haven't had need of one.
Do you know who I am?
…How could I not, Horseman of Death?
By whose orders were you sent and why?
...
The longer you take to answer my question, the longer you'll be here. Answer however you can and you shall return to your peace.
…As you've probably figured, we are a band of merks, but that is not all we are. We serve as lesser units for our commander. He was the one on this assignment. We would get a generous cut, if we had completed our task to him.
And that task was?
Azrael the angel of death.
…What was the name of your commander?
His true name I cannot tell you for I do not know. But to all of us, he is known as Pride…
Thus he let his informant go. Further questioning seemed utterly pointless, based on what little the dead demon merk could tell him. Still, he had some interesting information on his hands. He would've preferred to ask the dead scribe had the merks not torched his corpse shortly before Death could finish them all off. They were well informed of his abilities. Well, their commander probably was.
So they are after Azrael now.
Death was hardly surprised at the turn of events. The old scholar is the guardian of the Well after all.
Does that mean that these Abyssal beings desire the power of the Well now? Or perhaps the angel had discovered something in those scrolls that the enemy doesn't want him or others to know.
A combination of both reasons seems probable…
So it was all a setup from the get-go. Then the mercenaries that had killed the scribe were, in fact, expecting Azrael to take the bait as opposed to himself. Still, there was an oversight in that observation the horseman couldn't ignore.
Pride…
They called themselves the seven deadly sins. Out of all the assassination groups in Creation, they were by far the largest and most ancient. Death remembered hearing of them first upon the fields of Kothysos where the Nephilim had faced hordes upon hordes of demonic mercenaries. Since that time he would keep both eyes on the vagabond organization as best as he could. They were the best of the best in assassination. Only the rich and prominent could afford their services.
Pride was the strongest of them in their hierarchy. However among the field of dead merks the rider had slain, he was nowhere to be found.
Did he really expect a mere unit of merks to take on one of the most successful magi in Creation..?
Unless…
The realization hit Death a subtly as flying rock and the horseman cursed loudly in ancient and forgotten languages as he made his way back to the spire in which he left Azrael in.
The flames weren't even the worst of it. They were merely a prelude for the danger yet to come. The Angel of Death knew this much when he felt an aura, the likes of which he had never before encountered. Two auras actually; one was of the Abyssal being slowly emerging from the dying flame.
The other was from the two arcane blades he donned in both of his decrepit hands. The armed appendages held steadfast, to two twin rods of obsidian that extended well past his calves into dual ornate axes. Both rod and blade were lined from one end to the other with diabolical runes that glowed an angry red. Only someone such as himself who had poured over texts most ancient would recognize those blades in stories that had all but turned to legend.
Bellum and Scismaticum**
"Identify yourself," he spoke in a commanding voice that completely hid the undertones of fear he held, more for the two blades in the creature's hand than the creature himself.
"I am an Abyssal lord of the fallen in my master's army, and I've come for you, Angel of Death."
He raised both blades to the forefront of his body and charged. Azrael had just enough time to react before the twin blades made their way to his flesh.
Little did both parties anticipate the foot that had roughly shoved against his attacker's face, courtesy of one swift Horseman of Death. The Abyssal lord flew through the opposite wall of the tower and plummeted at least a hundred feet below onto the opposite roof.
Azrael could hardly get a sound of surprise out before the horseman jumped out of the gargantuan hole now present on the side of the room.
Thankfully, the window was already busted from before when he jumped out to chase that rouge scribe. Considering neither of them had even begun to notice his presence, Death concluded a solid surprise attack was in order. He didn't expect it to work out so well. Azrael might've noticed and did a damned good job of hiding that fact from his opponent. Either his assailant was painstakingly slow at anticipating Death's guerrilla tactics or the horseman was much faster than he thought.
It hardly mattered now as he was falling to meet his still dazed opponent from a daunting height. Harvester was lodged firmly inside the brick outer walls of the building just enough for him to use the weapon as a brake to his increasing momentum. Only when he got down to a suitable height that wouldn't cause him any sort of pain did he remove his scythe from the tower and vault himself onto the roof below. Now only a handful of feet from his opponent, did he sense the deadly aura emanating from the weapons the Abyssal being brandished his way. He back-flipped out of his attacker's strike range, and two axes met air then earth. An idea flew into the horseman's head faster than a bullet, and he reacted accordingly. He charged toward his opponent and using one axe as a ramp he vaulted forwards catching the creature in the face with the armored cap of his knee.
It stumbled back from the force of the hit while Death landed firmly on the ground behind it. Not sparing a second of time did the horseman whirl around to face his opponent's exposed backside taking harvester with him as one scythe. The blade cleanly cleaved the Abyssal lord in two and the carcass fell to the ground in a defeated heap.
That didn't stop the two great axes from hurling themselves at a momentarily exposed horseman and it was all Death could manage to jump to the side out of their way. He didn't expect them to wind their way back to him once more like some sort of boomerang. This time he back-flipped out of their attack and when he landed was more than a little surprised to see that his opponent had pieced himself back together again. The axes landed into the awaiting hands of the revived Abyssal lord as though the two were drawn together by some magnetic force.
"You're a great deal more agile than you look horseman, but it'll take more than that to defeat me," the lord boasted as he twirled the great blades in his hand in waiting for Death to make his move.
"Well someone has a penchant for stating the obvious."
The creature never got a chance to respond as both parties were bombarded with a generous amount of cannon fire. For the most part, Death was able to avoid the blasts of energy, save for the one that clipped him none too lightly on his side. The Abyssal lord wasn't nearly as lucky. Death could hear the scream from a good distance away. Though he did note it sounded like one of agitation more than one of agony.
"What in the name of the light is the meaning of this, Pale Rider?!"
Death suppressed a groan of agitation at the bark issued by a very gruff and dismayingly familiar voice. He turned to face a group of Hellguard and what looked to be an exceedingly agitated Abbadon. The archangel stared him down as though he was the one responsible for this mess.
"Why don't you ask him. I'm pretty sure he could tell you more than I."
Death gestured towards the already recovered Abyssal lord with an air that expressed he was more interested in Abbadon's comically surprised reaction than the fact that the damned thing had reformed itself again.
Only this time the creature was furious. Death could tell that much from the aggressive aura. No, it wasn't an aura. Death could feel something far more potent in the air and it hung about the area as a foul odor would. Abbadon had landed a few feet in front of Death, but still a good distance from the Abyssal lord. The small unit of Hellguard he brought with him circled dangerously above.
"I do believe the time for talk has passed, horseman," the creature hissed and held one unarmed hand in front of them. In its outstretched, rotted palm did an orb that was almost crystal clear, save for the obsidian glow, appear. He vanished into the awaiting shadows below just as the orb began to plummet to the ground. Death suspected the worst…
And apparently Abbadon did the same. The archangel vaulted into the air and issued an order to his unit to back up.
The orb touched the ground and expanded. Death could see past the obsidian glow that everything absorbed within its growing field was rapidly decaying. Death backed up a good distance from the danger just as he saw something shoot out of the hole he created in the tower above. Now more of a diabolical energy field, than an orb, it covered a great deal of the spire. Death could hear the screams of so many scribes inside that were being eaten away by this accursed magic.
Blue energies ensnared the field, trapping the energy to keep it from expanding all the while trying to extinguish it once and for all. It was Azrael whom poured his efforts forth into keeping its power at bay. Surely enough, the field of decay began shrinking right about the same time Death felt a dramatic drop within Azrael's aura. The angel was burning through his reserves of mana fast.
Dammit…
Death was wholly uncertain whether or not his efforts would prove useful at all, but at this point he had to do something. He raised his hands high above his head and uttered an incantation in a tongue all but forgotten. A vortex of bone and mana launched itself towards the pulsating energies Azrael struggled to hold off. As though the horseman and angel were in some sort of magical shoving contest against this thing, both parties could feel the dark magic weaken further only to then launch a fierce wave of raw mana at them in response. Death could feel his heels dig into the ground as the invisible force hit him as though trying to swat him away.
It was during this time when both rider and angel were nearly at their limit did Abbadon and his unit finally deign to provide some sort of assistance. Death didn't know whether to feel relief or agitation at the commander of the Hellguard for taking so damn long, as scores of cannon-fire smashed into the field non- stop. It took one more powerful attack from Abbadon himself who summoned a whirlwind of angelic blades that relentlessly bombarded the sphere until it returned to the nothingness from whence it came.
Death strode to Azrael's side as the angel descended to the ground. The old angel was utterly exhausted. From above, the Hellguard unit cheered in victory only to be stopped by Abbadon who barked at them to contact a medical unit for the injured who were still alive within the spire that barely managed to stay intact through the chaos.
"Are you alright Azrael?"
The question was posed more out of courtesy than concern, and Death was sure Azrael could somehow figure that much from his tone. He snorted and idly brushed off the dust upon his robes before answering.
"I've seen better days horseman but I'm quite fine. I thank you for your assistance"
"Azrael!"
The shout came from above and Death didn't have to look to know it was Abbadon. He landed a few paces in front of them. In a more normal tone of voice he asked of the angel's welfare and received an affirmative, before then turning his back to both of them to survey the damage.
"Alright now can someone tell me what in the name of the Creator is going on around here?!"
"Surely you can see the answer for yourself, general. But since you asked and seem to be having a hard time putting two and two together, I'll humor you with a response: Chaos."
From the corner of his eye he saw Azrael shoot him a sideways glance so comically shrewd, he had to fight the urge to snicker. He heard Abbadon's growl and it took him a few moments, (of what Death assumed) to regain his composure. He all but spun around and pointed a finger at Death in accusation.
"What are you even doing here? Weren't you supposed to be chasing that Cherub, or did you mean to drag whatever anarchy that found you in the Third Kingdom back here, because I'm quite tempted to believe that to be the case!"
The angel's voice rose with every word. Death on the other hand couldn't have been more calm and spoke to him as though dealing with an unruly child.
"By all means feel free to believe whatever you like since you'll do so anyway. Of course, you'll be wrong but since when has that stopped you before?"
As per typical, Azrael cut in before Abbadon could respond, and add further fuel to this farcical fire.
"Death was here to receive my council, Abbadon. It was also he who saved me from that creature from before, who came here on an attempt at my life."
Abbadon's good eye narrowed in on Death before regarding Azrael with a firm nod. From above a group of angels double the size of the earlier group were soaring their way. Both warrior and medic moved past the three of them and into what was left of the spire. Abbadon left after that claiming that the High Council needed to know what transpired here.
"At least he had enough sense not to ask why they wanted you in the first place," Death mused and Azrael rolled his eyes.
"Yes I'm pretty sure he has his suspicions. Were you that intent on withholding any sort of information from him or is it because Abbadon possesses neither the patience nor tact to be immune to your sarcasm that you couldn't help yourself? Somehow, I dread the day when you have to speak to him and I'm not there to act as a buffer between you two. "
He spoke in an exasperated voice with linings of faint amusement. Death couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him.
"Yes, Creation forbid that day ever comes. Still, I'm sure I'll manage somehow."
"Did you manage to retrieve back the scroll from the thief?"
"Yes, though said thief didn't survive the ordeal. Not by my hand, in case you're wondering. A band of demonic mercenaries, who were actually expecting you, took the deed out of my hands. It would seem as though their leader had known of my presence so the plan to draw you into their trap turned into a plan to feint me. Though, I was quite surprised to see that your assailant wasn't the leader of that unit, but an Abyssal being."
"How can you be sure that the Abyssal Lord from before wasn't the one commanding those mercenaries?"
"Because one of the demonic merks gave me the name of their leader: Pride. I highly doubt that he's one of the Abyssal beings, or that he's in possession of what looked to be an arcane blade."
"Yes it is somewhat doubtful that any assassin could have such a weapon in their possession; especially that one in particular."
"So it is an arcane weapon after all."
Arcane magic was a lost art of an age much older than even the Firstborn Nephilim. Nowadays it was little more than legend told in vague unreliable stories. The Charred Council had long since destroyed any accurate and explicit knowledge of the forbidden art, be it within scroll or within living being. That was one of their first acts and had taken place long before Death had left the Nephilim ranks and became the reaper. Azrael turned to him with a look of anxiety that had little to do with his weariness.
"Yes, a true arcane weapon. Older than you or I, as a whole its name is Bellum Scismaticum—The Great Schism in the common tongue. It was made by Azazel the Forger of Weapons and buried with him within his tomb of Duduael."
Not for the first time did Death have a hunch he hoped to the Creator, was wrong.
"And where is this tomb, exactly?"
Azrael gave him a grim smile before answering.
"Where else would a tomb for one of Creation's most heinous heretics be, but within the darkest and deepest levels of the Abyss…"
To be continued…
A:N—Holly shit this took forever *dies*
The Arcane shit wasn't originally part of the plan but I liked it so I added it in. Hopefully I'm not contradicting anything with this unexpected add on.
Not that I really wanted to leave it off here but this is already past 9,000 words. Please favorite follow or review, commentary is appreciated greatly!
Animefreak 114 clocking out
