Darksiders: The Abomination Vault by Ari Marmell Read Free Book Online Page A

usurped mastery of constructs before,” Death concluded. “Meaning that, for all your deliberations and all the soldiers you lost, you have nothing of any substance.”
    “Your tact, as always, is overwhelmingly appreciated.”
    Death chose to let that lie. The next length of their journey passed without conversation, save for the occasional resentful murmur of angels who would much rather be soaring back to their camp than trudging over the dirt like “lesser beings.”
    Any spiteful satisfaction Death might have gained from their discomfort vanished utterly, however, beneath a tide of agony that flowed from up ahead.
    It wasn’t
his
pain; he wasn’t suffering in any way. But he was
aware
of the torment of others, the anguish of creatures unaccustomed to such things. It was rather like the tang of rain in the air, or that first gust of wind announcing the coming of winter, sensed by the spirit rather than the body.
    And he felt, too, the recent passing of so very many souls.
    “Our camp,” Azrael announced, with just a hint of bitterness.
    “How primitive,” Death said blandly.
    The so-called camp boasted a surrounding rampart of ivory-white stone, some twenty paces in height and easily three times that, lengthwise, on each side. A portcullis of gleaming silver, its bars serrated into thousands of barbed fangs, provided the only means of entry for earthbound creatures. At each of the four corners, a spindly tower loomed nearly as high above the battlements as the battlements rose above the soil—and atop each tower, a double-barreled siege cannon some four times the size of the portable weapons Death had so recently faced.
    “Imagine,” the Horseman continued, “what you could have accomplished with actual time and resources.”
    Azrael nodded grimly, apparently oblivious—or perhaps simply naturally immune—to Death’s sarcasm. “Sadly lacking, I know. Still, the best we could manage, given the circumstances.”
    The twin columns of angels, along with their guest, approached the lustrous gate at a casual pace. The nearest cannons tracked their every move, swiveling at seemingly impossible angles to maintain a line of fire even as they stood by the wall itself. The portcullis didn’t rise to allow ingress;rather it faded almost completely from sight, leaving only a wavering mirage in its place. As best Death could describe the sensation of passing through those phantom bars, it felt like stepping through a waterfall, without the getting-wet part.
    Only when they’d passed through the battlements did the cannons return their aim toward the surrounding woods and the horizons beyond.
    Within the fortifications, a perfectly geometrical array of smaller structures glinted orange in the sunlight. Each was constructed of an amber-hued glass, just opaque enough to allow privacy to anyone within. Death knew, without the need for close examination, that the substance would be as strong as stone or steel despite its crystalline appearance—not due to any special senses on his part, but simply because he knew that angels in the field would accept nothing weaker.
    In neat rows between the buildings, bloodied soldiers lay on stiff cots, recovering from their injuries. More angels dashed around them, tending the wounded with medicinal balms both alchemical and mystical. They did their best—their faces had gone slack with exhaustion and effort—but they were so few, and their patients many. Blotches of blood and scattered feathers were more abundant on the grass than fallen leaves.
    The accompanying angels peeled off to return to their own cots, or to seek treatment for their injuries, many glaring at Death as they departed. Azrael alone remained to lead the Horseman to the one structure that stood in the perfect center of the encampment.
    Of course
.
    No doors marred the perfect crystal surface. As with the portcullis, a section of the wall simply phased away, allowing the angel and the Rider to enter.
    “What